Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (20 page)

‘Oh no . . .’ She backed away from him, legs crumpling but still clutching the door like it was the only thing keeping her upright. ‘Adele . . . oh no . . . oh no . . .’ The words came out in a breathless rush.

‘No, Paula,’ said Phil, stepping towards her, taking the door, ready to catch her if she fell, ‘it’s not that. We still haven’t found Adele.’

‘The news, that girl on the Maldon Road . . .’

‘Isn’t Adele. I promise you. Can we come in?’

She released a juddering breath, her strength leaving her body along with it. Phil took her hand. Guided her inside. She allowed him to do so.

The house was small, the door opening straight into the living room where large lumps of furniture made a small room seem smaller. A huge, off-white leather three-piece fought for space with a sub-cinema-screen-size TV. An elaborately patterned rug sat on the pale beige wall-to-wall carpet. Cupboards held figurines of big-eyed porcelain children and photogenic animals. Family photos were prominently displayed on the shelves and the walls. Most of them showed herself and Adele. And the little girl who had answered the door. There were also a couple of photos of a young man in army uniform. Children’s toys littered the floor, creating a primary coloured assault course to negotiate. Old, stained mugs sat on the floor, coats and other bits of clothing, dirty plates and cutlery. Paula Harrison seemed oblivious to the mess.

Phil led her to the sofa, sat her down.

From the huge TV came an oversized image of a cartoon dog running along a road with a cat and a hamster in a ball. The sound came from all round the room. Paula pointed the remote at it, silenced it. The tiny girl looked at her, uncomprehending.

‘Nana needs to talk to these people, sweetheart. Go on upstairs.’

The girl looked between them but, still with an uncomprehending expression on her face, made her way upstairs.

‘Is that Adele’s daughter, Mrs Harrison?’ said Phil, sitting on the opposite armchair.

She looked surprised for a moment, as if she didn’t know who he was talking about. ‘Yes, yes, she is . . .’

‘Seems a nice girl.’

She nodded. ‘Nadine? Yes, she’s . . . she’s lovely . . .’

Phil smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. ‘This is Fiona Welch, by the way,’ he said, gesturing to Fiona who was still standing. ‘She’s a . . . helping us with the investigation.’

Fiona Welch moved forward, hand outstretched, smiling as if being introduced to someone at a party. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Paula dazedly shook hands.

Fiona pulled away, took out her BlackBerry, sat down, started making notes.

‘Why don’t you go and make some tea, Fiona, while I talk to Paula? Yes?’ The look on his face, for Fiona only, told her it wasn’t a question.

Fiona looked up, eyes alive with unasked questions. Clearly she wanted to stay. Expected to. Phil’s gaze didn’t waver. Fiona’s eyes dropped. She put her BlackBerry back in her bag, sloped off into the kitchen.

Phil turned his attention back to Paula. ‘Did DS Farrell come and talk to you yesterday?’

She nodded. ‘He did. Thank you.’

‘That’s OK. Family Liaison been round?’

Another nod, head down at the carpet. ‘She wanted to stay with me but I told her no. As long as she kept me informed, made me feel part of it, that would do.’ She looked up. ‘That’s all I wanted, Mr Brennan. Just to know what was happenin’.’

‘I know.’

‘Thank you.’

He managed another smile. Paula’s face darkened once more.

‘That girl, the one on the news . . . is she, are you the one dealing with that?’

He told her that was his investigation. ‘And that’s why I’m here. We think - and I must stress we don’t know for definite - but we think that the two may be connected. ’

‘And Adele?’

‘That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some questions. About Adele.’

Paula braced herself, knowing this wouldn’t be pleasant.

There came a clatter from the kitchen. Paula jumped.

The mood broken, Phil cursed inwardly, stood up. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

44

S
uzanne was once again aware of nothing but the sound of her own breathing.

The other woman’s voice, her fellow captor - if that’s who she was - had kept her word and not spoken after her outburst. In the silence that followed, questions had massed inside Suzanne’s head, fizzing and spitting like frenzied bubbles in a boiling pan. Questions, fears, screams . . . but not hope.

Anything but hope.

She tried moving around, making herself more comfortable, relieving pressure on her back and sides, stopping her muscles cramping. There was just enough room to do that but any movement was temporary. Lack of space made sure her body always came back to rest in its original position.

She didn’t know how long she had been there. Could have been minutes or hours or days. No. Couldn’t have been days. Because she hadn’t eaten since she had been put in here. And she was getting hungry now. Not to mention wanting to pee.

As if on cue, her stomach growled.

And the pressure on her bladder increased.

Panic gripped her again as the reality of her situation took hold once more. She tried moving around, looking for a way out, throwing her tied hands against the ceiling of her chamber, hitting, hitting, breathing heavily, adding a few grunts and shouts, helping the exertion.

Nothing. She lay back, heart hammering, panting, the sound of her breathing an almost physical thing in there with her.

‘It’s better if you just lie there . . . makes it easier . . .’

The voice was back.

‘But I’m . . . I’m hungry. I need to, to go to the bathroom.’

‘Just hold it in. Hold it in.’ The voice, cautious, quiet and steady. Balanced on a tightrope where a slip would involve a long, screaming fall.

‘Hold it - how long? I can’t . . .’

‘They’ll let us out at some point. Hold it in till then.’

‘What? When?’

‘Don’t know . . .’ The calmness in the voice was beginning to crack. It struggled to return resolve. ‘They will. He will. Just, just hold on.’

Suzanne sighed, closed her eyes. It made no difference.

‘And, and don’t make so much noise.’ The voice, pleading with her. ‘Please.’

‘Why not? Maybe someone’ll hear, come and rescue us.’

‘No.’ The voice, strong now. ‘They won’t.’

‘But how do you know?’ The other voice talking to her, making some kind of communication, knowing she wasn’t alone . . . Suzanne was starting to feel hope well up inside her. She ignored the danger of that, kept talking. ‘Look, if we both do it together, shout at the same time, maybe someone will hear—’

‘No.’ The voice emphatic, almost shouting. ‘No. We can’t.’

‘It’s worth a try.’

The voice laughed. ‘That’s what the other girl said. Look what happened to her.’

‘But . . . we have to try . . .’

‘That’s what she said.’ The voice fell silent for a few seconds. Suzanne thought she had disappeared once more but when she spoke again it was clear from the quaver in her tone that she was just trying to hold herself together. ‘Yeah. What she said. Exactly what she said. D’you want the same thing to happen to you?’

Suzanne didn’t answer. Couldn’t face giving an answer.

Silence fell again.

Suzanne couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t lie in the dark any longer and not communicate. She had to talk and make the other woman talk. Whether she wanted to or not.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘please. Talk to me. I can’t . . . if we’re here we may as well talk. Please.’ The final word echoed round her box.

Silence.

‘Please . . . don’t leave me on my own. Please . . .’

A sigh. ‘How do I know you’re not a plant?’

Suzanne almost laughed. ‘A what?’

‘A plant. They’ve put you in here to see what I’m goin’ to say. You’re one of them.’

She did laugh this time. There was no humour in it. ‘I could say the same about you.’

Silence once more.

‘Look,’ said Suzanne, ‘we’re stuck here. Let’s just talk. Please.’

Another silence.

‘All right,’ the voice said eventually. ‘But if they say anything I’ll tell them it was your idea.’

‘OK.’ Suzanne nearly smiled. The hunger, the pressure on her bladder were almost forgotten with this small victory. ‘Good. Well. My name’s Suzanne. What’s yours?’

Silence.

Sadness began to envelop Suzanne. Even blacker and heavier than the darkness in the box. ‘Oh, come on. Please. You said you’d talk to me . . .’

A sigh. ‘I’m taking a risk here. A real risk.’

‘I know. Just tell me your name. Then I know who I’m talking to.’

Another sigh.

‘Julie. My name’s Julie . . .’

45

‘W
hat are you doing?’

Fiona Welch turned, stopped. She was kneeling on the counter in Paula Harrison’s kitchen, hands in the overhead cupboards. A jar of instant coffee lay on its side, still rolling, spilling brown granules as it rocked from side to side.

‘I’m . . . just getting something . . . for the tea . . .’

Phil closed the kitchen door behind him so Paula couldn’t see in. He crossed the small kitchen until he was standing directly in front of her. She turned, still kneeling, and towered over him.

Phil’s hands were balled into fists at his side. He flexed, unflexed them. ‘Get down.’

‘I think I’ll stay here, thank you. Harder for you to be angry with me if I assume a physically dominant position.’

‘Get down.’

The sultry librarian smile appeared again. ‘Don’t you like dominant women?’ She frowned, quizzical. ‘Is that a police thing, d’you think? An alpha male response?’

He was shaking with anger. He managed to keep his voice steady. ‘If I have to come up there and get you down, you won’t like it.’

He stared at her. She locked eyes with him.

Eventually she looked away. Climbed down.

Phil made no attempt to help her.

When she was on her feet he grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is someone’s house. Someone whose daughter’s gone missing.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Fiona said, picking up his rage and flinging it back at him, her voice an angry hiss, ‘I was looking for clues, evidence. Anything that I could find to help me build a fuller picture of Adele Harrison. I mean, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing, isn’t it? Putting together a profile?’

‘Of whoever’s taken her. Of whoever killed Julie Miller. Not . . .’ - he gestured round the kitchen. The coffee had stopped spilling out now, the jar motionless - ‘. . . this.’

Fiona Welch looked unrepentant. ‘Did you see the living room? Not a single book on a single bookshelf. DVDs, yes, but no books.’

‘So? These are real people here. With real lives. Not everyone gets all their ideas from books.’

A strange smile playing on her lips as if she was filing away his words, mentally storing them for use in some future thesis. That just made him even angrier.

‘I think it’s best if you leave. Right now.’

She blinked. Twice. ‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t want you with me any more.’

‘But Ben said—’

‘I don’t give a stuff what Ben said. I’m running this investigation and I don’t want you here. OK?’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Go. Now.’

She gave him one last look of blazing defiance and opened her mouth as if to say something then closed it again, thinking better of it. She turned and left.

‘Sorry about that,’ Phil said, putting a mug of tea down before Paula. The mug was big and looked well used. On the side it had a cartoon of a smiling woman holding a baby in one hand and a vacuum cleaner in the other and underneath was written: World’s Best Mum.

‘Is that your mug?’ said Phil.

‘Adele’s,’ said Paula, sipping from it. ‘Got it on Nadine’s first birthday. Told Adele it was from the baby.’ She choked back a sob.

‘OK,’ said Phil, putting his mug down and leaning forwards, keeping Paula focused long enough to talk to him. ‘Questions.’

She took a deep breath. Waited for him to start.

‘Tell me about Adele.’

‘Like what?’

‘What she’s like . . . how she seemed before she went missing, that kind of thing.’

Another deep breath. ‘She was . . . before she disappeared she was lovely. Best I’d seen her in years.’

Phil frowned. ‘Why? What happened before that?’

‘Well, she was . . . wild. You know what kids are like. Her dad ran off, left us. Just me, Adele and her brother.’

Phil glanced at the photos on the wall of the young soldier. ‘That’s him? Adele’s brother?’

Paula nodded, head down. ‘Was.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘He died. Just over a year ago. Helmand Province. Afghanistan.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Paula kept her head down, nodded. ‘Roadside bomb. IED, they call them now.’ She sighed. ‘Got my letter from the Prime Minister. That was somethin’.’

Her tone of voice told him it wasn’t.

‘What was his name?’

‘Wayne.’ Still looking into her lap.

‘How did Adele take it?’

Paula looked up, thought for a while before answering. ‘It hit her. Hard. She’d been runnin’ round before then, ever since her dad . . .’ She sighed. ‘. . . her dad left, she’d be off with boys, sometimes for days on end. Then she got pregnant and that was like a wake-up call, you know? Like an, an intervention.’