Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (23 page)

Phil hid a smile.

Nick was soon serious again. ‘But it’s a good job I did get them.’

‘Why?’ said Phil.

Nick took his time, waited until he was sure he had everyone’s full attention.

‘Because the body we found on the quay, the one I’ve just finished the post-mortem on and received DNA samples from, is not Julie Miller.’

50

T
ime stood still as the whole room took in Nick Lines’ words.

Phil was the first to speak. ‘You’re sure about that? Definitely not Julie Miller?’

‘As certain as I can be about anything,’ Nick said, dead-panning the room. ‘No matches at all.’

‘Then if it’s not Julie Miller . . .’ Mickey was speaking for everyone.

‘Oh God,’ said Phil. ‘I think I know . . .’

‘Adele Harrison?’ said Anni.

Phil nodded. ‘Looks like it. Unless there’s another one somewhere that we don’t know about.’

‘Let’s hope not,’ said Fenwick. He turned to Nick. ‘How soon can we get another DNA test done?’

Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘Won’t be cheap.’

‘This is an upgraded case. High-priority. The money’s there.’

Nick screwed his eyes up, thinking. ‘Few days at best. Sooner you want it, the more money it costs.’

‘Do it,’ said Fenwick. He turned to Phil. ‘Where does this leave us?’

‘Revising everything we had until now. If Julie Miller’s still alive we have to assume it’s not for long unless we can find her. Same goes for Suzanne Perry.’

‘Clock’s ticking . . .’ said Fenwick, unnecessarily.

‘Right,’ said Phil, trying not to feel annoyed at his superior’s pointless interruption. ‘Based on what we’ve seen so far, whoever’s doing this seems to be following a pattern. Abduct the girl, keep them a while, torture them, kill them.’

‘Let their bodies go,’ said Fiona. ‘Give them back.’

‘Good point, Fiona,’ said Fenwick, giving a smile he probably thought was charming but if he had used it on a woman in a bar or nightclub she’d have made her excuses and left.

Rose Martin was still looking at him, though, Phil noticed.

Fenwick continued. ‘You were about to present us with your profile. The floor’s yours.’

Nick Lines took a seat as Fiona Welch stood up from her desk, arranged her papers in a neat order and crossed over, almost skipping. to the whiteboard. She looked excited, thought Phil. An
X Factor
contestant whose big moment has come.

‘Right,’ she said, trying to look serious but failing to hide the excitement in her voice. ‘Apologies for the speed in putting this together but, as Ben reminded us there, the clock is ticking.’

She paused dramatically, making sure she had all their attention.

‘Based on the reports I’ve read and the evidence I’ve seen, the site where we found the body and the victim’s homes, I’d say we’re looking for a sexual sadist.’

Phil rolled his eyes, not caring whether she saw it or not.

She saw it. Flashed him a dagger look, continued. ‘A sexual sadist. A predator. He’s getting off on what he’s doing.’

‘I think we’ve all worked that one out,’ said Phil.

Fiona reddened. Fenwick turned to him, looking cross. ‘Phil, please.’

‘I suppose he’s white, aged between twenty and forty, lives on his own and has trouble forming relationships?’ Phil couldn’t resist it.

Fenwick wasn’t amused. ‘Phil. Either listen or get out.’

Phil was aware that others in the room were looking at him. His junior officers. His team. He needed their respect. They needed his leadership. He needed to get a grip.

‘Sorry,’ he said, holding his hands up.

Fiona continued. ‘He’s acting alone. He doesn’t let anyone else into his fantasy, his scenario. He wants to control it.’ She leaned forward, eyes wide behind her glasses. ‘But he can’t. Once the thrill is on him he loses control. The torture, that’s just . . . a surrogate for sexual pleasure. That’s how he gets his kicks. That’s when he can let himself go, really be the person he believes himself to be.’

Phil watched Fiona. As she spoke, her whole demeanour changed. There was no trace of her earlier timidity. She was totally into her words, eyes roving the room, gesturing frantically, living them out, almost.

‘He has somewhere special he goes to. A place where he does this that no one else in his life knows about. It means something to him. It’s his chamber of dreams and secrets.’

‘Any idea where we can find it?’ said Phil.

Fenwick gave him a warning look.

‘No,’ said Fiona, ‘it’s a fair question. The short answer is no. Or not yet, anyway. I haven’t had time to do a geographical profile. But there is one other thing, one major factor in his make-up.’

She paused again, making sure she had her audience.

‘He’s a sociopath.’

‘Not a psychopath?’ said Mickey.

‘No,’ she said. ‘He can blend in. That’s the difference between them. Psychopaths can’t help themselves, they just do what they do and don’t care about the consequences. This man’s not like that. He plans. Plots. Schemes. He knows what he’s doing. He may have a good job, he may even be married. A sociopath can fool people for years.’ She looked round the room again, a slight smile on her face. ‘One of us, in this room, could quite easily be just like him. And the rest of us would never know.’

‘Some more than others,’ said Nick Lines.

Phil hid his smile.

‘So how will we recognise him?’ said Anni. ‘What can we look for?’

Fiona glanced at her notes once more, then back up to the room. ‘You were wrong, Phil, by the way. Right with a lot, wrong with one crucial point.’

Phil leaned forward.

‘Age. I don’t see him as being all that young. Everything points towards an older man.’

‘How old?’ said Anni.

Fiona shrugged. ‘Could be anything up to forties, fifties, even?’

‘And what would his character be like?’ Anni said. ‘Any pointers?’

‘Arrogant, that would be the main thing. This is someone who knows what he’s doing. He’s intelligent. Fiercely intelligent. And that makes him confident he won’t get caught.’

‘Can he be caught?’ said Fenwick.

‘It’s taken him a long time to get into this position. He’s been practising, escalating his behaviour, building up to this and now that he’s actually gone through with it, well . . . he thinks he’s found his purpose. His calling.’ She looked over at Fenwick. ‘So he’s not going to stop any time soon, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Would he be arrogant in real life, too?’ said Anni. ‘Would we recognise that about him?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Fiona. ‘He would want you to.’

Anni sat back. ‘I know who it is.’

All eyes were on her.

‘Anthony Howe.’

51

S
uzanne lay in her box, staring straight ahead, blinking, her breathing shallow. Almost calm. She felt different. Not sure if it was better or worse. Just different.

Because she had been out of her coffin.

It started when she heard footsteps. Julie, if that was really her name, started shushing her, telling her to be quiet. Suzanne was still talking, wanting to know what was going on, but when she got no response and she listened for herself, hearing the footsteps, she did as she was told.

‘Close your eyes.’

The voice was muffled, disguised, hidden by something thick and distorting.

Suzanne did as she was told.

‘Don’t open them. Not for a second. Or you’re dead. Right?’

She nodded.

‘Right?’

‘Yes . . . yes . . .’

She closed her eyes tight.

There were sounds of scraping, like something heavy was being removed from somewhere, followed by a creaking, tearing sound. Suzanne felt a change of air on her feet, her ankles. The box was being opened.

She was tempted to look, just a peek, a squint. The temptation was great, almost overwhelming.

‘No looking.’ The muffled voice again, threat explicit in its tones.

She kept her eyes closed.

Something landed on her chest. She jumped.

‘Put that on.’

Her hands found the object. It was flaccid and rough. Working with her eyes closed, she discovered it was made of sacking or hessian, something like that. A hood. She pulled it over her head, opened her eyes again. Thinking quickly, she had expected to see something, some small amount of light between the weave, but there was nothing. It was tightly woven, thick and heavy. It smelled bad too. She didn’t like to think what it must have originally contained.

‘Come on.’

Suzanne just lay there.

‘Come on . . .’ More threat laced into the words.

She realised then that she was expected to get out. She couldn’t believe it, her heart suddenly soared. This is it, she thought, I’m going, I’m being set free. She dared to hope.

Suzanne wriggled her body towards where her feet had been and found only open air. Encouraged by that, she hurried out. She put her feet down, expecting solid ground, a flat floor. And gasped. There was no floor, just water. She had put her feet straight into freezing water. Gasping at the sudden cold, she stopped moving.

A hand reached in and grabbed her, pulling her out of the box entirely. She put her feet out to steady herself and found the water only came over her ankles. She was standing in what felt like a shallow trough. The rest of her body was pulled upright.

Suzanne didn’t have time to orient herself as the same hand grabbed her and forced her to start walking. She sloshed through the water until she came to a small step, stepped up. The floor here was dry and flat, cool. Concrete, she thought.

Suzanne breathed in, to see if she could recognise any smells, either from her surroundings or from her captor. It was impossible. Whatever made the hood smell overrode anything else.

She could hear something, though. A rumbling, throbbing sound like a car turning over. A generator?

She was pushed along, her hands in front of her, held together in an attitude of prayer by the plasticuffs. She kept moving at the speed at which the hand propelled her.

‘Who . . . who are you? Why are you doing this?’

No answer.

‘Are, are you the man I saw in my flat? In my bedroom?’

No answer.

‘Please . . . talk to me, let me know what’s happening . . . please . . .’

Nothing.

Suzanne kept walking until the hand grasped her harder, forcing her to halt.

‘Here,’ the voice said. ‘The toilet.’

Suzanne was pushed forward. She put her hands up to stop herself from falling into whatever was in front of her but it was her legs that connected first. She gasped in pain as her shins slammed into the hard porcelain of a toilet bowl.

‘Hurry up,’ the voice said.

She did so. Suzanne thought she had had some pretty bad toilet experiences when she was backpacking round the Greek islands as a student but nothing compared to this one.

She managed to do what she wanted to. Even found paper at the side. She flushed. It made no sound.

‘Finished?’

The hand grabbed her once more, pulled her away from the toilet, back the way she had come.

Her heart began to sink as realised what was happening. She was being led back to the coffin once more, made to lie down, be closed up, sealed in once more. She made one last attempt to talk.

‘Why are you doing this? Why?’

She tried pulling away from the hand.

‘Let me go. Now, let me go.’ She put her hands up to her hood. ‘I’ll pull this off. I will, see what you look like. I’ll do it . . .’

Literally, she didn’t know where the punch came from. All she knew was that it connected with the side of her head and knocked her over. She hit the concrete floor hard, the wind knocked out of her lungs, hot wires of pain radiating out from her left knee.

‘Up.’

The hand pulled her up once more.

Soon her feet were back in the water trough and she was being pushed inside her coffin once more. The same creaking, groaning sound and the box was sealed up.

She put her tied hands to her head, pulled the hood off, grateful to be able to breathe freely again. She listened for sounds outside of the box. Heard nothing.

Suzanne found her voice again. ‘Is that it? What about some food? When do we eat?’

Nothing.

‘Hello . . . hello . . .’

Nothing.

She lay back, sighed. And felt something at her side. Hard and round. A can. She leaned over, managed to get it between her two hands. There was a ring pull on the top. She opened it. Smelled it. Meaty, solid. But not pleasant. She had no idea what it was but had no choice. She put her fingers in, scooped a fingerful towards her mouth, ate. It tasted awful. And she realised what it must be.

Dog food.

Her first reaction was to spit it out but if she did that, she knew that would be it, no more. Left to starve. So she ate. Kept eating.

Barely aware of the tears streaming down her face, the sobs coming from her body.

She ate like it was the best meal she had ever had.

52

P
hil stared through the two-way mirror, scrutinising. Anthony Howe sat in the interview room, sitting at the table, nervous, agitated. Looking round all the time, occasionally making fruitless attempts to engage the uniform by the door in conversation, fear fighting disbelief for prominence on his face.

‘Sure you want to do this?’ Ben Fenwick beside Phil, staring through the glass alongside him.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Well, it’s late, you’ve been working all hours, a new father . . . don’t you want to go home?’

Phil kept looking straight ahead, his eyes, his voice, flat. ‘This needs to be done.’

Phil felt Fenwick take his eyes off the glass and look at him. His body language had softened, there was nothing arrogant, adversarial about his manner. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Look, Phil, I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but if there’s anything . . .’

‘Everything’s fine.’

Fenwick turned away, back to looking at Anthony Howe. ‘Whatever you say.’

The door opened. Fiona Welch came in, arms full of files and papers. As soon as Anni had spoken at the meeting, moves had been made to reach Anthony Howe. Anni and Mickey had found him at a pub in Wivenhoe near the university, sitting with students. Taking, Anni had told Phil when she came back, special notice of one young brunette in particular. Doing all the tricks, leaning forward, appearing to be hanging on to every word, his hand ‘accidentally’ landing on her thigh.