Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (24 page)

When Anni and Mickey had spoken to him, he had made a scene, refused to come with them at first, but they had been insistent. Eventually, and with great embarrassment, he had left the pub.

‘How’s he doing?’ said Fiona Welch.

‘Just sitting there,’ said Fenwick, turning towards her.

She nodded, as if that was what she expected. ‘Good.’ She turned to Phil. ‘You doing the interview?’

He nodded.

‘Right. Here’s the plan.’ She set her folders down on the desk, opened one, scanned the page.

Phil turned away from the mirror, looking directly at her. Giving her profile before the whole team seemed to have energised her. Bringing in Anthony Howe based on what she said had changed her mood to one of vindication. Consequently, Phil was finding her even more insufferable.

‘I think I know what to do by now,’ he said.

‘Yes, but—’ She held up a sheaf of papers.

Phil’s eyes flashed. ‘I know how to conduct an interview. Thank you.’

Fenwick was looking at him with concern. ‘You sure you want to do this?’

Phil felt anger rising within him. Fenwick was right. He should have been at home now. With Marina. With Josephina. As a family. But he wasn’t. He was still at work about to question a suspected murderer and sexual sadist.

‘I want to do it,’ he said, louder than he intended. ‘Let’s get going.’

‘Go in hard,’ said Fiona. ‘That’s the best way with this type of sociopath.’

Phil ignored her. He had planned on that but didn’t want to tell her.

‘D’you want a relay from in here?’ said Fenwick.

Phil shook his head. Left the room. Ready to find an outlet for his anger.

Anthony Howe looked up when Phil entered the room, nodded to the uniformed constable standing by the door, sat down opposite the university professor, stared at him, his face stone.

‘I . . . I want to know why I’m here,’ said Anthony Howe. ‘On what charges.’

‘As you know you’ve been formally cautioned but you haven’t been charged with anything.’

‘Good.’

‘Yet.’

Another wave of fear swept over Howe’s face. ‘Now, wait a minute . . .’

Phil opened the file he had slapped down on the desk, pretended to be reading, looked up. ‘You had an affair with Suzanne Perry.’

Howe put his hands up, palms out, as if in supplication or surrender. ‘Look, I’ve explained all this to your, the other detective, the other day. It’s finished. Over.’

‘Why did she call you yesterday, then?’

Howe’s eyes widened. ‘I . . . I don’t know . . .’

We’ve checked her phone records. She called you yesterday afternoon. You didn’t answer. She left a message.’

‘Ah . . . yes . . . I didn’t phone her back.’

‘No.’ Phil looked down at the file once more. ‘You were investigated for stalking her.’

Howe leaned towards Phil, looking desperate. ‘That was never proved. No charges were ever brought.’

‘Always the last refuge of the guilty, I find, that line. “That was never proved”. Person who says that always thinks they’ve got away with something.’

Howe swallowed hard. ‘What am I . . . what’s happened that I should know about . . .?’

Phil shook his head, felt his anger rising a notch at Howe’s manner. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what’s happened. It’s been on the news, the internet, everywhere. Suzanne Perry is missing. Her friend Zoe Herriot is dead. Murdered.’

His hand went to his mouth. ‘Oh God . . .’

‘Yes, oh God.’ Phil sat back, looked at him, squirming and sweating in his seat. ‘So where is she?’

‘I . . . I don’t know . . .’

‘Not good enough.’ Phil’s voice was tight, coiled. Contained. ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know!’ Howe was leaning across the table, pleading to be believed.

Phil leaned in also, screaming in Howe’s face. ‘Not good enough! Where is she?’

Howe crumbled, head in hands. ‘I don’t know . . .’

Phil sat back, stared at him. Either he was telling the truth and was genuinely innocent or he was the cunning sociopath of Fiona Welch’s profile, hiding behind another mask. He wasn’t going to take that chance.

Phil sat back, folded his arms. Stared at Howe who couldn’t return the look, eyes darting about all over the place.

‘Suzanne Perry. Where is she?’

Howe shook his head. ‘No, no . . .’

‘Zoe Herriot.’

Phil slid a crime scene photo across the table. Howe looked at it, looked quickly away, his eyes screwed tight.

‘Why did you kill her?’

Howe didn’t reply.

Phil slid another crime scene photo across the table. The body from the lightship. Howe acted as if he didn’t want to look but couldn’t help himself. Once he had seen what was there he swiftly turned away once more.

‘Who is she, Anthony? What did she do to you? Did you stalk her first? Or was that never proved?’

Anthony Howe didn’t answer. He was slumped forward on the table, head in hands, sobbing.

Phil leaned back, stared at the ceiling, sighed.

‘Interview suspended,’ he said.

53

R
ose Martin hadn’t gone home. Still in the station, away from the rest of the team, she was following a hunch.

And Phil and his ‘no mavericking’ rule could go to hell.

Fenwick had given her his office and she sat at his desk, opening up Julie Miller’s laptop, hoping she was going to be right. She waited for internet connection, opened up Julie Miller’s Facebook account. Went to the photos, paged through.

And eventually found what she was looking for.

The jolt, the spike she felt when she saw it was almost physical. An adrenalin rush like no other. They could do all the cross-referencing they liked, but this was going to put her far ahead of the rest of them, bring all the glory to her.

She closed the laptop, sat back, smiled.

Time to go home. Deal with it tomorrow.

But she knew she was too wired for sleep.

Wonder what time Ben was planning on leaving?

Anni Hepburn flopped backwards on to the sofa, bottle of beer in hand, sighed. Exhausted.

She had spent most of the afternoon going through patient files at the hospital, looking for possible matches with Fiona Welch’s profile. So far she hadn’t found any. But there was always tomorrow.

If Anthony Howe didn’t confess, that is.

She flicked the remote at the TV, stared at it for a few seconds, thinking about maybe running a bath, lying in there for an hour or so with another beer and this week’s
heat
magazine. Then her mobile rang.

She answered it.

‘Hi, it’s, er, it’s Mickey. From work, you know?’

She was surprised but managed to hide it well. ‘Yeah, I know. Hi, Mickey, what can I do for you?’

‘Well, I was just wondering . . .’

She smiled, waited.

‘There’s a couple of things about the case I was . . . I just wanted to talk through. And, well, to be honest, you were the only one that I thought would listen.’

She almost laughed out loud. That was the lamest chat-up line she had heard in a long time. Or at least from one of her colleagues.

‘I’m sorry, Mickey, I’m exhausted.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘I just need an early night. Maybe we could talk about it tomorrow, yeah?’

She heard the disappointment in his voice. ‘OK. Tomorrow. See you then. Sorry to, you know, bother you.’

She smiled. He might look and sound like some alpha male wannabe at work but on his own he was quite sweet. And cute, too, now that she thought of it.

She said goodnight, hung up the phone, smiled.

‘Yep, girl,’ she said out loud, ‘you still got it.’

Then went to run herself a bath.

Mickey Philips put the phone down, sighed. Snow Patrol playing in the background, singing about her being the only thing right in all he’d done.

He hadn’t done anything right at all. In fact, he’d done that all wrong. Now she would think he fancied her. Well, yeah, he might, but that wasn’t the point. He had suspicions about this case. Suspicions he wanted to share with someone. Talk through, see if he was just imagining things. Or not.

Hopefully the former.

But now it would have to wait. He doubted he would have the time or the opportunity to talk to Anni alone tomorrow. Not without her thinking he was after her. He would just have to keep his suspicions to himself for now.

And having an early night? Yeah, right. How lame was that excuse?

He sighed. Sat back on the sofa. Flicked the remote at the stereo, silencing it. No longer in the mood.

On the one hand, he thought, things used to be much more complicated when he was in the Drugs Squad. But in a way, much simpler.

He got up, not wanting to stay in the flat any longer.

He would find a bar, have a couple of drinks.

Drown his suspicions at least.

And hopefully not bump into Anni, not having an early night.

He closed the door behind him.

54

‘N
ow, where were we?’

Phil sat down opposite Anthony Howe once more. The professor looked like he was in pieces. He had dried his tears but his face looked like it had aged ten years in the time Phil had been out of the room.

The crime scene photos were still in front of Howe, exactly where Phil had left them. He hadn’t even touched them.

‘Had a good look?’ said Phil. ‘Pleased with your handiwork? Because no one ever is, really, are they? There’s always something they could have done better. Something that seemed like a good idea at the time but just doesn’t look right once it’s finished.’ He leaned across the table. ‘Is that how it is with you, Anthony? Was there something here’ - he pointed at the photo of the woman on the lightship - ‘that maybe you could have done better? Hmm?’ He sat back, arms out, hands on the table. ‘What would that be, then? You tell me.’

Howe’s voice was tremulous, small. ‘I . . . I’ve never seen her before. I didn’t do it . . . I didn’t do it . . .’

During the break in the interview he had gone into the observation room. Fenwick and Fiona Welch had been watching. They both turned to him as he entered.

‘That’s it,’ said Fiona. ‘Keep at him. He’s going to crack, I know it. Just keep at him.’

Fenwick looked slightly concerned. ‘Can I talk to you outside a moment?’

Phil followed his boss into the hallway. It had the same institutional smell that every police station had. Phil had often thought there must be a spray somewhere, sitting in boxes in some store cupboard in the Home Office. Eau de Nick.

‘Are you OK?’ said Fenwick.

‘Fine.’ Phil’s eyes, face, gave nothing away.

‘Really? Because I saw you in there with that suspect and I’m not so sure.’

Phil said nothing. Fenwick continued.

‘You’re the best interviewer in the station, Phil. You know that. I’ve seen you get inside that room, get to work on someone and get them to confess while they still think you’re their best mate. I’ve seen you demolish villains that no one else could crack. But in there . . .’

Phil’s defences were up. ‘What about in there?’

‘You’re off your game. You’re going for him hard, why? Because she says so?’

‘No. Because . . . because . . . because it’s my job . . .’

Fenwick shook his head. ‘Phil . . .’

‘Look, Ben. If he’s guilty, he’ll crack. If he’s not he won’t. Simple as that.’

From the look on Fenwick’s face, he had realised he would get no further with Phil. ‘Fine. Do it your own way.’

‘I will.’

And Phil went back in the room.

‘So you didn’t do it,’ said Phil, looking at the top of Howe’s head, resting on the table.

The head moved slowly, side to side.

‘But you admit to stalking Suzanne.’

He nodded.

‘Good. That’s progress. We’re getting somewhere.’

Howe looked up. ‘We were in a relationship . . . She ended it and . . . and . . . I couldn’t bear it . . . I wanted to see her, talk to her . . . that’s all, just to talk to her, tell her I . . . I . . .’ His voice trailed off once more. He sighed. ‘She phoned me yesterday, yes. And I didn’t call her back.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she would have . . . shouted at me . . .’

‘And you don’t like being shouted at?’

He shook his head.

‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘What about Julie Miller?’

He shook his head.

‘Adele Harrison?’

Another shake of the head, eyes tightly closed.

Phil’s voice was rising. ‘Zoe Herriot. Why’d you kill her? Was she in the way? Was she a barrier to you being with Suzanne again? Is that it? Would she have shouted at you?’

No response.

‘Is that it?’

Howe started to cry again.

Phil sat back, stared at him. And a moment of self-doubt crept into his heart. A thought took shape:
Fenwick’s right. I don’t know what I’m doing
.

Was Howe guilty? Phil realised he didn’t know. And he didn’t know why he didn’t know. He should have been on top of it, looking for the signs, interpreting them, basing his next set of questions on those interpretations. Instead he had gone in shouting, breaking the man before him and still not knowing whether he was guilty or innocent.

He thought once again of Marina. Wished she was with him.

And that was it. He knew it. The reason he couldn’t operate.

He stood up. ‘Interview terminated.’

Howe looked up, hope daring to dance at the corners of his eyes. ‘That’s it? I can go home?’

Phil looked down at the broken man sprawled across the table and didn’t know the answer.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going to charge you with the abduction of Suzanne Perry and we’re going to keep you here overnight. We’ll talk again in the morning.’

Howe recoiled as if he’d been hit. ‘No . . . no, you can’t . . . please . . .’

Phil gestured to the uniform by the door to take over, turned away from him.

‘Please, you can’t . . . I can’t go in a cell, please . . .’

Phil said nothing.

‘I’m . . . I’m claustrophobic, please . . . please . . .’ And then shouting. ‘I’m scared . . .’

Phil left the room. Hands shaking, unfocused.

He had a phone call to make.

55