Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (28 page)

‘Meticulously, I’d say.’

‘Would we be able to trace him from the equipment? Find him from where he bought it? I’m assuming this is specialised stuff. You won’t get it at Currys.’

‘You’re right there. It could be government-issue. Army. I’ll be looking in to it.’

Phil frowned. ‘Why did he leave it behind? Didn’t he know we’d find it?’

‘I don’t know. He’s taken his laptop. Maybe he’s got another set of cameras and can start again. Maybe he got what he wanted here and didn’t need them any more. But that’s not all.’

Phil’s stomach flipped. He didn’t like the tone of Adrian’s voice, the look in his eye when he said that.

‘There.’ Adrian moved forward. Phil followed.

Two rows of bottles, the kind of specimen jars a doctor provides, were displayed neatly along the last door before the wall. All of them containing something off-white and viscous.

‘We’ve had a look at one of them. Human semen. He’s been knocking one out and saving it. Collecting them till he’s got the set. Don’t know what for, though.’

‘Tributes?’ suggested Phil. ‘Saving it all up for the woman he loves?’

Adrian grimaced. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day. Lovely.’

‘Get them analysed. Might get a DNA match.’

‘Already doing it.’ Adrian sighed. ‘He was living here, too. Bottling and boxing up his waste, leaving it under the floor. It looks like he had a sleeping bag here too.’

‘Food?’

‘Few remains. Wrappers from energy bars, that kind of thing. Red Bull cans. Maybe he went downstairs if he wanted anything else, helped himself when Suzanne was out.’

‘And there’s no trace of him now.’

Adrian shook his head. ‘Place is cold. My guess is he took Suzanne and headed out with her. Got what he wanted, no need to come back here.’

Phil stood staring at the scene before him, saying nothing, thinking.

Working out what to do next.

‘The others,’ he said eventually.

Adrian listened.

‘Julie Miller. Adele Harrison. Was he watching them?’

‘He might have been . . .’

‘I’d say he definitely was.’ He looked round, suddenly anxious to be out of the loft, on the move. ‘Can I leave you with this?’

Adrian nodded.

‘I’m off to check the other women on the list, see if he’s been there.’ He sighed.

‘Just what we need to be looking for. An obsessed survivalist. Brilliant . . .’

64

‘H
ello? Mr Buchan . . .’

No reply.

Anni could see the crime scene on the lightship from where she stood. King Edward Quay on the Hythe stretched away from the Colne Causeway Bridge with the upscale apartments either side of it to a series of newly installed mooring points. The walkway had been block-paved with new trees planted in specified circular areas at regular intervals. Each mooring point had a heavy metal tie for the rope to be looped round and a power-point post providing an electricity supply for each berthed vessel. The electricity substation hummed behind a spiked metal fence over the road behind her.

The boats varied. Some were narrowboats, freshly painted and decked out in traditional livery and colours. One was a larger boat, part home, part business, with a sign on the deck offering river tours alongside plant pots and chained-up bikes. Some were old fishing vessels extended into house-boats.

Eventually the pavement, the trees and the power-point posts ran out. On one side of the narrow road the businesses faded away leaving only piles of greening timber and full skips behind spiked metal railings and rusting ‘Keep Out’ signs. Piles of rubble formed small mountain ranges on old, cracked, weed-infested concrete forecourts. What buildings there were were single-storey, over forty years old. Like an idea of the future from a sixties Gerry Anderson puppet series and just as accurate. Next to them was a huge, old, square building, the Colchester Dock Transit Company announced on the side in faded, peeling capital letters. It was all rusted and mildewed corrugated iron cladding with an ancient crane and cabin outside. The walls were covered in graffiti bringing unexpected, surprisingly welcome bursts of colour to the drab, depressing surroundings. Boarded-up doors carried warnings that inside was unsafe and to stay out.

The boats moored along this section mirrored their surroundings.

No mooring posts or power points or trees here.

Just old rusting wrecks, mostly unserviceable, superannuated fishing boats, their water-going days long behind them. Now left to rust away to nothing, float, piece by piece, out to sea on the tide.

It was one of these that the next contact on Anni’s list had given as an address.

‘Hello . . . Mr Buchan . . .’ She called again. With more trepidation this time.

Still no reply.

There was nothing on the deck to show that the boat was lived in or even habitable, apart from a hand-painted sign hanging at an angle on a death trap of a boarding ramp: ‘Rani’.

She looked round. No one about. Even though it was another hot, sunny day with a cloudless blue sky, she felt a damp chill run through her because of her surroundings. The boarding ramp was open. The door to the hold looked unlocked. She gave another quick look round, stepped on to the boat.

The tide was out and it was pitched at an angle on a mud-bank. Anni crossed the deck, careful of her footing as some of the wooden planks felt soft and rotten beneath her feet. She reached the wheelhouse, leaned across and pulled on the small wooden door. Unlocked. It opened slowly on creaky, horror-movie hinges. Before her was darkness, a steep set of stairs leading down.

‘Mr Buchan?’

Nothing. Just an echo.

She took another look round. Then went slowly and carefully down the steps.

The only illumination in the hold came from gaps in the wooden ceiling and rusted walls. Jacob’s ladders of light criss-crossed in front of her, dust motes dancing in the rays.

She looked round. Grimaced.

On the floor were a sleeping bag, some old newspapers, dirty underwear and T-shirts. Opened and emptied food cans lay about, with varying degrees of fungal growth attached to them, looking like an Al-Qaeda chemical weapons breeding lab. It stank of waste, decay. Scratching, scuttling noises sounded underfoot as Anni moved.

That was bad enough. But it was the walls that really made her gasp.

Pictures, everywhere. Dotted around randomly, culled from different sources. Some cut from newspapers, grinning topless models and celebrities. Others, their open legs, naked bodies, faked ecstasy and even more fake breasts betraying porn mag origins. Some actual photos. Anni took out her mobile, used the lighted screen for illumination as she examined them more closely.

She recognised some of the surroundings. Colchester’s main shopping centre. Maldon Road. The hospital where Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot had worked. All blurred, grainy. As if they had been taken without the subject’s knowledge. Like surveillance photos.

Something a stalker would do.

Her heart skipped a beat. She knew who the women in the photos were.

But that was only an educated guess. She couldn’t make a positive identification. Because all the pictures, whether from newspapers, magazines or those taken in the street, all had one thing in common.

The eyes had been scratched out.

She recoiled from them, her heart hammering in her chest, suddenly wanting to get out. She stepped on the sleeping bag, gave a small cry.

Then stopped dead.

A noise from the deck above.

Someone was up there.

Anni froze, looked quickly, desperately round. Shining her phone display everywhere. Finding no other exit but the stairs.

Another footstep, then another from above.

‘Oh God, oh God . . .’ Her breath was coming in short, ragged bursts.

She looked round frantically.

Another footstep, getting nearer to the wheelhouse.

Her phone was in her hand, ready to dial. She just hoped that someone could get to her quick enough.

The doorway above her opened. A voice called down.

‘What you doing down there?’

Anni closed her eyes. Froze.

65

P
hil had struck lucky. The building that Julie Miller lived in had a doorman.

‘Awful business,’ the doorman said. He was a small man, in his fifties, Phil guessed. Everything about him was round. Bald head, long-sight glasses that curved and emphasised his eyes, portly figure, even bow legs. He was polite and deferential but the tattoos that covered his hands - home-made, blue ink - spoke of a different past. Phil wondered whether he had had a run-in with him before. He couldn’t place him. Which was fine. He was all for second chances.

‘Julie Miller . . .’ The doorman brought his brows together in concentration. ‘Awful . . .’

‘I just wondered whether you’d seen anything else unusual in the flats.’

His frowned intensified. ‘Unusual? What d’you mean?’

‘You know.’ Phil tried to spell it out him. ‘Different people coming and going. The same people disappearing, maybe not coming back. That kind of thing.’

‘Hmm.’

More brow furrowing, like he was really trying to be helpful. Phil gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was. Part of putting his past transgressions behind him.

‘Have you got a description? Of this person I should have been looking out for?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Then how am I supposed to know who he is?’

Phil smiled. Fair point. ‘You’re not. I’m just looking for anyone who sticks in your mind.’

‘Hmm. Not easy. Kind of people who pay to live in a block like this tend to want a bit of privacy. Bit of blind-eye turning, know what I mean?’

‘I do. But if you could just think of anyone, anything.’ Phil had an idea. ‘Somewhere near Julie Miller’s flat.’

Again, more brow furrowing. Then, like a light bulb going on, his eyes widened. ‘The Palmers. Christopher and Charlotte.’

‘What about them?’

‘They went away. Long holiday, apparently. Short notice. Had a win on the lottery, apparently, so I heard.’

Phil’s pulse quickened. His fingers tingled. ‘Where do they live?’

‘Near Julie Miller. Flat above her, in fact.’

The doorman’s pass key let Phil into the apartment.

The doorman himself had wanted to accompany him but Phil had put him off. He was well-meaning and the last thing he needed was hand-holding a well-meaning amateur.

Phil closed the door behind him, looked round the flat. He didn’t need to be a detective to know something was wrong.

The flat hadn’t been lived in but it had been occupied. And he could guess who by. Empty Red Bull cans littered the floor, interspersed with energy bar wrappers. Just like Suzanne Perry’s loft. Opened food cans joined them, some with spoons still sticking out. Like someone who had no respect for their surroundings had squatted here.

He checked the bedroom. More of the same. Sheets, duvet left all over the place. He went back into the living room, scanned it once more. He had been here. Phil was sure of that. He must remember to tell the CSIs to check Julie Miller’s flat for hidden cameras. He was sure they would find some.

He had one more room to check. The bathroom. He found it, walked inside. The shower curtain was pulled across as if someone was in there. He pulled it back.

And stood back, gasping.

‘Oh shit . . .’

Phil took his phone out, hit speed dial.

‘It’s Phil Brennan here. Listen, we’ve got a situation.’ He looked again, looked away quickly.

‘A hell of a situation . . .’

66

A
nni was too terrified to move.

She stood stock-still. She was sure he could hear her hammering heart, her ragged, shallow breaths. She wanted to move, scream, or at least take in a full breath. But she didn’t dare.

The voice laughed. Footsteps started on the stairs.

Oh God
. . .

A figure blocked out the light, came slowly towards her.

She had to do something, buy herself some time.

‘My name is Detective Constable Anni Hepburn,’ she said, feeling sure her breath wouldn’t carry her to the end of the next sentence, ‘please identify yourself.’

Another bout of laughter. ‘You sounded so formal there.’

What?
Then she recognised the voice. Mickey Philips.

‘And I know who you are, Anni.’ He moved into one of the beams of light, laughing. ‘Should have seen your face . . .’

She hit him. And again, and again, slapping him on the chest out of fear, frustration and relief. ‘You . . . bastard . . . fucking bastard, Mickey Philips . . .’

‘Hey, hey, stop.’ He put his hands up and, still laughing, caught her wrists.

She managed to regain some semblance of composure. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘Said to meet you here. Remember?’

She dropped her hands. Looked round, took in the walls once more. ‘Glad you did.’

Mickey followed her gaze, took in what she had seen. ‘Jesus Christ . . .’

‘I know. Think we might be on to something here. Fiona Welch and her profile . . .’ She shook her head.

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘Last night.’

Anni raised an eyebrow. Waited.

He looked round once more, took in the photos and pictures, seemed clearly unnerved by them. ‘Can we go outside? Think I’ve seen as much of this place as I need to.’

They made their way back on to the quay. Anni was amazed that the sun was still shining. After being down below in that boat she thought she would never see the sun again.

Mickey seemed to be feeling it too. ‘Fancy an ice cream?’

‘I fancy a gin and tonic. Bloody huge one.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t blame you.’

Her smiled faded. ‘So. About last night . . .’ She attempted a smile but what they had just seen didn’t make it easy.

‘Fiona Welch,’ said Mickey. ‘What d’you think of her?’

Anni shrugged. ‘Haven’t had an awful lot to do with her. Can’t say she’s the best profiler ever to work in the department. ’

‘I can’t make her out. One minute she doesn’t want to talk to me the next she’s all over me.’