Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (39 page)

He waited. Eventually he heard a voice.

‘How . . . how do I know you are who you say you are?’

A woman’s voice. Phil felt a rush of adrenalin course through him. ‘Are you Suzanne Perry or Julie Miller?’

‘Suzanne . . .’

Relief flooded through him along with the adrenalin. He smiled to himself. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get you out.’

She started to scream.

He tried to calm her down. ‘Hey, hey it’s OK. It’s fine. You’re safe now. You’re with me. You’re safe. Don’t worry. I’m going to get you out, OK?’

He waited. Nothing.

‘OK?’

A sigh, then sobbing. ‘OK . . .’

‘Right . . .’

He pulled away the concrete block, slowly. It was heavy. Then, when there was space enough, he prised open the bottom of the packing crate.

‘Come on, Suzanne, out you come . . .’

‘The water . . .’

‘Don’t worry about that. It’s taken care of. Just come on out.’

He heard movement, shone the torch in. Slowly, Suzanne made her way towards the light.

He smiled, encouraging her.

She emerged. Blinking, shaking. He reached out a hand for her, helping her to the side of the trough, so she wouldn’t get wet.

‘Come on . . .’

She froze. He frowned.

‘It’s OK, Suzanne. Come on. You’re fine, you’re safe . . .’

‘No,’ she said, backing into the crate, ‘no . . .’

‘Suzanne?’ Phil looked after her. ‘Come on, Suzanne, it’s fine, I’m here . . .’

‘And so am I.’

Phil froze. Turned quickly.

Saw something come towards him. Fast.

Saw the world explode.

Then, finally, blackness.

94

‘H
ow did you meet Fiona Welch?’

Turner sat staring straight ahead, arrogance exuding from him in waves like cheap aftershave. ‘University. She was Psychology, post grad, I was doing an M.Sc. in Biological Science. We were friends. Hung around in the same groups.’

‘So what made you leave Suzanne Perry for her?’

He smiled. The arrogance waves increased. ‘Nothing. She just told me how much better I could be.’

‘In what way?’

Turner gave a laugh that he probably thought went with his arrogant smile but made Mickey think of camp villains in old James Bond movies. He said nothing.

‘You know what transgression is?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘It means stepping over your limit. Violating your laws and codes. Being what you would call wrong. That’s what Fiona offered me. She took one look at my life, my boring, ordinary little life, and she changed it. Get with her and it could be so much better. I did. It is.’

He sat back, arms folded, as if waiting for applause.

‘So what does this transgressing involve? How did you go about it?’

‘By doing what we wanted. Nothing is real. Everything is permitted.’ Another laugh. ‘That’s what we did.’ He leaned forward, eyes blazing. ‘Everything.’

‘Right. Specifics?’

He put his head back, laughed. Trying to look superior, but Mickey caught a glimpse of his eyes before he did it. They looked uncertain. Fearful. His arrogance, Mickey was learning, wasn’t very convincing.

‘Too many to name.’

‘Just one instance. Of your superiority. Your transgression. Go on, Mark. Just one.’

Turner sat forward. Again, that fear flashed in his eyes. ‘It’s enough that you know that that’s what we are.’

Mickey sighed. ‘Fair enough, Mark, if you say so.’

Turner felt Mickey’s disbelief, felt he needed some qualification. ‘We plotted, that’s what we did. Planned. To find a way to transgress, to make everyone see we were serious. Show people what we were all about.’

‘So . . . what? You kidnapped Adele Harrison? Why? How does that demonstrate your superiority? Or that you’re transgressing anything?’

Turner’s voice rose. He slapped his arms down on the table. ‘Don’t you understand? That was the point. Take a life, any life, someone worthless, some nobody, and do with her what we want.’

He sat back, pleased with himself.

‘What you want.’

Turner nodded.

‘What did that involve?’

‘Anything.’

‘What, killing? Torture? Maiming? What?’

‘Anything.’

‘And you did that, did you? What you wanted? Anything you wanted?’

He smiled. ‘Sort of.’

‘What d’you mean, sort of?’

‘That’s when the experiment moved into it’s next phase. Because we didn’t just do that ourselves. That would be too simple. No.’

‘What did you do, then?’

‘Obvious. Got someone to do it for us . . .’

95

P
hil opened his eyes. Felt pain lance through his head. Closed them again, groaned.

‘Ah. He’s awake.’

Phil tried opening his eyes again. It hurt, but he managed it this time. He tried to move. Couldn’t. His hands were behind his back, his legs curled beneath him. He blinked, letting his eyes get accustomed to the darkness.

A light went on. He shut his eyes quickly, the sudden glare burning him.

He opened them slowly. Looked down. Gasped. He was high off the ground, still in the old Dock Transit building. On the metal walkway that ran along the roof of the building.

The light was coming from a hastily rigged arc light that had been positioned next to him. He saw chains hanging from the ceiling. With huge hooks on the ends.

He remembered Adele Harrison’s body. Took a deep breath. Shuddered.

Phil moved what parts of his body he could, checking himself for damage. His head hurt, his vision was blurred. Concussion, probably, from the blow that had knocked him out. He flexed his arms, his legs. Moved his torso. No damage that he could feel. Good. That was something.

A groan from behind him.

He tried to turn to the source of the sound, twisting his body as far as it would go. Suzanne Perry was curled up on the walkway next to him. She wasn’t tied to the railing. From the look of her she didn’t need to be.

‘Suzanne?’ he said.

She looked up. Her eyes signalled that she was exhausted, totally beaten. She didn’t speak, just stared.

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have been more careful. But don’t worry, I’ll get you out of this.’

‘Oh will you, indeed?’

The voice was familiar. He looked round. There, ahead of him, standing on the edge of the lamp’s beam, was Fiona Welch. She was smiling. It wasn’t pleasant.

‘Hello, Phil. Fancy meeting you here.’ She held out a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I’ve got my invoice. Do I give it to you or send it to accounts?’

Phil said nothing. Just stared at her.

She laughed, crumpled it up, threw it over the side. It took a long time to reach the bottom. Made only the slightest of sounds when it did.

‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Long way down.’ She crossed towards him, crouched down beside him. Stretched out her hand, touched his cheek. ‘Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you now, would we?’

Phil tried not to flinch, to pull away from her touch. He just about managed it. She kept her hand where it was, kept stroking.

‘Let it go, Fiona.’ He kept his voice calm, reasonable. It wasn’t easy. ‘Let it end now before you get into more trouble.’

She just smiled at him. It wasn’t a smile connected to sanity.

‘And let Suzanne go. She’s done nothing wrong.’ No response. ‘Please, Fiona. Let her go.’

She kept stroking, moved in closer to him. When she spoke, he felt her warm breath on his cheek.

‘How does it feel, Phil? Hmm? How does it feel to lose?’ Her eyes looking directly into his, fingers playing along his cheekbone. Her smiled widened, showing him her teeth. White and sharp and wet.

Phil tried not to look at her. He looked away, into the shadows she had come from. And saw something.

Or someone.

A hulking presence, a shadow against shadows. Breathing raggedly, deeply. Waiting.

Phil guessed who that was.

He turned his attention back to Fiona Welch. ‘Is that what you think, Fiona? That I’ve lost?’

‘Of course you have, darling.’ In close to him, whispering, her breath on his ear, tickling. ‘I’m not the one chained up and . . .
helpless
.’

He could feel an involuntary erection coming on. Hated his body, himself, for allowing it, fought to keep it down.

He pulled his head away, looked at her face. Steel in his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You might not be. But there’s a nationwide manhunt going on for you. Your description is in the papers, on TV, the internet, everywhere. You can’t get away. They’ll find you.’

She smiled.

‘Maybe they will.’

She laughed, moved her body in close to his.

‘But not just yet . . .’

96

M
arina sat back, waiting to see what Mark Turner would say next, waiting to see where Mickey’s questions would guide him.

He was good, she thought. Getting the information out of him in his own way at his own pace. He was surprising her. She had thought on first meeting him that he was just a typical copper: boorish, macho, problems with women, especially those with authority over him, the usual. But he was proving himself to be different. There was a slight glitch when she saw his response to Turner’s goading of him, calling him thick, throwing quotes at him he didn’t know, but he handled himself well, recovered quickly.

Her eyes caught her mobile on the desk. She had put it on silent when the interrogation started. She checked the screen: two messages. One from Phil, one from Nick Lines. She looked back at Mickey, thought he could handle himself for a few minutes, took out her earpiece and hit voicemail.

Her eyes widening as she listened.

‘So who was this person?’ said Mickey. ‘The one you got to do things for you?’

Turner shrugged. ‘Nobody. A real nobody. Even less important than our targets.’

‘Really? I’d have thought it would be someone quite important if you wanted to get them to do all that for you.’

Turner shook his head. ‘Well you’d be wrong. As you have been about everything else, thick copper.’

Mickey said nothing. Waited.

‘He was just a squaddie. Some damaged, war-traumatised squaddie. Completely mind-fucked. Piss easy to manipulate.’

‘Why?’

‘He’d killed this translator. Woman in Afghanistan that he got obsessed over. Big cover-up about it. Threatened with a court martial, everything. But instead they invalided him out, on the quiet.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t want the embarrassment. ’

‘Can’t blame them,’ said Mickey. ‘Already in enough trouble over there.’

Turner nodded, back to being mates in a pub, then checked himself. Remembered where he was, who he was supposed to be. Worked the arrogance back into his features once more. ‘He burnt this woman to death. Raped her then killed her. Burnt himself pretty badly in the process too.’

‘So how did you come across him?’

‘Fiona did. At the hospital. He’d been sent for therapy.’

‘What kind?’

Turner shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Speech, psychology, occupational, all sorts, I suppose. Whatever he needed.’

‘And he met Fiona Welch.’

Turner nodded. ‘She said he so easy to manipulate it was laughable. She could tell him anything she wanted, anything at all. And he’d believe it. Didn’t matter what kind of stupid, twisted shit she said, he believed it. She used to come home telling me what she’d said and how he’d believed it.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘We used to laugh about that . . .’

Mickey was about to speak when he heard Marina’s voice in his ear. Fast urgent. ‘Can you talk?’

‘Give me a minute, Mark.’

Without waiting, Mickey stood up, exited the interview room.

Marina was waiting for him in the corridor outside. ‘I wouldn’t have interrupted you unless it was something important,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a couple of phone calls. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

She told him.

When Mickey went back into the room he could barely keep the smile off his face.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Where were we? Oh yes. You were telling me about your squaddie.’

‘The Creeper, we called him.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Because he’s a creep.’

‘And Fiona chose him because he was easy to manipulate? ’

Turner nodded. ‘Like a retarded little kid.’

‘No other reason?’

‘No.’ He saw the half-smile on Mickey’s face. Doubt crept into his features. ‘Why? What d’you mean?’

‘She didn’t choose him for another reason?’

‘Like what?’ Very uneasy now.

‘Like, the fact he was Adele Harrison’s brother?’

Turner’s mouth fell open.

Stayed open.

Mickey kept his smile controlled.

Got you, he thought.

97

‘
I
’m going to tell you a story,’ said Fiona Welch to Phil, still up close to him, almost sitting on his lap, moving her hips rhythmically, grinding slowly against him.

Phil swallowed hard, tried to look - move - away. He couldn’t. ‘What about?’ he said. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘Me,’ she said, the words whispered breathily, Marilyn Monroe-like. ‘How naughty I am.’ She traced her finger down his chest. ‘And what drives me to do . . . what I’ve been doing.’