Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (42 page)

‘Where was this?’

‘In . . .’ He hesitated, corrected himself. ‘Where she, where we kept them.’

‘So there was just Adele there at this time?’

He shook his head. ‘Julie came to join her soon after.’ ‘Keep going.’

‘And Adele and I . . . I just saw her there and I . . . I wanted to . . .’

‘Help her?’

His voice was tiny, fragile. ‘Love her . . .’

Mickey struggled to keep his face as straight as possible.

‘And I . . . I . . . it built up over a few days. I wanted to say something, let her know it was me, but I . . .’ He sighed. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Frightened of what Fiona would say,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear.

‘One day I built up courage. I knew I was taking a risk but I . . . I couldn’t help it. When I was getting them out of their, of their . . . and I was helping her to the toilet I stopped her, spoke to her. Showed her it was me.’

‘And what did she do?’

‘Well, she was . . . it was . . . she cried.’

He fell silent for a while. Then continued.

‘And then I . . . I told her how I felt.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘That she felt the same as me.’

I’ll just bet she did, thought Mickey. Anything to get out. ‘So what did you do?’

‘We . . . started having sex. And . . . and plotted.’

‘Her escape?’

He sighed. Nodded.

‘Or both of your escapes?’

Another sigh, heavier this time.

‘And Fiona found you.’

‘Yeah.’ Tears welled again in Turner’s eyes. ‘And she . . . stopped it.’ He looked away. Looked at anything but Mickey.

But Mickey wasn’t letting it go. ‘Stopped it? How did she stop it, Mark?’

‘She, she . . .’ The tears fell. ‘Told me that if I didn’t . . . if I didn’t . . .’

He couldn’t say the word. Mickey wanted to hear it. Mickey wouldn’t say it for him.

‘If you didn’t what, Mark?’

‘If I didn’t kill her . . .’ The words blurted out, sprayed like projectile vomit all over the table. ‘Kill her . . . then Fiona would, would kill me . . .’

‘So you killed her.’

He nodded, shoulders heaving with his tears.

‘And all the . . . mutilation?’

Turner grimaced. ‘She did that. Fiona did that. I wouldn’t, couldn’t . . .’

Mickey waited.

‘She got the Creeper and me to drop off the body, told us where to leave it, how to position it. Said you’d think there was a sex killer on the loose. Then she said . . .’ Another heavy sigh. ‘Said that I was hers now. Forever.’

Turner said nothing more. Just sat slumped.

Mickey sighed. Mopping up time. ‘She used you, Mark.’

‘No . . .’ He shook his head.

‘Yes, she did. Just like she used Ian Buchan.’

Turner frowned. ‘Who?’

‘The Creeper. Used you. Kept you under her control. She made the Creeper kidnap his own sister. She used him like she used you.’

‘But we were a partnership . . .’

‘No you weren’t. You were just like the Creeper to her. Someone to be controlled. Another experiment.’

Turner sighed. And the tears came again.

‘So where are they, Mark? The girls?’

He kept his head down, stared at the table.

‘You may as well tell me, Mark, I know everything else.’

Nothing.

‘Everything. Even the fact that the two quotes you threw at me when I came in here were from Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.’

Turner looked up, shock and surprise in his eyes.

‘Anyone can read a book, Mark. So tell me, where are they?’

Turner sighed, saw that he had nothing else left to hang on to.

‘At the Quay. The old Dock Transit Company building . . .’

Mickey was straight out of the door.

105

S
uzanne screamed.

It was enough to startle the Creeper, divert his attention away from Phil.

Phil could only watch as Suzanne kept the momentum going. While the others were still staring, she got to her feet, grabbed one of the huge, chained hooks hanging from the runner along the ceiling and swung it towards the other three.

Phil, being on the ground already, didn’t have to duck. The other two did. Fiona Welch ducked to the side but she wasn’t quick enough and the hook swung at her, catching her on the side of the head. She fell, crumpling in a heap.

The Creeper was faster to react. The hook, which, having hit Fiona Welch, slowed its momentum, was much less of a threat by the time it reached him. He put up a great, solid hand, all muscle and gristle, and stopped it, the impact forcing him backwards, air huffing from him.

Phil knew what was coming next, shouted a warning.

‘Get out of the way, Suzanne . . .’

The Creeper pulled back the hook and, giving a roar of effort as he did so, let it fly towards her.

Phil pushed himself even further into the rusted metal of the walkway as it rattled along the track, gaining speed from the traction as it passed him. Suzanne however, couldn’t move. She just stood there, watching it come towards her.

‘Run!’ shouted Phil.

It broke the spell. Suzanne turned and ran.

Along the walkway and into the shadows. Phil lost her then. He turned back to the scene before him. Welch was still on the floor, eyes screwed up in pain, hand to the side of her head, blood seeping between fingers. The Creeper’s face had, if anything, turned even redder. Phil didn’t know much about burns and scarring but he was sure this wasn’t a positive development.

He was right. With an angry roar, he set off after Suzanne, his limping, shambling frame surprisingly fast, and was soon lost to sight in the shadows, the only sounds the heavy clang and clatter as his boots came down heavily on the metal floor.

Phil pulled himself to his feet, looked down at Fiona Welch. There was nothing he could do for her at the moment. He pulled at his wrists behind his back. But it was no good. The cuffs were tight. He needed something sharp, an edge to cut them with. He looked round. Couldn’t see one.

The Creeper had reached the ground and was bellowing once more.

Wrists tied or not, thought Phil, I’ve got to stop him.

Treading as carefully as he could and trying desperately to keep his balance and remain upright, Phil ran along the gantry into the same shadows that had claimed the other two.

Suzanne was getting out of breath. The sudden exertion after so much enforced stillness was beginning to take its toll. Her lungs were starting to burn, her legs shake. Her breathing was coming hard and fast and she was sure he would be able to track her just from that alone.

She had no idea where she was going. She was trying to find a way out but there didn’t seem to be one. The light from above cast faint rays on the ground, more than she had expected. Perhaps too much if he was following her.

And he was. She could hear him.

She ran.

The Creeper was angry. Very angry.

He didn’t know what was going on but he knew he didn’t like it. The husk had tried to hurt him. It was time for the husk to stop.

He reached the bottom of the steps, looked round. Listened. Heard movement to his left, breathing and fast footsteps. Bare feet slapping on the concrete floor.

He smiled.

Easy.

But just in case, he had something that would give him an advantage.

The night-vision goggles were still in his pocket. He had used them earlier when he came to meet Rani - or thought he was coming to meet Rani - to get into the building and dodge the police. He always used them at night. Something else he loved that gave him power.

He put them on, activated them. The world turned ghost-green and he could see.

And there she was. Almost to the far wall, by the boxes and beyond them, the water.

The electric water.

She disappeared from view. Hiding. Or so she thought.

He smiled.

Too easy.

106

B
y the time Mickey had emerged from the interview room, the whole station was in action. He found Anni.

‘Did you hear?’ he said. ‘The old Dock—’

She cut him off. ‘The circus is ready to go. We had an idea it might be there. The last call from the boss came from there. We haven’t been able to reach him since so there was a squad already being put together.’

‘Right,’ he said, disappointed that his thunder had been stolen.

Anni sensed that. She managed a smile. ‘You were good in there. Well done.’

‘Thanks.’ Was he blushing?

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go.’

He didn’t need to be told twice.

The team left the building. Marina was still in the observation room, watching Mark Turner.

She had seen the same patterns of behaviour before. When a suspect had given a full confession, got all their crimes out of their own souls and into a police report, they often slept. Turner, with his drooping eyes and lolling head, looked to be no exception.

Marina was curious. She left the observation room, crossed to the interview room. Stood outside, poised. Should she go in? Would that violate his confession in any way? Speak of harassment, coercion? She didn’t know. But it was a good opportunity to talk to him before he was taken away.

‘D’you mind?’ she said to the uniform on the door.

He stood aside, let her enter.

The room smelled of sweat. Hardly surprising, considering the way the two men had being going at it. Turner sat, barely registering her as she sat down opposite him.

‘Hello,’ she said.

He didn’t reply.

‘I’m . . . the new profiler on this investigation. Can we talk?’

He shrugged.

‘It’s just,’ she said, ‘that this is such an unusual case, I feel someone should be writing it up. Would you let me do that, interview you with that in mind?’

He looked up, seeing her for the first time, she thought.

He smiled.

‘They’re too late, you know.’

She frowned. Not what she had been expecting. ‘What d’you mean? Who’s too late?’

‘They are. The
police
.’ He said the word like he was describing a virulent, hateful illness.

‘Too late for what?’

‘To save them, of course.’

Her heart flipped. ‘What d’you mean? Has he killed them? Is that it? Are they dead already?’

He shook his head. ‘Not yet . . .’

‘Then . . . what?’

‘The building. The Dock Transit building.’

‘What about it?’

If things got too bad, too out of hand. There was a plan in place.’

‘What kind of plan?’

‘Remember what he did to the boat?’ Then, just in case Marina didn’t get the picture, he gestured, his fingers exploding slowly in the air, like a gently opening flower.

‘
Boom
. . .’

Marina ran out of the room as fast as she could go.

107

P
hil reached the bottom of the steps. It hadn’t been easy. There were times he had had to steady himself with both hands to stop himself from either going over the side or tumbling down the metal staircase. But he had managed it.

At the bottom he looked round. Pulled at the cuffs tying his hands together. Searching for something sharp enough to cut through.

Wind was blowing through the gaps in the rusted corrugated sheet metal walls. That gave Phil an idea. He crossed over to one wall, going slowly in the dark, watching his footing, until he came to the outer wall and, putting his back to it, felt along for a gap.

There were plenty. He eventually found one at waist height with a rusted, jagged edge.

Perfect.

He found the sharpest point, put his wrists over it, worked the plastic up and down as hard and as fast as he could.

His arms ached, shoulders burnt with the exertion, chest heaved. But eventually it started to give. Encouraged by that, he rubbed all the harder, ignoring the growing pain until he could feel it coming and started to pull. It stretched and sharpened, digging in as it got thinner and eventually came apart. He was free.

He fell to his knees, gasping, rubbing his wrists.

Looked around, searching for any sign of the Creeper or Suzanne.

None.

He set off into the shadows, listening, watching, hoping his eyes would soon be acclimatised.

Hoping he wasn’t too late.

The Creeper felt the thrill of the hunt coursing through him. This was what it was about. Never mind all that is she/isn’t she Rani, this was the real thing. What he lived for.

Stalking, hunting down, trapping his prey. He loved it. Came truly alive then.

This was when he remembered his father, could honour the man’s memory. Even if he had run away and left him.

Not that he blamed him. Not with those bitches in the house.

He thought of all those holidays camping in the woods, tracking an animal, hunting it down and killing it. That, his father had told him, is what a real man does. How a real man lives.

The Creeper couldn’t have agreed more.

Then there was the other stuff, the things that happened afterwards . . . he didn’t like them so much. In fact he hated them. The pain, the hurt, being made to do things with his body he didn’t want to do.

At first, anyway. Eventually he got to tolerate it. Expect it, even.

Because it came along with his father’s words, words he had taken to heart, always lived by: ‘Women are whores, son. All of them. And you’ve got to treat them like that. Every one.’

And he had.

And he did. The snake within him uncoiling, ready to strike.

He scanned the area. Saw nothing, no movement at all.

Then his eyes fell on the boxes in the corner. The trough of water beside them, the blocks before them. There. Quick, fleeting. Just a movement.

He smiled. He had her.

Kept looking. There she was again, thinking she was hiding but showing herself at the far end of one of the boxes, beside the water.

This was so easy. In fact he wished it could be more of a challenge, more of a struggle. But it didn’t matter. A hunt was a hunt.

He moved in slowly, stealthily.

He was going to enjoy this.

At first, Suzanne was terrified. Full-on terror: heart hammering, legs wobbling, teeth chattering. Repeating the same thing to herself as she ran: ‘Oh God, I’m going to die . . . oh God, I’m going to die . . . oh God, I’m going to die . . .’ Over and over in her head, her own personal mantra.