Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (9 page)

No. She shouldn’t.

She knew what she was going to do. Who she was going to call. No.

She picked it up. Put it on the table.

Kept looking at it.

No.

Picked it up again. Her hand a claw, holding the receiver like an eagle would its prey.

Dialled a number she knew by heart. A number she had never forgotten.

17

A
nni Hepburn stared at the painting on the wall and wondered what to make of it and also the person who owned it.

It took centre stage in a very small, cramped office, a narrow, shelf-lined room that could have doubled as a store cupboard or a corridor to nowhere. The shelves were full of books: textbooks, novels, old, new, with no particular order to them that she could work out. Shoved in around the books were magazines, folders, papers. A few ornaments and nicknacks sat on what space there was. Small and disparate, things that probably had a story or at least a joke behind them when first placed there, but were now dust-heavy and sun-faded. Opposite the shelves a desk dominated the rest of the room. A computer in the centre surrounded by a mini cityscape of piles of books. Around the painting on the wall was a timetable, a wall planner, a few postcards, a couple of yellowed cartoon strips cut from newspapers. But it was the painting that drew the eye. Anni was sure that was the intention.

Mounted in an elaborate, yet old and chipped gold frame, it showed a man, tall, young and handsome, head back, chin up, standing in some marbled hall, his hands grasping the lapels of his jacket, gazing out with, on first viewing, a look of untouchable arrogance and haughtiness that bordered on contempt. On closer viewing, however, it showed the skill of the painter. The arrogance that informed the handsome features never reached the eyes. They held a mirth, a mockery, saying that the whole thing was a sham and that the man was going to burst out laughing at any moment.

A smaller piece of artwork was pinned up next to the painting. Superman, all massive chest, huge arms and tiny underpants, was soaring above the Earth, an American flag fluttering behind him.

The man has a serious ego problem, thought Anni.

She sat in a gap between the desk and the doorway in a chair, ancient and wooden, dark and worn, with a tired tapestry cushion on the seat. It seemed to be at odds with the rest of the room, more like something found by the fire in an old, wood-beamed pub rather than in a functional 1960s office, all breeze-block walls and cast-iron windows, of a university professor.

The subject of the painting was now sitting in front of Anni, at the book-covered desk, and he was no superman. His appearance showed, even more than the damaged frame, the dust collected on it or the fading of the oils, just how long ago it had been painted. He was still tall, but the black hair was largely grey and thinning slightly at the temples. The arrogant, haughty set of his features had deepened to become a set of permanent lines, like a mask worn for so long and so often it had become the wearer’s real face. The eyes, though, were what had changed the most. Rather than the self-mocking dancing in the painting, they just showed a weariness. And, once Anni had announced who she was, a wariness.

‘You’re lucky to catch me,’ he said. ‘I was about to go home.’

She smiled. ‘So, Professor—’

‘Just Anthony, please,’ he said, offering a tentative smile. ‘No need for formality.’

‘Right.’

Professor Anthony Howe had been easy to track down. Anni had made one phone call to the university to find him in his office. He had finished teaching for the day and was catching up on his marking. He would be in for a few hours, he said, if she wanted to drop by, but what was it concerning? Once she mentioned Suzanne Perry’s name, however, he hurriedly said he had to leave for home. When she suggested she meet him there he claimed to be on his way to a pressing engagement. No problem, she would catch him in the morning. But she would talk to him. It was important.

And he had sighed and, realising she was going nowhere and that it would be best to get it over with as soon as possible, had relented. So there she was.

‘I must say,’ he said, still working on his smile, ‘you’re not what I was expecting.’

‘Really.’ Anni raised an eyebrow. Almost stifled a yawn. ‘Because I’m black?’

He nodded, then realised what Anni must have been thinking. ‘Oh no, not because you’re . . . because of that. No. Just . . . when I spoke to you on the phone I got quite a different impression of you.’

‘In what way?’

He tried for a smile. ‘You sounded like a police officer. Now, sitting here, you could pass for a student. That’s all.’

Anni thought of what had happened with Suzanne Perry and was glad she wasn’t. She smiled politely.

He returned it.

He was trying, she thought. To be polite, to be at ease. But he hadn’t offered her tea.

‘Nice painting, by the way.’

The smile became slightly more genuine. ‘Thank you. I like it, something a bit different. Got used to it, really. Forget it’s there until someone points it out to me.’

‘Must have cost a bit to have done.’

A small laugh. ‘Had a friend, aspiring artist. She wanted subjects, models. Cost me nothing.’ He couldn’t hide the pride in his voice. ‘But . . .’ He waved his hand as if dismissing it. ‘All in the past. A long time ago.’

Anni kept her attention on the wall. She pointed at Superman. ‘What about the guy next to him?’

‘Oh. Him.’ He smiled again, and this time he looked like a university teacher about to address a class. ‘What do you think he sounds like?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Superman. His voice. What do you think he sounds like? Timid? Shy? Does he stutter?’

‘I doubt it,’ Anni said, wondering where this was leading, ‘Authoritative. In command. That kind of thing. American.’

He nodded. ‘And Clark Kent?’

‘What?’

‘His alter ego. Clark Kent. How does he talk?’

‘Erm . . .’ Anni had never given the matter much thought. ‘Like . . . a normal bloke?’

Anthony Howe nodded, as if she had just confirmed a thesis he had personally created. ‘Exactly. If he spoke like Superman he would never fit in, would he? Not at the
Daily Planet
. Not bumbling, mild-mannered Clark Kent, would he?’

‘No.’

Anthony Howe sat back, folded his arms. Thesis proven. ‘We change. We don’t have just one voice. We have several. Depending where we are, who we’re talking to at the time, how we want to be seen, to come across. Different voices for different situations.’ A smug smile. ‘One of the first things I teach my students. If you’re going to be a speech therapist, find out which voice - which persona - the patient needs to use most.’

She couldn’t resist the next line. His arrogant statement set him up for it.

‘And which persona did you use with Suzanne Perry?’

His expression - his demeanour - changed. The set of his mouth hardened. His eyes narrowed, were lit by a dark, ugly light. He moved his body towards her.

And in that moment, Anni wasn’t so ready to believe that Suzanne had been making it all up.

18

T
he death knock. The bit Phil hated most.

It made him think of his own parents, Don and Eileen. What it would be like if one of his colleagues turned up on their doorstep with news of him. And now, of course, there was Marina. And their daughter Josephina.

Everything had changed when she was born. He had been there at the birth, holding Marina’s hand as she screamed the baby out. Afterwards, he kept trying to understand the conflicting emotions he had gone through. It was a polarising experience. On the one hand there was his child, his daughter, coming into the world. Joyful, yes, but also terrifying. Another life. A huge responsibility. And there was Marina. Screaming out, her body twisted with pain. And the blood . . . he hadn’t expected there to be so much blood. It came gushing out of her, the weight of it pooling in the sheet underneath her. He had hated to see her suffering, and also hated the fact that he was helpless to do anything about it. But then there was the baby . . . And she more than made up for it.

But it was the responsibility that hit him most. A parent. A father. He had noticed himself do different things. Not take chances at red lights. Drive more carefully. Look both ways before crossing the road. Cut down his alcohol and takeaway food intake. Start running again. Because it wasn’t just him any more, or him and Marina. It was their daughter, and he had to be there for her. Because if something happened to him or Marina, Josephina might end up having the kind of upbringing he had. And he didn’t wish that on anyone.

Phil stood on the doorstep, hesitated. Rose Martin was beside him, along with Cheryl Bland, the Family Liaison Officer. She was a small, blonde woman, mid- to late twenties, Phil guessed, but difficult to place with any accuracy as she looked even younger. Soft eyes. Phil imagined that was a bonus in her area of work.

His Audi was parked in the gravel driveway. The house was detached, the plasterwork decorative, all fleur-de-lis and faux-heraldic roses. Pots of flowers lined the drive like herbaceous sentries. Twin potted bay trees flanked the heavy wooden front door.

‘What can we expect, then?’ he asked Cheryl.

‘They’re a nice couple. Decent. He might get a bit angry, wanting action, she’ll talk. About Julie.’

Phil nodded. Thought once more of Eileen and Don. ‘Any brothers or sisters?’

‘One brother. Works out in the Middle East. Supertankers, something like that.’ Cheryl smiled. ‘She did tell me.’

‘And their names?’

‘Colin and Brenda.’

Phil thanked her, rang the bell. Waited.

A woman opened it, middle-aged and in good shape, but tired looking. She looked at Phil, then Rose, hope rising in her eyes. Then she saw Cheryl Bland and the hope died.

‘Mrs Miller?’ Phil said. ‘Brenda?’

She nodded. Her mouth moved but no words emerged.

‘Can we come in?’

‘What’s happened? What have you got to tell me?’ She clung on to the edge of the door, her knuckles white.

‘I think it’s better if we come in.’ Cheryl moved forward, placed her hand on Brenda Miller’s arm.

She jerked the door backwards, stood aside, her breathing increasing.

They went in, Phil and Rose first, to the living room. Cheryl Bland, her hand still on Brenda Miller’s arm, steered her to the sofa. Cheryl sat, Brenda refused, staying standing. She looked at Rose and Phil as if only registering them now.

‘Who . . .’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Brennan and this is Detective Sergeant Martin.’

‘I know you,’ Brenda said. ‘You’re the one who was in charge of the . . .’ Her mouth hung open. ‘Oh God . . . you’ve . . . oh God . . .’

The three police officers shared a look between each other. Phil nodded. He would take it.

‘Mrs Miller . . . Brenda . . . I’ve got something to tell you.’

Brenda Miller’s breathing increased, her chest rising and falling, her hand to her neck.

‘We’ve discovered a body.’

‘Oh God . . . oh God . . .’

‘We can’t say for certain at this stage that it is Julie, however we strongly suspect it may be.’

But Brenda Miller wasn’t listening.

Because, like her world, she had collapsed.

19

‘W
ell,that went as well as expected.’

Rose Martin was sitting on the Millers’ front doorstep, a Silk Cut clamped between her lips. She was drawing the smoke down deep, as if reinflating her lungs after giving the kiss of life.

Phil closed the front door behind him, sat down next to her.

Brenda Miller had been helped to the sofa and brought round. Cheryl Bland had made tea and Phil, as tactfully as possible, had told her what had happened. She had sat there blank-faced, her mouth slightly open, as if punch-drunk from a twelve-round heavyweight fight.

Rose drew in more smoke, put her head back, let it out in a huge, grey fountain, an artificial cloud against the blue sky. She turned to Phil.

‘It was a good investigation.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘We did everything we could.’ There was a hardness in her eyes, almost an anger.

‘I’m sure you did.’

‘We had no leads. None at all. It was, literally, like she had vanished. We tried everything. We . . .’ She stubbed the cigarette out on the gravel, so hard the filter snapped off.

‘We’ll reinterview,’ said Phil. ‘Old boyfriends, work colleagues, family. Everyone. Go back to the beginning.’

She was nodding, not hearing his words, just waiting for him to finish so she could start speaking. ‘Back to the beginning. Start again. So that’s it, is it? You come in and take it away from me.’

‘That’s not the way it works. You know that.’ Phil’s voice calm and even, trying to talk down her anger.

‘MIS comes in and we just roll over. And you glory boys get your collar and make us ordinary CID plods look like brainless shits.’

Phil managed not to rise to her words. He knew she was upset and angry and looking for someone to lash out at. ‘You’re part of the team. We need you here. I need you here.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why don’t you take a couple of hours off? Get your head together. Because you’re no use to me like this. And you’re no use to Julie Miller either.’

Rose didn’t get the chance to answer as two men came hurrying round the corner, up the drive. One of them trailing behind the other, weighed down by camera equipment.

‘Shit,’ said Phil, standing up.

Rose joined him. ‘You know them?’

‘Dave Terry and Adrian Macintyre. Freelancers. Both obnoxious twats.’

Rose smiled. ‘Is that your professional opinion?’

‘On every level. They’re local but they sell to the nationals. Trying to beat the competition to it. Wondered who’d be the first to work out where we were. Come on.’

Phil stepped in front of the two journalists, stopping their progress. The one with the camera, Adrian Macintyre, tried to dodge round him. Rose grabbed him.

‘Whoa there,’ she said.

‘Look, we’re just doing our jobs,’ said Dave Terry. ‘We’ve got as much right to be here as you two.’