Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (11 page)

Phil held up a hand. ‘It’s OK, Darren.’ He turned back to the woman. ‘Detective Inspector Brennan. Major Incident Squad. What can I do for you?’

Her eyes held his, unblinking. Like sci-fi tractor beams. ‘There’s been a body found, hasn’t there?’

Phil said nothing.

Her hand gripped his sleeve like a vulture on carrion. ‘Hasn’t there? A young woman. In her twenties. Hasn’t there?’

‘There . . .’ No point in lying, he thought. ‘Yes. We’ve found a body answering that description, yes.’

The woman’s hand slipped from his arm. She gave a rough gasp, like she’d taken in more than she could swallow. She recovered quickly, her eyes locking on his once more. ‘Is it . . . is it my daughter?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said and she gasped again. ‘Have you informed us that your daughter is missing?’

She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Over a week ago.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Adele. Adele Harrison. I’m her mother, Paula.’

‘Paula Harrison.’

‘OK. What does she look like?’

‘’Bout my height, bit big, dark hair—’

‘Dark?’

She nodded once more, eyes still on his, waiting for the next words out of his mouth.

‘We think we have an identification for the body we’ve found, Ms Hamilton. I can’t say too much about an ongoing investigation, I’m afraid. But if there are any changes we’ll be in touch.’

The air seemed to sag out of her, her legs buckled. Phil knew the signs. Not dead but not safe. The tyranny of hope, Marina had called it.

Marina. He hadn’t thought about her or the baby for hours. But he couldn’t feel guilty now, while he was working. He would leave that luxury for later.

‘So where’s my Adele, then?’

‘I . . . don’t know. It’s not my case, I’m afraid.’

‘That other girl, the one who’s on the news all the time, I bet you’re working on her case, aren’t you?’

Phil couldn’t answer.

‘I bet she’s gettin’ all the attention. An’ my Adele gets nothin’. No one’ll take any responsibility. My daughter just disappears, vanishes, and there’s nothin’ any of you can do—’

Her voice was tightroping on hysteria. When she spoke Phil saw the bite marks on her lips, anxiety kisses. She was attracting an audience in the reception area. Phil put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes. ‘Please don’t shout. I don’t know anything about your daughter’s case. But if you give me the details I’ll get someone to look into it.’

‘Get someone. Yeah, right.’

Phil sighed. ‘Who’s your FLO?”

‘What?’

‘Family Liaison Officer. You must have been assigned one.’

‘Some kid. Cheryl Bland. Some kid.’

Busy woman, thought Phil. ‘Couldn’t you speak to her?’

‘Worse than useless. Looks about twelve.’

‘Right. Who’s the CIO, the Chief Investigating Officer?’

‘Farrell. Detective Sergeant. But I never get to talk to him. They fob me off with this Cheryl Bland.’

‘OK. I’ll see what I can do. Have a word with DS Farrell, if he’s here. See if there’s any news.’

She gave a bitter laugh. Twisted the corners of her mouth into a cruel parody of a smile. ‘No you won’t. You’ll get behind that door and you’ll forget all about me. About Adele. You might speak to him and say I’m here. Then you’ll laugh about the stupid woman sittin’ there. And walk away and forget me.’

‘No I won’t.’

‘Yes you will. You’ll just forget. But I’ll still be here. I’ll still be waitin’.’

‘Look, Paula.’ He held her gaze again, returning her stare. ‘I appreciate you must be going through a considerable amount of pain. But I’m sure DS Farrell will be doing everything he can. And I will talk to him.’

Her gaze wavered slightly, his words connecting with her.

‘If he’s in the building I’ll talk to him and ask him to come down to talk to you. Give you an update.’

‘Thank you.’

‘OK?’

She nodded. Bowed her head quickly as her eyes became glassy and moist. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem.’

Phil looked at the woman standing before him. Her anger now dissipated by his words, she seemed to have shrunk. He put his hands on her forearms, gave her a reassuring squeeze.

‘I’ll go find him now.’

She nodded, not raising her head.

Phil punched the numbers in, let the hydraulic door swallow him up.

22

T
he Creeper was irritated. And when he got irritated he became unhappy. And when he became unhappy he became angry.

And that wasn’t good. For any one.

Rani was back home. Which was good. He was looking forward to spending some quality time with her. Just the pair of them. The way it should be. But that wouldn’t be happening. Because she’d brought her friend with her. Without asking.

This was
their
place. Didn’t she understand that? If she wanted to bring people back she should ask him first.

Or accept the consequences.

But no, there she sat, in the living room, the blonde one who thought she was really pretty, drinking, not going anywhere in a hurry. In fact, she had brought a bag with her. Looked like she was going to stay.

The Creeper’s irritation tripped over into anger. That wasn’t right. Not right at all.

He had only just found her again. After all this time. There was so much they had to say to each other, so much catching up to do. So much time to spend together, just the pair of them.

That coiled snake began to writhe and twist inside him once more. Zoe shouldn’t be there. It should be Rani and him. Only him. They didn’t need her. They didn’t need anyone.

He watched, shaking, as Zoe went into the kitchen, began to prepare food for her and Rani.

The snake slithered, spat. That’s where he had left his present. And now this whore was going to find it. Not Rani.

Poison spread through him. His hands flexed and unflexed. Saliva foamed and frothed round his mouth, as he breathed through clenched teeth.

Not for her . . . not for her . . .

But there was nothing he could do, just watch.

Zoe went into Suzanne’s kitchen, filled the kettle. Tea. That was what was needed now. Not coffee, tea. It was warming, soothing. It destressed you, brought back happy associations from when you were younger, made you feel like you were curled in a chair, safe and warm. And if you had chocolate HobNobs to go with it, so much the better.

Zoe took the biscuits from the canvas carrier she had brought with her. When she had gone home to grab some clothes, she had popped into Sainsbury’s on the way, put a few essentials together, the makings of a meal for the pair of them, something for them to share in the hope it would take Suzanne’s mind off what had happened.

She arrayed the food on the counter. Looked at the biscuits and felt immediately hungry. She wanted to open the packet, start in on them right now. But she wouldn’t. She would take them in to Suzanne, open them in front of her and allow herself only one. Or perhaps even a half. And make sure Suzanne took them and put them away. Somewhere Zoe couldn’t find them.

Her stomach felt like a ravenous, cavernous space. But then it always did.

She loved food. Loved the sheer sensuality of eating, the feel of it in her mouth, the smells, the tastes, the textures. The way it slipped down her throat and into her stomach. The act of putting something inside her body, satisfying herself, her hungers and cravings, feeling it gradually fill her out. Wonderful. Nothing to touch it in the world. For Zoe, food was her sex.

But like so many of Zoe’s early sexual encounters, she ended up feeling bad about it afterwards. Guilt-ridden, hating herself and what her hungers had led her to do.

And that’s when her problems had started.

She’d never been anorexic, never been one to starve herself. That was something, she supposed. But sticking her fingers down her throat to bring it all back up again . . . to let her body feel cleansed, guilt-free and empty . . . that made perfect sense to her.

University for her had been about secrets and lies and double lives. The happy, extrovert - even exhibitionist at times - Zoe who was never short on friends or boyfriends. And the self-loathing, toilet bowl-hugging wreck that she really saw herself as.

Thank God she wasn’t like that any more. Thank God for her friends - or rather Suzanne. She had been there for her, helped her out, shown strength when Zoe didn’t have any of her own. She had picked her up, made her feel worthwhile, turned her life around. Been there for her when she needed her.

And thank God for therapy. It had been Suzanne’s idea and she couldn’t thank her enough for it. She hadn’t wanted to go at first but had to admit it was the best thing she had ever done. It gave her a new life, new confidence.

And a new boyfriend. Not as good-looking as the others but he loved her. She had felt he was different and she was right. She thought she could trust him with the truth so she told him all about her trouble. It was the best thing she had ever done. He said he didn’t care, would love her whatever size she was. And that filled her with something else, so rich and full and nourishing that her hungry heart no longer needed to binge any more.

But those HobNobs still looked good, though.

The kettle boiled and Zoe went about making tea in two of Suzanne’s fanciest mugs. A little thing, but hopefully it might help to cheer her up.

She opened the fridge door, looking for milk.

And stopped dead, her heart skipping a beat.

‘Suzanne . . .’ Her voice was small, wavering. Her heart skipped, a shiver of real dread passed through her. ‘I think . . . can you come here . . .’

Bitch.

Fucking Bitch. Why did she have to find it first? It wasn’t for her. It was for Rani. It was all for Rani. The blonde bitch was unworthy of it. Like she was unworthy of everything to do with Rani.

The snake was writhing and hissing inside him, coiling and uncoiling, baring its fangs, spitting poison. The voice had returned.
Whores
. . .
the whole fucking lot of them
. . .
whores
. . .
that’s all they’re good for
. . .
don’t trust them
. . .
any of them
. . .

He hated the blonde bitch. Wanted her gone. She’d come between them, she had no future.

Rani entered the kitchen. The snake calmed itself.

He watched.

Listened.

Hung on her every word, her every action and gesture.

Spotting the secret ones she made just for him.

Breathing fast. Excited, because even if the blonde bitch was there, Rani was going to see his present.

His valentine.

‘Oh my God . . .’

‘Is . . . is that what . . . what I think it is . . .?’

Suzanne had taken one look inside the fridge and stumbled backwards. Her legs were shaking, about to collapse beneath her, her heart hammering, thudding against her ribcage. Zoe was still looking, fascinated yet repelled.

‘Oh God . . .’ Suzanne’s eyes were screwed tight shut, willing it all to be a dream, herself to be somewhere else, somewhere safe.

Zoe reached out a hand. Suzanne opened her eyes.

‘Don’t touch . . .’

Zoe turned, stared eyes wide at her friend.

‘Please, don’t . . . don’t touch . . .’

‘Leave it for the police, you mean?’

‘Just, just leave it. Leave it . . .’ Suzanne wanted just to slump down on to a kitchen chair, her head in her hands. Give in. Not hold back any longer. Let those huge, great, wracking sobs out of her body. And tell him: you win. Whoever you are, you win.

But she didn’t.

Instead she stood there, felt that heat rise once more, that anger. Clenched her fists. ‘I’m not giving in, you bastard. You hear me? I’m not . . .’

‘Suzanne?’ Zoe crossed to her, put her arms round her.

‘He’s been here again, Zoe, here . . .’

‘Or the police missed it. Bloody useless.’

Zoe looked at the open fridge door. On the top shelf was a pair of her knickers. With something unmistakeable on them.

Semen.

‘Oh God . . . what a fucking nightmare . . .’

Zoe held her, said nothing. There was nothing she could find to say.

The Creeper smiled. Watched. Rani was sitting down, overcome with emotion. Weeping with joy at his present.

‘Oh, Rani . . .’

He felt himself hardening as he stared at her.

Touching himself.

Smiling.

Blonde bitch or not, it couldn’t have gone any better.

‘What d’you want to do?’

‘I want to find him.’ Suzanne didn’t recognise her own voice. ‘I want to find him, Zoe, and I want to take the biggest knife I can find and stick it in him. Right in him. And watch him suffer. Like he’s made me suffer. And watch him die. That’s what I want to do, Zoe.’

Zoe was sitting next to her. Her arm tightened round her. ‘I know you do. I know. What about the police? D’you want me to phone them? D’you want to go somewhere else?’ No reply. Suzanne stared at the wall. ‘Just tell me and we can do it.’

She spoke eventually. ‘I want . . .’

Zoe waited.

‘I want . . .’ She sighed. ‘I want my life back . . .’

Zoe kept holding her.