Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (32 page)

She flinched at his words, but didn’t interrupt.

‘That damage stops you from thinking you’re worth anything. Worthy of happiness. Well, you are.’ He held her hands tighter. She didn’t pull away. ‘And this might be the only chance we get. And we have to take it.’

She looked straight at him, no tears, listening to everything he said.

‘What was that you once said to me?’ he said. ‘All psychologists are just looking for a way home? I’m offering you that way home, Marina. It might not be easy, we’ve got tough decisions to make, but it’s real. It’s there.’ He sat back, still holding her hands. ‘D’you want to take it?’

Marina said nothing. Just looked at him.

‘Say no and I walk away,’ he said. ‘Forever. From you and our daughter. Forever. It’ll hurt like hell but if that’s what you want, that’s what I’m prepared to do. But say yes and we go home. Today. And face whatever we have to face together. Up to you.’

He let her hands slip from his. Waited.

He hadn’t intended to say all of that. Or even half of that. And he wasn’t the kind of person who would come out with something like that normally. But he had never met anyone like Marina before. She was special. She was worth fighting for.

She said nothing. He wondered if he had gone too far.

He sighed. Waited.

The food arrived. The plates were placed before them. Neither took any notice, not even looking at the waitress.

Phil waited. Could feel his heart breaking.

Eventually Marina spoke. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice small but strong. ‘Yes. I’m coming home with you.’

Phil reached across the table, grinning, grabbed her hands and squeezed. He hadn’t felt so happy in ages.

He inhaled. The food smelled delicious.

‘I’m starving,’ he said. And smiled.

Marina smiled back. Looking as happy as he did.

77

O
utside the restaurant, Phil switched his phone back on. And the happiness he had been feeling dissipated.

Message after message piled up in his phone. He played them. Marina stopped fussing with Josephina and looked up, becoming aware of the hardening in his features, concern spreading over her face in response to the changes to his. Eventually he took the phone away from his ear. Marina waited.

He looked at her. ‘Oh God . . .’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got to go. Now.’

‘Need me to come with you?’

Phil looked between the baby and Marina. ‘Can you?’

She nodded. Phil caught the look in her eye, fleeting and sharp, but unmistakeable. She was as hooked as he was.

‘I’ll fill you in on the way.’

They went to find the car.

Greenstead Road was a crime scene.

The road was entirely closed off, from the supermarket at the far end to the roundabout at the top of Harwich Road to the level crossing at East Street. Yellow and black tape fluttered in the slight, warm breeze, making a gentle, lapping sound that would have been calming and summery in any other situation.

Phil showed his warrant card as he stepped under the tape, uniforms closing in to block the cameras that tried to follow him. He kept a protective arm round Marina’s shoulders as he walked from the level crossing and round the corner to the house itself.

They had phoned ahead to Don and Eileen, asked if they fancied spending a bit of time with their granddaughter. They jumped at the chance. Although Phil kept the tone light, they sensed something was wrong but, from years of experience, knew better than to ask what.

Phil saw Nick Lines enter the house, his pale blue suit clashing with the colours on the tape. Anni was standing on the opposite pavement, waiting for the signal to enter the house. She saw Marina and him approach, crossed over to them.

‘Where’ve you been, boss?’ Conflicting emotions were running behind her eyes.

‘I . . . went to get a better profiler.’ He turned to Marina who said hello to Anni.

Anni returned the greeting.

‘So what we got?’ Phil tried to appear professional, speaking as if this was any other crime scene. But he didn’t pull it off.

‘Well . . .’ Anni looked round, herself struggling to keep it together.

‘From the beginning, Anni. I got your calls but catch me up.’

‘Call came in over an hour ago. Someone staggering about on the pavement, blood all over the place. Called for an ambulance.’ Her eyes involuntarily went to the pavement in front of the house, now dried brown against the grey. A mundane stain barely reflecting the enormity of what had actually happened.

‘Where is he now?’

‘The General. Thought we’d lost him at first. But he’s hanging on in there, apparently.’

‘That the latest?’

She nodded. ‘They’re operating now. Lost a lot of blood.’ Her eyes back to the pavement. ‘Hell of a mess.’

Phil nodded, looked around. The Birdies were there, notebooks out, coordinating uniforms. ‘Where’s Mickey?’

‘Keeping watch on the boat. Didn’t want to leave that lead in the wind. Thought he might be the best one for that.’

‘And Rose Martin?’

Anni shrugged. ‘Dunno, boss. Not answering her phone.’

Phil’s pulse quickened. ‘When was she last seen?’

‘At the station. Talking to Ben Fenwick.’

‘Fuck . . .’

Anni said nothing. She knew what he was thinking.

He rubbed his face, his eyes. Trying to think, concentrate. He glanced at Marina. It felt good to have her back on the team. To have her back beside him.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Looks like I’m acting DCI now for this case. Let’s get on. Any witnesses? Anyone know what happened? ’

‘Person who called it in, neighbour opposite. Saw the DCI come out of the house and stagger into the street clutching his stomach, waving something round. Turned out to be his warrant card.’

‘Clever man,’ said Phil, a sadness in his voice. ‘Identifying himself.’

‘It worked. Someone called an ambulance straight away. Saved his life.’

‘What about the people who live in the house? Any sign of them?’

‘None.’

‘Who lives there, do we know? Looks like a student’s place.’

‘It is,’ said Anni. ‘I had a little root around before. Mark Turner, Suzanne Perry’s ex, lives there. Renting.’

‘The guy Rose Martin questioned the other night.’

‘That’s the one. And said she thought he was harmless.’

Phil sighed. ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ Not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Does Mark Turner live alone?’

Anni shook her head. ‘With his girlfriend.’

‘And neither of them are there.’ It wasn’t a question.

She shook her head again. ‘But we’re on the lookout for them. Got their descriptions out straight away.’ Anni looked uneasy. ‘And you’re not going to like this, boss.’

Phil waited. Eyes hard.

‘The girlfriend. Like I said, I rooted round in the house before. Found some photos, paperwork . . .’

‘You’re stalling. Tell me.’

Anni sighed. ‘It’s Fiona Welch.’

78

M
ickey was keeping watch. And he wasn’t happy. Just over the river from where the action was, stuck watching a boat just in case its occupant returned at any time soon. When he and Anni had received the call telling them of Ben Fenwick’s attack he had experienced that old Drugs Squad adrenalin rush straight up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He was ready. Two-fisted, lip curled and ready. And he and Anni had discussed and it and, yes, in his head he understood that him staying behind and Anni going to the crime scene was the right decision but his heart was telling him something different. He was a copper. A detective. And he should have been down there, getting stuck in, finding the villain, hauling him in, making him sorry.

But he wasn’t. And that adrenalin was still there, charged up, pawing around inside him like a caged beast, just waiting for an outlet.

It wasn’t long in coming. And, when it did, he could barely believe it.

He was sitting in the car, fidgeting and uncomfortable. At least when Anni was there he had someone to talk to. All he had now was the radio and that was tuned to Radio One, spewing afternoon inanities and songs he was embarrassed to admit he didn’t recognise. He was contemplating turning over to Radio Two but something within himself wouldn’t allow it. It was comfortable. It was set in the past. It had DJs he had grown up with playing songs he had grown up with. To listen willingly would be like acknowledging he would never again embark on a four-day coke and alcohol bender, go straight from clubbing on a Friday night to the football on a Saturday afternoon, pick up a girl in a bar and stay with her for the whole weekend, coming in to boast about his stamina and prowess on a Monday morning.

He sighed. The truth was that part of him, an increasingly large part, didn’t want to do that any more. There was more to him than that. Use his brain again, remind himself why he had gone to university in the first place. That was why he had transferred out of the DS. He was concerned about himself, his future. But another part of him wanted to keep on living like that and damn the consequences. He had successfully managed to keep it controlled for now but he wasn’t sure he could do that indefinitely.

Maybe Radio Two would help, he thought, reaching out to change the channel, hating himself for it at the same time. Some anonymous eighties hit came on. He settled back in his seat.

He was glad he had confided in Anni. He felt he could trust her. And that was something, because for all the hard as nails fun he had had in the DS, there were none of them that he considered his lifelong friends. That all seemed to go when he went. But Anni . . . yeah. She was a good one.

His thoughts were stopped from wandering any further down that particular avenue because something had caught his eye. And he couldn’t believe it.

A van had pulled up in front of the boat. And not just any old van.

A black Citroën Nemo.

Mickey couldn’t believe his luck. The dormant adrenalin powered up inside him once more. He wanted to open the car door, run over and collar whoever was driving, pull them out, slam them against the bonnet old-school, making sure their head bounced off a couple of times as he did so, then loudly proclaim, ‘You’re nicked, my son.’ See what Anni made of that.

But he didn’t. Instinct kicked in, reluctantly overrode the adrenalin. Watch, he told himself, learn.

He did so. And saw the driver side door open, someone get out. Any hopes of a clean identification were dashed because the driver was wearing green army camo gear, buttoned up to the neck, a black wool watch cap pulled down tight on their head and a pair of big, face-obscuring aviator shades.

‘Bastard.’

The driver came round the side of the van, went to the back doors. Mickey tried to take in what he could. Medium height, male. That was it. Didn’t walk with a limp, have any particular distinguishing features. Nothing.

Then the passenger emerged. Walked round to the back. The van was parked so that the passenger was further away and Mickey’s vision was obscured. And this one was dressed identically to the driver. Army fatigues, boots, wool hat and sunglasses. But that was where the similarity ended.

The passenger was taller, walked more slowly than the driver. And there was something not quite right about the gait. Throwing his left leg out as he walked, a definite limp.

Mickey smiled.

He focused on what he could see of the passenger’s face. His smile widened. The man’s face wasn’t as he had expected it to be. What Mickey could see of it was red and blotchy, smooth - nearly flat - in parts, pitted and cratered in others.

A burns victim.

He watched as the two men opened the back of the van, leaned in, brought something out. They struggled with the object, a heavy bundle wrapped in a rug. He looked closer. The rug was discoloured, darkened in places. Mickey’s heart flipped. He knew what that was.

Blood.

And he knew what was in the rug. It didn’t take a genius to realise it was a body.

He sat back, as far down in his seat as he could, trying desperately not to be noticed. Heart hammering out Motörhead drum riffs, breath in short supply. The two men carried the bundle on to the boat, went below deck. Mickey let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

He watched, waited. Nothing happened.

He picked up the radio, ready to call for back-up, for the armed response team Phil had promised would be there when he wanted it, when there was movement on the boat.

Mickey put the radio down. Watched again.

One of the figures, the driver without the limp, came back up on deck, walked across the gangplank and left the boat. He walked over to the Nero, got behind the wheel, turned over the engine.

Mickey looked between the van and the boat, torn.

The driver revved up the engine.

Another look between the two. Mickey weighed it up. The scarred man had a body inside the boat. But no transport. And whatever he was doing down there, not going anywhere would be top of his list. Whereas the driver of the van was clearly leaving and there might not be another chance to get him.

Mickey’s mind was made up. He waited until the van turned round and headed up the road, counted a few seconds, set off after it.

Once on the road he picked up the radio, gave the call sign.

‘Am in pursuit of a suspect. He’s driving a black Citroën Nemo, registration number . . .’

He would tell them what was happening in the boat. Get Phil’s armed response team on to it. Whoever this was in the van was his.

He smiled, switched back over to Radio One.

Thrilled to be giving his adrenalin a workout.

79

‘A
h . . .’ the Creeper sighed. ‘Alone at last . . .’ He was, for the first time in a long while, almost happy.

He looked at the bundle in front of him. The rug had been unrolled, its cargo disgorged on to the floor of the boat. Rani. She lay there, unmoving but awake, looking round, her eyes wide.

He crossed to her, knelt down beside her. ‘You awake, beautiful?’

He was giddy with excitement. Here she was. After all this time. Alone together. At last. His heart was hammering with excitement, stomach flipping with expectation. He wanted all his senses to take her in. He looked her over first, his eyes devouring her whole body. Then he closed his eyes, leaned in close, smelled her, fragrance, sweat, everything. Nothing was bad, all was good. All was Rani. He wanted to taste her, too, put his lips on her, his tongue, kiss her, lick her, all over . . .