Tania Carver - The Creeper

A shudder of guilt ran through her. No. Bitterness wasn’t healthy. She should ignore it. But it had been happening more and more since Clayton’s death. The team had been shaken after that and, she told herself, they all had different ways of coping. As Phil had told her, grieve all you like, but get on with the job.

And she would. Just as far away from Phil as possible.

Anni leaned back at her desk, the phone cradled in the crook of her neck. ‘This won’t take long, Jane, thanks. Just a case you once worked on. See if you can remember it.’

‘I’ll try.’

Anni had left Suzanne in the rape suite of Southway station, come into the office to do a bit of checking. She had run Suzanne Perry’s name through the computer and was surprised to find a hit. She had come to their attention before. She had checked the case notes.

Two years previously Suzanne had been a student at Essex University on a post-graduate course in speech therapy. She claimed that one of her tutors, Anthony Howe, had offered her a first in exchange for sex. She had turned him down and reported him for sexual harassment. It came down to her word against his and, with no evidence to back up the claim, it was dismissed.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Anthony Howe, Suzanne said, began stalking her. Standing outside her flat at night, sending her obscene texts, leaving messages on the phone or just not speaking at all. Her claims were investigated. No further action taken.

Strange, thought Anni. Why no further action? She had picked up the phone.

‘Suzanne Perry,’ said Anni into the phone. ‘University student, couple of years back. You were the investigating officer. Ring any bells?’

‘Not offhand.’ Anni could hear traffic, voices in the background. Jane Gosling wasn’t giving her full attention. She would have to help her.

Anni filled her in on what the file said. The harassment claim, the stalking. ‘Any clearer?’

‘Student…’ said Jane. ‘Flat on Maldon Road?’

‘That’s her. Teacher was stalking her. Anthony Howe.’

‘Right. Except he wasn’t.’

Anni leaned forward, interested now. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Let me just…’ Another pause while she brought up the memory. ‘Phone calls, wasn’t it? Texts?’

‘What it says here.’

‘Only there weren’t any. We checked her landline. No messages. Her mobile. No texts. Said she’d deleted them. Made her feel violated. Same with her answerphone. This teacher said she’d been nothing but trouble the whole course, looked like she was going to fail, made the whole thing up to get a higher mark. He was furious, going to sue her for defamation of character, if she kept going. And that was that. We heard no more.’

‘You reckon she was making it up?’

‘Probably. I thought it was just a bit of a fling that went wrong and she was trying to get revenge.’

‘Did she mention a boyfriend? Mark Turner?’

Jane Gosling gave a laugh of irritation. ‘Two years ago, Anni. Can barely remember what I had for dinner last night.’

They both laughed.

‘She back in the news, then?’ said Jane.

‘Another stalker. Inside the flat this time.’

Jane’s turn to laugh. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘Another? What was it Oscar Wilde sort of said? To get one stalker is a misfortune. To get two is just carelessness.’

Anni laughed. ‘Oscar Wilde?’

‘Amateur dramatics. I was a very good Miss Prism. Got all the laughs.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Look, I’d better go. Listen, get your paperwork done and get down here. We could use a bit of help.’

‘I’ll see.’

They made their goodbyes, Anni rang off. She sat back once more, considering her options. Polish off the paperwork of what looked like a fantasist wasting police time and go join Phil, or investigate Suzanne Perry’s claims thoroughly.

She checked her notes, moved her fingers over the keyboard.

Looked for Anthony Howe’s contact details.

Phil felt like a ghost hunter.

Julie Miller’s flat held a kind of terminal emptiness, a sense of a life interrupted, never to be finished. Sadness and loss hung heavier in the air than dust.

This was one of the things he hated most about the job. He could face down a knife-wielding drunk or tackle a two-fisted husband using his wife for target practice, no problem. He could hold his own in court against some defence barrister trying to provoke him and belittle him. He could even write up a whole barrage of arse-covering reports and attend box-ticking diversity training sessions. But to stand in the ruins of someone’s life and be expected to make sense of their absence just depressed him to the core. And left him with no answers.

Phil closed his eyes, blinked the thoughts away. They wouldn’t help him to find out what had happened, to catch Julie Miller’s killer. To do his job.

‘So Julie Miller went missing a week past Thursday,’ he said.

‘ Reported missing a week last Thursday,’ said Rose Martin. ‘By her mother. Lives in Stanway. Julie hadn’t been at work the day before. Missed some appointments. Parents were down as contacts. Work called them, asked if she was ill. No reply. Quick call, and there we were.’

‘And everything was checked? The doors, the windows-’

‘Yes.’ Exasperation in her voice. ‘CCTV. Door-to-door. Statements taken from neighbours. I am a professional, you know.’

Phil reddened. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I have to check.’

Rose nodded. Waited a few seconds before speaking. ‘I know. We couldn’t understand it either. It was like she had just… vanished.’

Phil looked all round the room as if the walls would answer him. ‘And no one saw her?’

‘No one.’

‘Upstairs? Downstairs? Heard nothing?’

‘Downstairs said they heard nothing. Concierge says upstairs are away on holiday.’

He sighed. ‘Let’s look round. See if anything stands out.’

They were in the living room. Phil tried not to acknowledge the cruel irony in that. It was sparsely furnished, what furniture there was chosen as if not to upset the bland, beige colour scheme on the walls and ceiling. A sofa in a darker shade of beige had a brightly coloured throw over it. A multicoloured rug covered the fitted beige carpet. A small, flatscreen TV and DVD recorder was on a glass stand against one wall, a small hi-fi unit with a docked iPod next to it. A blond wood bookcase stood in the corner of the room, the shelves mostly empty of books and ornaments, as if a life was just being acquired and collected.

The heavy-handed remains of a police presence also contributed to a sense of a life interrupted. Windowsills and door frames held residues of silver, black and white powder where prints had been lifted. Furniture and possessions had clearly been moved and not returned properly to their original positions. Drawn curtains added to the gloom.

‘Check the shelves,’ said Phil. ‘See if there’s a diary, anything like that. A photo album, anything.’

‘We did that,’ said Rose.

‘I know,’ said Phil. ‘But you were looking for a misper. I’m looking for a killer. And open those curtains, let some light in here.’

Phil went into the kitchen. It was clean and tidy for the most part. A single mug stood on the draining board, coffee stained dry inside it. He checked the dishwasher. A small number of dirty dishes in it, ready to be washed.

He went looking for other rooms. Found the bedroom. Bedrooms, in cases like this, were even worse for Phil than living rooms. Living rooms were for show. There were no secrets in bedrooms. No hiding.

He looked round. It was hard to tell whether it had been left in a mess by Julie Miller or by the investigators. The bed was unmade. Underwear and jeans were piled at the bottom. A pair of trainers that looked liked they had been kicked off. Drawers pulled open, their contents spilling out.