Tania Carver - The Creeper

‘That something you’re interested in?’

‘Not particularly. It was on and I, I… can you tell me what this is about, please?’

‘And what did you do after that?’

‘Had a whisky. Went to bed. What I normally do.’

‘And that was it for the night?’

He nodded. Anni didn’t reply.

‘Am I supposed to have done something? Does this involve Suzanne?’

The dark fire returned to his eyes when he mentioned her name. Dark. Nasty, Anni would have said.

‘It does,’ she said. ‘Suzanne Perry was attacked last night.’

He recoiled, as if the news had hit him in a physical way.

‘Attacked… where?’

‘In her flat.’

‘How?’

‘Someone came in while she was sleeping, into her bedroom. ’

‘My God…’ He looked again at the pen, thought of picking it up once more, then decided against it. ‘Did he… what happened?’ And then, before she could answer, almost as if he didn’t want to hear the answer to his question, he said, ‘Was she hurt?’

‘We don’t think so.’

Anthony Howe shook his head. ‘Oh dear…’ Then a realisation seemed to dawn on his face. He looked directly at Anni. ‘You think I did it?’

She said nothing.

His anger rose. ‘You think I did it? I… somehow… made my way into her flat and, and… you think that was me, that I could do that?’

Anni kept her voice professionally calm and even. ‘We don’t know, Mr Howe. There was no sign of forced entry. Whoever it was must have been known to Suzanne. Probably had a key.’

Howe sat there, staring at the wall, saying nothing.

‘And since you and Suzanne have, shall we say, a history, I thought I should pay you a visit.’

Still nothing.

‘What did happen between you and Suzanne, Mr Howe?’

‘Professor.’

‘Professor.’ So much for informality, she thought. ‘What happened?’

He sighed. ‘She destroyed my marriage.’ His voice was small, fragile. ‘I… We had an affair. That was that.’ He looked at Anni. No trace of any anger in his eyes now. No trace of anything but sadness. ‘That was that.’

‘And the stalking? The phone calls?’

‘It ended badly. Animosity. Accusations.’

‘But was there any-’

‘It ended badly. That’s all I’m saying.’

Anni didn’t press him. ‘So,’ she said instead, ‘last night-’

‘I was at home. All night.’

‘No one to vouch for that?’

Bitterness entered his voice. ‘I didn’t know I would need anyone to.’

‘Do you still have a key to Suzanne’s flat?’

‘I never had one in the first place.’

‘But you’re still in touch with her.’

‘No.’ Said very quickly.

‘But you’re-’

‘I said no. She destroyed my marriage. Offered me her body if I gave her a first. Then, when it all went wrong, went to the police, to you lot, told them lie after lie about me. I’m lucky to still have a job here.’ He leaned towards her once more, anger informing his features. ‘So after all that, would I really stay in touch with her? Really?’

The mobile on his desk rang, stopping Anni from giving an answer.

‘Excuse me.’ He leaned forward, picked it up ready to answer. Checked the read-out. Stopped.

It kept ringing.

Anni put her pen down. ‘Don’t mind me.’

He kept staring at it, his eyes widening. His fingers began to shake.

Anni looked at the phone, back to Howe. ‘I said, don’t mind me.’

He kept staring, then, as if breaking from a trance, glanced at Anni, back to his phone. He hit the red button, silencing it.

‘They can leave a message if it’s important.’ He pocketed the phone, turned back to her. ‘And that’s all I have to say. So if you’ll excuse me, Detective, I have work to do.’ He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk, pretended to look at it. His hands were still shaking.

Anni stood up, saw herself out.

She passed the student, waiting patiently outside the door, made her way down the corridor.

She had seen the read-out on the screen. The name.

Suzanne.

The blood was pounding in her ears, her wrists.

Anni left the building.

‘Don’t you ever do that again.’

Phil had parked the car at the station with the two reporters still in the back, gestured for Rose to join him at the other side of the car park.

She looked up at him, eyes still dancing with a defiant adrenalin rush. ‘Why? They were out of order. It’s a damned good job I stepped in.’

‘Is it? Really?’

‘I was within my rights on everything. You’ll back me on it.’

‘You were angry. At me, at the case, at not finding Julie Miller. You allowed that anger to cloud your professional judgement.’

‘You backed me up.’ Her voice was petulant but still defiant.

Phil leaned into her, face to face. ‘I had no choice, did I? But don’t you ever do that again. No mavericking, I told you. You pull something like that again and you’re off this case.’

‘You need me. I was in charge of the original investigation.’

‘I don’t need an officer who behaves like that.’

‘Make a complaint against me, then.’ There was an ugly smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

Phil knew what that smile meant. Fenwick, his boss, was her protector. Let’s see who he believes , she was thinking.

Phil stepped back. ‘You can take them in, you can get them processed, you can handle the paperwork. Good luck.’ He turned to walk away, stopped, turned back to her. ‘This is your last chance with me. I mean it. And I don’t care who you think’s protecting your back.’

He watched the shock register on her face as she realised who he was talking about.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I know.’

And this time walked away.

Suzanne heard his phone switch to voicemail. She started speaking but stopped herself. She didn’t know what to say. How to say it. Instead she ended the call.

She put the phone down on the table, sighed.

She would try again later.

The building was low-level with a brown sloping roof and nicotine-yellow brick walls. An anonymous piece of eighties architecture, this beige palace could have been anything from a prison to a hospital to a provincial budget motel. But it was none of those things. It was the main police station for the town.

Phil stood back and let Rose march their charges through the main door and up to the desk. She could deal with the Duty Sergeant and the processing. Good luck to her.

Phil crossed to the door at the side of the reception desk, punched in the code on the keypad. The lock clicked.

‘Excuse me…’

Phil opened the door, didn’t realise the voice was addressing him.

‘Excuse me…’

Phil turned. A woman had stood up from the sofa, was standing directly in front of him. She looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed, her face creased into worry-heavy frown lines. No make-up and her clothes weren’t good quality and they hadn’t been selected with care. She looked like she had slept in them. Her hair was uncombed and he couldn’t place her age. Possibly mid-forties but it could have been ten years either side of that.

Rose took the two journalists through the door without looking back. The pneumatic hinges pulled the door shut, leaving him behind. He had to talk to the woman now.

‘Yes?’

She looked him up and down. ‘You’re a police detective, aren’t you?’

The uniform on the desk had seen what was happening. ‘Just a minute, please,’ he said.

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?’