Tania Carver: The Creeper

She didn’t get as far as looking out of the window.

The blinds were up, which explained the extra light in the room, and there was something stuck to the pane of glass. She frowned, not quite understanding what it was doing there, why the blinds were up. Then she pulled the object off, scrutinised it more closely.

And felt her heart lurch.

It was a photo. Of herself, sleeping. The oversize T-shirt she wore for bed – the one she was wearing now – had been pulled up, revealing her trimmed pubic hair, the tops of her thighs.

Blood sped round her system. Her chest pumped, as if she couldn’t get enough air into her body. Her legs shook even more.

She turned the photo over. Gasped as fear shuddered through her. There were words on the back. Neatly printed block capitals. She read them.

I’M WATCHING OVER YOU

The nightmares punched back into her head. The shadows. The lights. The voice.

The hands on her body.

Suzanne’s head spun rapidly, her legs gave way, her eyes closed.

It was no nightmare. It had been real.

She fainted.

Well,’ said Detective Sergeant Mickey Philips, trying to give a cocky smile, ‘someone didn’t like her…’ The smile then disappeared as his face rapidly changed colour, draining to a shade of mildewed putty. He then heaved his head over the side and was sick into the river.

‘Do it in the bag…’ Detective Inspector Phil Brennan’s words came too late.

‘Sorry…’ The apology came accompanied by gasps and spitting.

Phil Brennan shook his head, turned away from his new DS and back to what was before him. New or not, he couldn’t blame the man. Not really. In his years with the Major Incident Squad – MIS – he had seen plenty of unpleasant things but the sight before him was definitely one of the worst.

The body had once been female. Now, it more resembled something from a butcher’s shop or a horror film. Abattoir leavings. The woman had been stripped naked and severely mutilated. Tortured. Her torso, arms, legs and head were criss-crossed by a lattice of scars, most of them deep. Whip marks, Phil guessed. Knife marks. Chain marks, even.

But amongst all that devastation two things stood out for Phil. The first was that her vagina had been savagely mutilated, even more so than the rest of her body, and her legs spread open at the base of the light tower. The second was that a word had been carved into her forehead:

WHORE

‘I think,’ said Phil, ‘someone’s trying to send a message…’

He was standing on the deck of an old lightship moored to King Edward Quay on the River Colne in Colchester. A banner along the front railing proclaimed it to be used by the Sea Cadets. Each side of the river seemed to host two separate worlds. The quay held a ribbon of single-storey buildings, all fenced off businesses and none of them looking too prosperous: a scrapyard, a garage, a couple of small manufacturing units. Brightly coloured billboards loudly proclaimed urban redevelopment.

On the opposite side of the river apartment blocks in glass, metal and wood, some cool and minimal, some gaudy and primary-coloured, lined the bank side. Creating a mini Docklands skyline, they demonstrated the redevelopment along the Hythe. The past on one side, the future on the other, thought Phil. Old and decaying versus shiny and new. And in the middle, a dead woman on a lightship.

Phil shook his head, tried to clear away the thoughts that had preoccupied him on his way to work. About his personal life. Shove them to one side, get on with his job.

DS Mickey Philips hauled himself back upright. Phil looked at him. ‘Better?’

He nodded, cheeks now flushed with exertion and embarrassment. ‘Sorry. Suppose it’ll get easier…’

Phil’s features were tight. ‘If it does, it’s God’s way of telling you to go and work security in M & S.’

‘Right. Yes, boss.’ Mickey Philips risked a glance at the body. ‘Is it… d’you think it’s her, boss?’

Phil looked down also. Flies were beginning to gather. He batted them away, knowing they would return. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I mean… I hope not, but yes, because I’d hate to think there was another…’

Mickey Philips nodded, understood.

Phil turned away, looked upwards. The sun was up already, the sky a vivid robin’s egg blue. The air alive with warmth and possibility. But for Phil, the brightest light cast the darkest shadows. He saw the scene with cop’s eyes because he saw the world with cop’s eyes. He couldn’t help it; it was the job. Instead of the living he saw the dead. And the ghosts of the dead spoke to him all the time, asked him for justice, for peace. The gentle creak and maw of the boat giving the dead woman a voice, seeming to whisper to him, plead with him. Find who did this. Let me rest.

Julie Miller had disappeared a week last Thursday. Twelve days ago.

Phil hadn’t dealt with the case directly, an ordinary missing persons not falling under the MIS remit unless foul play was suspected. But he had heard about it.

In her late twenties, regular boyfriend, worked as an occupational therapist at the Colchester General Hospital. Own flat, own car. And then one night she disappeared. The police investigated, found no signs of a struggle, forcible abduction or murder. The distraught boyfriend had been thoroughly questioned and released. Uniforms had checked hours of CCTV footage following Julie to and from work. Nothing. It was as if she had completely vanished.

Julie Miler was young, pretty, white and middle class. The media’s favourite profile. They got involved, issuing appeals, showing photos. Julie’s parents and boyfriend had given a press conference, made tearful pleas to her to return home. And still no sign of her.

People do that all the time. Disappear. The words no comfort or consolation for Julie’s parents but they heard them over and over, a mantra of no explanation. She’ll either come back on her own , people said, or she won’t . No one knew what to do next, apart from hope Julie sent a postcard from somewhere hot and far away.

‘This our runaway, then?’

Phil turned at the voice. Detective Chief Inspector Ben Fenwick was walking up the gangplank, his blue suit, gloves, boots and hood somehow not obscuring his smugness.

‘I think so, sir,’ said Phil, knowing that ‘sir’ gave the pretence of deference Fenwick liked. ‘I mean, I hope so.’

Fenwick nodded, his face a mask of professional concern. ‘Yes. Right,’ he said, standing beside Phil and looking down at the body, wincing. ‘Wouldn’t want there to be another one, would we?’

Phil had voiced the same sentiment out of concern for the victim. Fenwick, he knew from experience, had expressed concern at keeping his stats down.

There was no love lost between the pair of them. But they had called a temporary truce in order to get their jobs done. Since Phil was hardworking, inspired and always got results, Fenwick, as his superior, endured him as a necessary evil. Phil, for his part, thought Fenwick was a phoney; trotting out whatever the latest politically correct management-speak jargon happened to be, paying lip service to ideas of progressiveness and equality in the police force, but underneath his tailored suit and expensive haircut he was as reactionary and scheming as any old department dinosaur.

Phil noticed Fenwick had brought with him a similarly blue-suited sidekick who stopped walking when he did. Fenwick turned to the newcomer.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Martin. Rose. She was in charge of the original missing person’s case.’ Fenwick smiled. ‘She’s here to give her expert opinion.’

DS Rose Martin stepped forward, shared a small smile with Phil and Mickey, looked down at the body. She flinched, looked away. Phil feared her response was going to be the same as Mickey’s but she composed herself, looked again, bending down getting in closer. Phil admired her for that. Mickey, Phil noticed, seemed slightly put out at her reaction.