Tania Carver - The Creeper

Hazel Mills nodded. ‘Julie.’

‘Julie Miller?’

Hazel Mills’ eyes widened. ‘You know her? You know what’s happened to her?’

‘Let’s talk some more.’

Rose Martin stood outside the house on Greenstead Road once more. Knocked. Waited.

She hadn’t been paying attention the previous evening. She knew that and wasn’t proud of the fact. If she had she would have listened to her gut instinct. She had during the night. Virtually all night. Playing back one aspect or another of the previous day. Some more times than others. Some things kept her awake longer than others. Like Mark Turner. The more she had thought about him, the more she thought there was something off about his manner. She couldn’t define it, couldn’t explain it. But it was there. And she should have noticed it.

But she wasn’t going to dwell on that. She was going to put it all behind her – along with most of the previous day – and work on it now.

Another knock. Another wait. At least there was no level crossing siren this time.

She heard Phil’s voice in her head. Julie Miller was your case and she still is … go through her background again .

Right. Again.

… anything that sticks out, anything that can be flagged up … She knew what he meant. It was just an exercise to see if she’d made a mistake, another slip-up. Find something else he could pick up on, beat her with. Like she was going to give him the chance.

Another knock, harder this time, more impatient.

Nothing.

And no mavericking .

Right. Ben would vouch for her. He was a DCI. His word mattered.

She waited. Nothing.

Then turned, walked away.

The level crossing siren just starting to ring out.

‘Tell me about Julie Miller, Ms Mills.’

‘She… worked as part of the department.’

‘Here? On your team?’

‘No. On this wing, though. We have a structure here in therapy management. Different branches under one heading. The OTs and the SALTs come under the same Therapy umbrella. As well as Nutrition and Dietetics, Neuro and Health Psychology-’

‘Sorry? SALTs? OTs?’

Hazel Mills gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Occupational therapists. Speech and language therapists. Every job has its jargon.’

Anni returned the smile. ‘Don’t I know it. So, would Suzanne and Zoe have worked with Julie Miller?’

‘They might have done. We’re a multi-disciplinary team. We use standardised assessments for our referrals. SALTs can overlap with OTs, psychologists, any AHP.’

Anni raised her eyebrow.

‘Allied health professionals.’

‘Jargon.’ She made another note. ‘What kind of work did Suzanne and Zoe do here, Ms Mills?’

‘In what way?’

‘Therapy-wise. What kind of people did they work with?’

‘Anyone who needed it,’ Hazel Mills said. ‘Some therapists specialise but Suzanne and Zoe hadn’t been here long enough to do that. They were still starting out.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘Starting out.’

‘Give me a for instance.’ Anni, keeping her on track.

‘Well, children, adults-’

‘What kind of adults?’

‘All stripes. Whoever was referred to us. Stroke victims. Cancer patients needing reconstructive surgery and learning how to communicate again. Paralysis cases. And with the garrison being nearby, a fair few soldiers suffering PTSD.’

‘Post-traumatic stress disorder?’

Hazel Mills nodded. ‘But, as I say, that would all overlap. ’

‘Could you get me a list of patients that Suzanne and Zoe saw, please?’

Hazel Mills’ face darkened. She glanced quickly round the room as if being watched. ‘I don’t know…’

Anni nodded, kept her voice calm and reasonable. Hazel Mills didn’t strike her as the kind of person to respond to threats. And Anni wasn’t going to make them. At least not yet.

‘I know,’ Anni said, ‘patient confidentiality. Data protection, all that. This is a murder inquiry, Ms Mills. And Suzanne’s missing.’

She said nothing.

‘There was a body found yesterday,’ said Anni. ‘Just outside Julie Miller’s flat.’

Hazel Mills’ hand went to her throat. ‘Is it…’

‘We don’t know. But it answers her description. And now Suzanne’s missing…’

Hazel Mills nodded. She looked even paler. ‘I’ll go and get the files.’

She stood up, composed herself and left the room.

Anni waited.

Impatiently.

‘And you can see the lightship, just down there…’

Phil pointed through the window of Julie Miller’s flat. Fiona Welch followed his directions, looked down. She was thoughtful for a few seconds then nodded to herself, a slight smile troubling her lips, as if this confirmed something she had been thinking. She started making notes on her BlackBerry.

She was already irritating Phil. He couldn’t make her out. On first impression she seemed small and timid, almost afraid to speak up for herself, content to keep her opinions safely hidden behind her glasses. But when she had spoken he felt that, behind her passive/aggressive manner, was a steely resolve. An arrogance even, in the belief that her theories were correct, no matter how unsubstantiated. And that everyone else would eventually come round to see things her way.

The lightship was still cordoned off with CSIs combing the area once again for clues. They would be there, Phil knew from experience, for days.

‘So what d’you think?’ he said, turning into the room and leaning back against the window, studying Fiona, not the murder scene. ‘Any ideas you want to share?’

If she noticed the low-level sarcasm in his voice she didn’t acknowledge it. ‘It’s obviously sexual.’ Nodding as she said it, confirming in her own mind. ‘A sexually motivated killing.’

‘Obviously.’

‘The placing of the body with her legs apart on the deck, the tower of the lightship between them… he’s sending us a clear, unambiguous message that he is a sexual predator.’

‘Not to mention the mutilated genitals and the fact that he’d carved the word “whore” into her body.’

Again, she made no acknowledgement of his tone of voice. She nodded. ‘Quite.’

‘If this is Julie Miller, which is increasingly likely, would you say it’s significant that he placed her body on the lightship in view of her flat?’

Fiona seemed about to rush into saying something but stopped herself. She glanced at Phil before continuing. ‘I think so.’ She smiled. ‘You could also argue that the tower of the lightship is pointing towards Julie Miller’s flat. Like it’s accusing her in some way…’

‘Of what?’

Another shy smile. ‘I don’t know. We’ll see, won’t we?’ She shrugged. ‘Or perhaps we won’t…’

Phil felt anger rising inside him. He shouldn’t have to work with someone like her, some eager little upstart trying to make a name for herself, not on a case as important as this. He wanted a profiler whose opinions he could respect, whose reasoning was sound and conclusions were reached by clear and tested empirical thinking. He wanted-

Marina.

He sighed.

‘Are you OK?’

Fiona Welch was right in front of him, her hand hovering in front of his face, as if about to touch him but unsure what the reaction would be. She stared into his eyes, concerned.

‘I’m… I’m fine,’ he said and caught her eyes. Yes, there was concern there. But was there something more? Or was he imagining it?

He stepped away from her, aware that her eyes were still following him.

‘You sure?’ Her voice sounded lower, huskier.

‘Yeah.’ He turned, looked out of the window once more. ‘I’m sure.’