Tania Carver - The Creeper

Rani.

Phil knew what he must look like. But he didn’t care.

He had made an effort to smarten himself up, sort himself out. Clean shirt and a shave. Wash and brush up. But his eyes were black-rimmed, broken capillary fractals, gazing away when they should be staying focused, clouding over when they should have been clear.

He sat at his desk in the bar, waiting for the briefing to start. Caffeine-alert, telling himself to pull it together, compartmentalise. Shut off his home life, live only in his work life. But whether he was actually listening was another matter.

He had tried Marina again last night. And again and again. A different message every time. Inquiring about her safety and wellbeing, their daughter’s too. Then telling her how much she was missed, just to talk to him if something was wrong. She didn’t need to come back home. Even asking for her opinion on his case. Different every time, something he hoped would attract her to pick up, make it impossible not to. She didn’t. Eventually he stopped leaving messages. Eventually he stopped calling.

He must have slept at some point. But he couldn’t remember when. Woke up on Marina’s side of the bed once more. Several more bottles at his feet. He couldn’t remember those getting there either.

He had formulated a plan for contacting Marina. Really simple, wondered how he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He would do it later. First he had the briefing to get through.

He pulled his eyes on to the whiteboard, took another hit of pitch-black coffee, forced himself to concentrate on the case.

The team were assembled. The same faces as the day before looking marginally refreshed and rested. Anni would catch Mickey’s eye then turn away with a private smile while Mickey would look anywhere but at her. He didn’t know what was going on there, didn’t want to know either unless it affected their work. Rose Martin seemed to be humming with some kind of energy, ready to go. Either that, thought Phil, or she’d just had another fight. Fenwick was at the end of the room, trying not to look at her. Fiona Welch sat at her desk, straight-backed, pen poised. Face unreadable. She still unnerved Phil. Nick Lines had come over, armed with more findings from the post-mortems.

Fenwick moved to the centre of the room, ready to go.

‘Thanks for coming in early, people. Appreciate it. Let’s get started. Phil?’

Phil stood up, took centre stage. ‘As you know, we’ve got Anthony Howe downstairs in the cells. He’s been charged with Suzanne Perry’s abduction. Progress report, Adrian?’

Adrian Wren stood up. ‘He’s got no alibi for the night of the abduction and murder. Says he was out on his own, walking. Stopped in a pub for a drink. Can’t remember which one.’ He checked a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Took a call from Suzanne Perry in the afternoon, tried calling her a few times that night. No reply.’

‘Left a message?’ said Phil.

Adrian shook his head. ‘No. But called her three times up until ten o’clock. After that, nothing. Says he went home. Wife’s left him so there’s no one who can say yes or no to that one. Got the CSIs going through his house now, though.’

‘Thanks, Adrian.’ Phil turned to the rest of the team. ‘So that’s where we are with him.’

‘Gut feeling, Phil?’ said Fenwick, his usual question.

Phil thought. He was the one who had interviewed him and charged him but he honestly didn’t know if he was guilty. Usually he got a feeling, a copper’s instinct. It wasn’t infallible but was accurate about 90 per cent of the time. But this time, no yes or no, nothing.

But before he could answer, Fiona Welch jumped in.

‘He fits the profile perfectly,’ she said. ‘Textbook. Just a matter of breaking him down, I would say.’

Fenwick stared at her. Phil knew he didn’t like profilers, only paid lip service to the idea of them for the sake of workplace politics and personal advancement. A win/win situation for him – able to take the credit if they got it right, providing someone to blame if they got it wrong. But he certainly didn’t like them interrupting when it wasn’t their turn. Fenwick blanked her.

‘Phil?’

‘Yeah, he fits the profile, but…’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You mean whether he’s guilty or innocent?’

‘Yeah. I just… don’t know.’

Fenwick waited for him to expand on that. He didn’t. Instead, Phil turned to Nick Lines.

‘Nick. Good to see you again. What you got for us?’

Nick Lines got slowly to his feet. ‘Quite a bit since yesterday, actually. Nothing more on the DNA front yet, unfortunately, and there won’t be for a while, I don’t think. So I took a journey down some other avenues. I checked the physical description we had of Adele Harrison against the body we’ve got. Looked for any distinguishing features.’

‘And?’ said Phil.

‘Well, we didn’t find anything at first. So I persevered. Adele Harrison had a tattoo on the base of her spine. You know what I mean. Popular among a certain type. Some kind of curlicue. Arse antlers, I believe they’re called.’

Despite or perhaps because of the tension in the room, everyone laughed.

‘Tart tats, you mean,’ said Mickey.

‘If we were less politically correct,’ said Fenwick, glancing quickly at Rose Martin to gauge her reaction.

‘Please,’ said Phil, ‘can we?’

The laughter died away. Nick Lines continued.

‘It wasn’t an easy match. There wasn’t much of her lower back left.’

Silence, tinged with guilt for the earlier laughter.

‘The skin’s been flayed off. Whether that was deliberate to stop us identifying her or whether it was just frenzy, I don’t know.’

‘Maybe both,’ said Phil.

‘Perhaps,’ said Nick, continuing. ‘But they hadn’t done a complete job. There were still traces of the tattoo left. I was able to reconstruct a partial impression from that.’

‘Julie Miller doesn’t have any tattoos,’ said Rose.

Nick nodded.

‘So you think that confirms it?’ said Phil.

‘As I said, we won’t have the DNA back for a while, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe we should think about bringing her next of kin in for an identification.’

A depression settled over the room. He had all but confirmed what they suspected. But there was no sense of triumph or even achievement at it.

‘I found something else, too,’ said Nick. ‘Stomach contents analysis. Her last meal. As far as I can tell, dog food.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ said Phil, vocalising what the room must have been thinking. ‘It gets worse.’

‘Can we get a match on that?’ said Fenwick. ‘Find the brand, the make, maybe even the batch?’

Nick Lines nodded. ‘We’re already ahead of you. We’ve contacted all the major pet food manufacturers. Shot in the dark and may take a while, but stranger things have happened. Also. Suzanne Perry’s blood sample. They phoned me with results. Traces of pancuronium.’

‘That’s not good, right?’ said Phil.

‘Not good at all. It’s a muscle relaxant. Taken in large doses it paralyses the body. They can still feel but not move. It’s given to death-row inmates in lethal injections in the States.’

‘Charming,’ said Phil. ‘Well, let’s follow that up. See where a supply could be found. Check-’

The door burst open. A uniform rushed in.

Fenwick was first to react. ‘This is a-’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the uniform, out of breath, ‘but this is urgent.’

‘What?’ said Phil.

‘The prisoner, sir, Anthony Howe…’

‘Yes,’ said Phil.

‘Tried to kill himself.’