Tania Carver - The Creeper

Anthony Howe had managed to rip his sheets up to make a rope. Then, knots tested, pulled strong and tight, he had looped it round the light fitting. Lassoed in place it hung there, a hangman’s noose. He had placed it round his neck, pulled the slipknot tight. Stepping off the bed, the sudden jerk expelled what air there was from his body, forcibly denied access to any more. The jolt and drop weren’t sufficient to break his neck so he had hung from the ceiling, legs thrashing and air-cycling, hands grabbing at his throat, dangling and strangling. His face had turned purple and his bladder and bowels evacuated.

The makeshift gallows hadn’t held for long, his weight being too much for the electric cord, and it had given way, the noise of his body hitting the floor and alerting an on-duty uniform.

‘Get the paramedics in here!’

Phil ran into the cell. A uniform had removed the noose from Howe’s neck and was attempting CPR on him. His body was in a state and there was no trace of the cultured, arrogant university lecturer.

‘What’s happening?’ said Phil.

The uniform looked up, fingers locked together, hands pressing down hard, rhythmically, on Howe’s chest. ‘Still breathing, sir…’ Breaking off to count the presses. ‘… just trying… to revive him…’

And back down to breathe more air into his lungs.

Phil stood up, looked around, felt impotent rage inside him. The light fitting was on the floor in pieces, bulb and casing shattered. The noose was lying in a corner where the uniform had thrown it, a venomous snake, once dangerous, now dead.

The doorway was full: the whole team from the briefing room having followed him down, now crowding round, trying to get in, winning the world record for most number of people crammed into a door frame at one time.

‘Who was looking in on him?’ Phil said. ‘Who was checking him?’

Another uniform, standing by the door, keeping the press of bodies back, glanced nervously at him. ‘We did, sir, we checked in on him regularly. Looked like he was sleeping.’

‘Well, he wasn’t, was he?’

The uniform recoiled. ‘No… but we weren’t given any special orders. No suicide watch or nothing…’

Suicide watch. Phil looked down at the body, thought of Howe’s words in the interview room the previous night:

I can’t go in a cell, please … I’m claustrophobic … please … please … I’m scared …

Phil hadn’t listened to him. Ignored him, in fact. He heard stuff like that all the time, thought nothing of it. Looked again at the mess on the floor.

I’m losing it …

At that moment the paramedics arrived, ushering everyone out of the way, taking over. Phil allowed himself to be led from the cell along with everyone else. Now the corridor was full of bodies.

Fenwick pushed his way over to Phil, placed an arm round his shoulder. ‘A word.’ He separated him from the rest of the group, walked him away to a quiet spot round a corner.

As Phil went he turned, saw Fiona Welch’s face. She was staring into the cell, her eyes lit up, a smile on her face. Fascination? He didn’t know. Didn’t have time to think about her now. He turned to Fenwick.

‘What the fuck just happened here?’ Fenwick’s voice low, angry.

Phil shook his head.

‘Where was the risk assessment? Why wasn’t this flagged up? Why didn’t you do that?’

Anger was still swirling around inside Phil, looking for an outlet. It had just found it. ‘Me? This is all my fault, is it?’

‘You interviewed him.’

‘You observed.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenwick, finger jabbing in Phil’s face. ‘And I said you didn’t look up to it. You were off your game in there, not thinking for yourself, doing whatever she told you too.’

Phil’s anger jumped up a gear. ‘Don’t make out this is my fault. Don’t you try and make me take the blame for this.’

‘Whose fault is it, then? That profiler’s?’ Fenwick sneered. ‘We all know you do whatever a profiler tells you, don’t we? She the next in line?’

Phil couldn’t stop himself. His fist was coming towards Fenwick’s face before his brain had a chance to stop it.

It connected. Fenwick’s head snapped back and round, taking his body with it. His legs went too, tangling and tripping over each other, taking Fenwick to the floor.

He lay there, looking up at Phil who just stared down at his superior officer. Shocked, stunned and amazed at what he had just done. His mouth was open, flapping with words that wouldn’t emerge.

Fenwick’s hand went to his mouth where Phil’s fist had broken the skin, blood pooling there. He stared upwards, as shocked as Phil was.

Anni appeared in the hall behind Phil. ‘Boss-’ She stopped dead at the scene before her.

Phil, aware that she was there, put his arm out to help Fenwick to his feet. Fenwick accepted.

‘It’s all right, Anni,’ said Phil. ‘Everything’s OK.’

Fenwick made it to his feet, staggering slightly. Phil couldn’t meet his gaze, turned to Anni.

‘Yes.’

‘I, uh, just wanted to tell you that the Super’s on his way. From Chelmsford. Said he wants to speak to you.’

‘Thanks, Anni.’

She looked between the two men, wide-eyed, then turned and rejoined the rest of the team in front of the cell door.

Phil looked at Fenwick. ‘Sorry,’ he said, eyes hitting the floor.

Fenwick nodded.

‘I’ll go.’ Phil turned to walk away.

‘Wait.’

Phil turned. Fenwick was still rubbing his jaw. Mouth working, trying to find words that wouldn’t come easily.

‘Go and lead your team. We’ll deal with this later.’

Phil nodded, turned, walked away.

He rounded the corner, back to where everyone else was. The paramedics were taking Anthony Howe out on a stretcher. Fiona Welch was still staring, fascinated, as his body went past her.

‘Fiona,’ said Phil, ‘geographic victim profile. Can you do that?’

She looked up at him. ‘Of course I can.’

‘Then do it, please.’ He looked at the rest of the team. ‘Right, upstairs. Back to work. It’s our job to make sure there aren’t any more deaths. Come on, excitement over.’

He turned, walked away. Thinking about what Fenwick had said, that this mess was all his fault.

Thinking that he might be right.

E xcitement over.

Phil was off, taking the stairs two at a time. Mickey walked back up the stairs to the bar along with the rest of the team. With a day of looking through vehicle registrations to come, that phrase went doubly for him.

He bumped into Anni. She looked up, startled.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘miles away.’

‘Don’t blame you,’ said Mickey. ‘What just happened…’

She looked sharply at him. ‘You saw-’ Her features changed. ‘Oh. Right. Yeah.’

They walked together in silence.

‘Look,’ said Mickey.

A ghost of a smile played round Anni’s lips. ‘Is this going to be an “about last night” thing? Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ Even as he spoke he felt himself reddening. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

She gave him a quick look, eyes mischievous. ‘What way did you mean it, then?’

He glanced round, seeing who was listening. Jane Gosling was right behind him, behind her Rose Martin and Ben Fenwick, deep in conversation, Rose’s face angry.

‘Not here,’ he said.

‘Man of mystery,’ she said, smiling again. ‘Giving me a key to your house of secrets then, are you?’

Mickey sighed, shook his head. He thought he could trust Anni. Out of all of the team she seemed the most approachable, the one with less of an agenda, the most honest.