Tania Carver - The Creeper

‘Julie Miller…’ The doorman brought his brows together in concentration. ‘Awful…’

‘I just wondered whether you’d seen anything else unusual in the flats.’

His frowned intensified. ‘Unusual? What d’you mean?’

‘You know.’ Phil tried to spell it out him. ‘Different people coming and going. The same people disappearing, maybe not coming back. That kind of thing.’

‘Hmm.’

More brow furrowing, like he was really trying to be helpful. Phil gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was. Part of putting his past transgressions behind him.

‘Have you got a description? Of this person I should have been looking out for?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Then how am I supposed to know who he is?’

Phil smiled. Fair point. ‘You’re not. I’m just looking for anyone who sticks in your mind.’

‘Hmm. Not easy. Kind of people who pay to live in a block like this tend to want a bit of privacy. Bit of blind-eye turning, know what I mean?’

‘I do. But if you could just think of anyone, anything.’ Phil had an idea. ‘Somewhere near Julie Miller’s flat.’

Again, more brow furrowing. Then, like a light bulb going on, his eyes widened. ‘The Palmers. Christopher and Charlotte.’

‘What about them?’

‘They went away. Long holiday, apparently. Short notice. Had a win on the lottery, apparently, so I heard.’

Phil’s pulse quickened. His fingers tingled. ‘Where do they live?’

‘Near Julie Miller. Flat above her, in fact.’

The doorman’s pass key let Phil into the apartment.

The doorman himself had wanted to accompany him but Phil had put him off. He was well-meaning and the last thing he needed was hand-holding a well-meaning amateur.

Phil closed the door behind him, looked round the flat. He didn’t need to be a detective to know something was wrong.

The flat hadn’t been lived in but it had been occupied. And he could guess who by. Empty Red Bull cans littered the floor, interspersed with energy bar wrappers. Just like Suzanne Perry’s loft. Opened food cans joined them, some with spoons still sticking out. Like someone who had no respect for their surroundings had squatted here.

He checked the bedroom. More of the same. Sheets, duvet left all over the place. He went back into the living room, scanned it once more. He had been here. Phil was sure of that. He must remember to tell the CSIs to check Julie Miller’s flat for hidden cameras. He was sure they would find some.

He had one more room to check. The bathroom. He found it, walked inside. The shower curtain was pulled across as if someone was in there. He pulled it back.

And stood back, gasping.

‘Oh shit…’

Phil took his phone out, hit speed dial.

‘It’s Phil Brennan here. Listen, we’ve got a situation.’ He looked again, looked away quickly.

‘A hell of a situation…’

Anni was too terrified to move.

She stood stock-still. She was sure he could hear her hammering heart, her ragged, shallow breaths. She wanted to move, scream, or at least take in a full breath. But she didn’t dare.

The voice laughed. Footsteps started on the stairs.

Oh God …

A figure blocked out the light, came slowly towards her.

She had to do something, buy herself some time.

‘My name is Detective Constable Anni Hepburn,’ she said, feeling sure her breath wouldn’t carry her to the end of the next sentence, ‘please identify yourself.’

Another bout of laughter. ‘You sounded so formal there.’

What? Then she recognised the voice. Mickey Philips.

‘And I know who you are, Anni.’ He moved into one of the beams of light, laughing. ‘Should have seen your face…’

She hit him. And again, and again, slapping him on the chest out of fear, frustration and relief. ‘You… bastard… fucking bastard, Mickey Philips…’

‘Hey, hey, stop.’ He put his hands up and, still laughing, caught her wrists.

She managed to regain some semblance of composure. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘Said to meet you here. Remember?’

She dropped her hands. Looked round, took in the walls once more. ‘Glad you did.’

Mickey followed her gaze, took in what she had seen. ‘Jesus Christ…’

‘I know. Think we might be on to something here. Fiona Welch and her profile…’ She shook her head.

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘Last night.’

Anni raised an eyebrow. Waited.

He looked round once more, took in the photos and pictures, seemed clearly unnerved by them. ‘Can we go outside? Think I’ve seen as much of this place as I need to.’

They made their way back on to the quay. Anni was amazed that the sun was still shining. After being down below in that boat she thought she would never see the sun again.

Mickey seemed to be feeling it too. ‘Fancy an ice cream?’

‘I fancy a gin and tonic. Bloody huge one.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t blame you.’

Her smiled faded. ‘So. About last night…’ She attempted a smile but what they had just seen didn’t make it easy.

‘Fiona Welch,’ said Mickey. ‘What d’you think of her?’

Anni shrugged. ‘Haven’t had an awful lot to do with her. Can’t say she’s the best profiler ever to work in the department. ’

‘I can’t make her out. One minute she doesn’t want to talk to me the next she’s all over me.’

‘Must be your aftershave. Is that the Lynx effect?’

‘I’m serious. She’s really starting to bug me. I was thinking about this last night. And then this morning when Anthony Howe tried to kill himself, I was watching her again.’

‘And?’

He looked around, suddenly uneasy about speaking his mind. ‘She seemed to be, I don’t know, getting off on it. Like this was all some great day out that she was having.’ His eyes dropped. ‘Like… it was all going according to plan.’

Anni stared at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

Mickey’s hands became restless. ‘I… look. I checked the logs. She went to talk to him last night, Anthony Howe. Down in the cells after Phil had finished.’ He sighed. ‘And sometimes I’ve watched her in the office when she thinks no one’s looking at her and she’s smiling.’

‘Very rare. Especially in our office.’

‘Don’t mean just that. It’s like she’s, I don’t know, laughing at us. All of us. Like it’s some big secret joke.’ He sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It seems really stupid saying it out loud. I’m probably making something out of nothing. But… she doesn’t feel right.’

Anni looked at him. Mickey’s discomfort seemed genuine enough. And he didn’t seem like the kind of person to make up false accusations for the sake of it.

‘So what d’you think she’s done?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And what are you going to do about it?’

‘I don’t know that either. I just wanted to… I don’t know. Tell someone.’ He looked away down the quay. ‘Someone I could trust.’

Anni smiled. ‘Thank you. Maybe a background check wouldn’t go amiss.’

He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

Anni’s phone rang, startling the pair of them. She answered.

‘It’s Phil Brennan here. Listen, we’ve got a situation…’

‘Julie? Julie…’

No reply. Suzanne’s fellow captive had drifted away from her again.

Suzanne no longer knew whether it was day or night or how long she had been there. She had tried counting from when she had been allowed out, given that can of disgusting food, trying to give structure to time, but it hadn’t worked. The counting had slowed then speeded up. She lost count several times, going over the same numbers twice, three times. Sometimes she forgot to keep counting, her mind drifting off. A couple of times, like counting sheep at night, she nodded off. All sense of time was gone.