Tania Carver - The Creeper

Anni turned away. ‘Sorry. Said too much.’

Marina looked at the files before her, back to Anni. ‘Tell me.’

Anni pulled up a chair beside Marina, leaned in, dropped her voice. ‘Rose Martin, the missing DS? Ben and her were getting it on.’

Marina nodded. ‘And that impeded his judgement?’

‘He’s a man. You know what they’re like. Especially at work.’ She saw Marina’s reaction. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean-’

‘That’s OK. I know you didn’t.’ Since Marina and Phil had initially got together during a case she had a right to be cagey about criticism.

‘He paid too much attention to her. Allowed her to influence the investigation. Same with Fiona Welch.’

‘Didn’t anyone see this? Try to stop it?’

‘Phil did.’ Anni smiled. ‘He ended up punching the DCI’s lights out.’

Marina smiled. ‘Good for Phil.’ Then she thought of the situation Ben Fenwick was in, felt immediately guilty. ‘Anyway. Moving on. This profile. A child of nine could have come up with something better.’

‘We think now she did it deliberately,’ said Anni. ‘To lead us to Anthony Howe.’

‘I know Anthony Howe. Taught by him and worked with him. He was an arrogant letch but he wasn’t capable of this. Where does Fiona Welch work?’

‘The hospital. But she’s also doing a Ph.D. at the university. This allowed her to teach, she told us.’

‘And Ben Fenwick found her.’

Anni nodded.

Marina wasn’t impressed. ‘He should have asked for a forensic psychologist. And if he got a clinical psychologist he should have had a qualified one otherwise their opinion won’t be recognised. Fiona Welch must be an assistant, right?’

Anni nodded again. ‘Looks like it now. Maybe she told him she was qualified.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s clever, though. Inserted herself right at the heart of the investigation, tried to influence it, control it even. I’m surprised Phil went along with it.’

‘He didn’t seem to be on the ball.’

‘Why not?’

Anni was reluctant to speak but knew she had to. ‘I don’t know. Something was distracting him.’

Marina nodded, not wanting to say anything further. ‘Well, whatever. He saw through her eventually.’ She sat back, ran her hands through her hair, thinking. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. She’s manipulative, she’s controlling. She fed you a false profile that pointed to Anthony Howe. Who was someone she knew, someone who taught her.’

‘Someone she held a grudge against?’

Marina nodded. ‘I’d say that was very likely. Especially if she went to talk to him alone. And the suicide attempt followed. She’s manipulative all right.’

Marina rifled through the files on Anni’s desk. Brought over the post-mortem report on Adele Harrison. ‘And then there’s this…’ She looked through it. ‘I get a completely different feeling from the profile she gave based on this. Maybe it’s because I’m just looking for something different but it doesn’t feel right. Not at all.’

She picked up the phone, called Nick Lines. He answered.

‘Hi, Nick, Marina Esposito here. Listen, this PM on Adele Harrison…’ She looked through it. ‘I’ve read it and got a couple of things to run by you. Just a theory, but here you go. These injuries. Do you think there’s any chance this wasn’t sexually motivated?’

She listened to his reply.

‘I’ll tell you. Because they strike me as overkill, done to make us jump to conclusions. Mislead us. All this genital mutilation… it doesn’t seem consistent with the rest of the injuries. I mean, clearly they’re sadistic and there’s a lot of hatred there that’s been acted out, but…’

She listened again. For quite a while. Her eyebrows raised.

‘Interesting. Very interesting. Thanks, Nick.’

She put the phone down. Anni was looking at her, expectantly.

‘Well?’

‘He agrees. Thinks the sexual mutilation could have been done as a cover-up. No sign of actual penetrative sex, just aggression. And he did tell me something else.’

Anni leaned forward, irritated she was being made to wait.

‘He’s got the preliminary DNA results back from Adele Harrison’s body. Three sets.’

‘Three?’

Marina nodded. ‘And there’s something very interesting about one of them.’

But she didn’t get a chance to say what it was. Because at that moment Mickey Philips strutted into the bar looking flushed but exultant, and told them Mark Turner was in an interview room, ready to be cracked.

He looked between Anni and Marina.

‘So what d’you reckon?’ he said. ‘Good cop, bad cop or what?’

‘Let’s have a little chat,’ said Marina.

The sun was beginning to wane, getting paler, lower, more distant. The home-time traffic trying to escape Colchester was well into its gridlock of the Colne Causeway all the way through to the Avenue of Remembrance, drive-time radio of one sort or another soundtracking the long journey home. The other world going about its daily business while, down on King Edward Quay, Phil stood behind a rusted metal fence watching the armed response unit, weapons ready, take up their positions around the target houseboat.

Wade gave the signal. The team moved swiftly and silently into place. Phil found he had stopped breathing. Forced himself to start again.

The takedown was smooth. One team surrounded the boat, giving back-up and support if needed, the main team boarded. Over the gangplank, on the deck, down the stairs. A battering ram of testosterone, muscle and metal knocking down all before it. Screaming, shouting, creating noise and confusion for the target, years of training making them able to operate with clinical clarity of thought and precision timing within that confusion.

Seconds. That was all it took.

Seconds.

Joe Wade made his way back up on deck, looked over at Phil, shook his head. Phil ran over to him, joined him on the boat.

‘Gone,’ Wade said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. ‘But he left his hostage.’

Phil was straight down into the belly of the boat.

Rose Martin was being propped up by an officer, his gun at his side. Her hands were tied behind her body, her eyes wide with fear, pain and shock. Phil crouched before her.

‘How you feeling?’

She just stared at him, eyes roaming and pinwheeling in terror, like the rescue was just another weapon in the armoury of pin to be inflicted on her.

‘Rose, it’s me, Phil Brennan.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘Rose…’

She flinched from his touch but he kept his hands there. Tender but firm. Eventually she managed to bring her eyes back into focus, look at him. No words, but definite recognition.

‘Yeah, it’s me. You’re safe now.’ He smiled, emphasising the point.

She nodded, going along with him.

‘Good. There’s an ambulance on its way. We’re going to get you to the hospital now. You’re OK. Everything’s OK.’ He turned to the officer at her side, pointed to the plastic cuffs attached to her wrists. ‘Can we get these things cut off?’

The officer took out a knife, cut them through.

‘Not standard issue, but I’m glad you brought it along,’ said Phil. He took over from the crouching officer, helped Rose to her feet.

‘All right?’

She nodded once more, rubbing her wrists. ‘He… he…’ Her mind slipped somewhere else, somewhere unpleasant. ‘I tried to stop him, but he… oh God…’

‘Never mind that now,’ said Phil, wishing that just the act of saying those words could make things better but knowing that it couldn’t.

‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry…’ She grabbed hold of his vest, clung to him.