Tania Carver - The Creeper

She paced the small room, gesturing to herself, alive with her theorising. Mickey watched her, wondering if she was like this at home.

She turned to him. ‘That’s the approach to take. Go for his vanity. His ego. Remember, this is someone who lives a rich inner life and a poor external one. Everything’s in his head.’

‘So why’s he acted it out?’

‘Because he met Fiona Welch. Classic pair. One leader, one follower. An enabler, allowing the other to become the person they imagine themselves to be.’ She turned to him. ‘Is that the approach you were going to take?’

Mickey just stared at her. Thought of his opening questions.

‘Er, yeah…’

He thought for a few seconds. Marina said nothing.

‘That link up, in my ear and that.’

‘Yes?’

‘I think I’ll take you up on that, thanks.’

Marina smiled. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Paula?’

Phil stood in the doorway of Paula Hamilton’s terraced house. She held on to the door frame, swaying, fingers trembling. She looked terrible. Clothes askew, like she’d just won first place in a dressing in the dark contest. Hair greasy and unkempt, sticking out at odd angles, as if she’d just woken up and the sleep and the dreams were still stuck in it. Her eyes roved, not settling until she realised who he was. Then he wished they hadn’t. They looked like two open, ragged wounds.

She moved slowly aside, swaying insubstantially, a ghost, and allowed him to enter.

The living room matched its owner. A mess that wouldn’t be straightened out for quite some time. Phil saw empty rectangles on the wall where some of the photos had been removed. He could guess which ones. They must have been taken down after his last visit.

After he’d looked at them.

He moved debris from an armchair, sat down.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Paula?’ he said again. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

Paula slumped rather than sat on the sofa, crumpling. She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Then…’

‘What?’

He sighed. Same question again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Her turn to sigh. Phil saw the vodka bottle lying on its side on the floor. Knew that whatever answers he received – if any – would be filtered through it.

‘I… I just…’ Another sigh.

‘He didn’t die in a roadside bomb, did he, your son?’

She shook her head. Looked at the carpet.

‘What happened?’

‘He… he was, was injured.’ She kept her eyes on the floor. ‘Badly injured. They…’ She trailed off.

‘They what, Paula? Tell me.’

She said nothing, just sat there deflated as if all the air, the fight, had left her body.

Phil leaned forward. ‘Paula, your daughter is dead. And it looks like your son is responsible. And that’s terrible. Horrible. One of the worst things that could ever happen to you. But there are two other women out there. Missing. That your son has taken. And if you can help me find them, if there’s anything you know that can help me find them, that can stop another mother going through what you’re going through, then do it. Please.’

She sat silently for a while, then she began to shake. ‘There’s no one… no one knows what I’ve been through, no one…’

‘Then tell me,’ said Phil. ‘Make me understand. Tell me about your son. Tell me about Wayne.’

She sighed, picked up a glass from the side of the sofa, put it to her lips, realised it was empty. She sighed again, as if even that was conspiring against her, replaced it. Looked at Phil, resignation in her eyes. She began to talk. ‘He was trouble, Wayne. Ever since he was little. Trouble. At first we thought… you know. Just bein’ a boy. But no. There was something in there.’ She pointed to her temple. ‘Something not right.’

Phil waited. Knew there would be more.

‘His dad didn’t help, neither. Ask me, his dad was the problem. Always wantin’ him to grow up. To be a man. Do the things Ian wanted him to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Fightin’. Taught him how to box when he was tiny. Was always throwin’ punches at him. Wanted him to harden up, he said. Stand up for himself. Made him play rugby because he said football was for poofs. Took him into the woods. Said he was gettin’ him to hunt for things.’ A shadow passed over those dark, ravaged eyes. ‘That’s what he said. But there must have been somethin’ else going’ on.’

‘You mean he was abusing him?’

Paula nodded her head slowly. A ghost image wavering on a badly tuned TV.

‘Yes. For years he was… he was doin’ that. Years…’

‘Is that why you left him?’

‘He left us, I told you.’ Sharp, a weary kind of fire in the words.

‘Where did he go?’

She didn’t answer. Just returned her head to the floor. Not soon enough. Phil saw what flitted across her face.

She’s said too much, he thought. And knew just what had happened to Ian Harrison.

‘You killed him, didn’t you?’ Phil’s voice was quiet, nonjudgemental. Encouraging her to continue.

She sat completely still for a while until she eventually nodded.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I killed him.’

Mark Turner looked up when Mickey entered the interview room. File under his arm, walk purposeful, expression confident. He just hoped he could be as efficient as he looked.

He sat down, opened the file. Studied it for a few moments. Turner sat opposite him, slumped in his chair, resolutely resisting the urge to sit up, lean forward or even acknowledge Mickey’s presence. Mickey kept his head down, apparently reading.

The curiosity became too great for Turner. He just had to see what Mickey was reading. Slowly he leaned forward, surreptitiously trying to get a glimpse of what was in the file. Mickey snapped the file shut, looked up.

‘So who’d win in a fight, then?’ he asked.

Turner looked puzzled.

‘Dracula or Frankenstein, who d’you reckon?’

Turner’s eyes widened, mouth gaped. It wasn’t the question he had been expecting.

‘Er…’ Turner began to speak, give an honest answer. Then a smug smile appeared on his face. ‘It’s not Frankenstein. It’s the Frankenstein monster. Frankenstein was the name of the man who created him.’ He sat back, triumph in his eyes. ‘You don’t know anything.’

‘That’s what I said,’ said Mickey, not missing a beat. ‘Who would win in a fight, Dracula or Frankenstein? Not the monster. The Baron. The Peter Cushing Baron. And the Christopher Lee Dracula.’

He waited. Turner’s eyes widened again.

‘Oh. Right. Dracula. Obviously.’

‘You sure? I mean, yeah,’ said Mickey, leaning forward, arms on the table as if it was just two mates in a pub having a chat, ‘physically, yeah. Dracula. No contest. But the Baron…’ Mickey shook his head. ‘Tricky. He wouldn’t play fair. He’d have traps and things waiting. Devices. Gizmos. I reckon it’s him.’

Turner leaned forward too. ‘I still reckon Dracula. He doesn’t get to live that long without learning a thing or two.’

‘Yeah, but a bit of garlic, sunlight, crucifix…’ He shrugged. ‘You think the Baron won’t take all that into account? Lay some traps for him to fall into?’

Turner nodded, giving the matter serious thought.

‘Anyway,’ said Mickey, ‘just thought I’d ask because I heard you’re a real horror film fan. The old stuff. The good stuff, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Turner looked incredulous. ‘Why? Are you too?’

‘The old stuff. Seventies, all that. British stuff. Love it. Could sit here all night talking about it. But…’ He looked at his watch. ‘Better crack on. Right.’ He opened the folder again. Looked at it. Closed it. Looked back at Turner. ‘Why did you run away from me, Mark?’ Asking the question in the same tone of voice he had used for the pub discussion.