Tania Carver - The Creeper

He pulled his head away, looked at her face. Steel in his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You might not be. But there’s a nationwide manhunt going on for you. Your description is in the papers, on TV, the internet, everywhere. You can’t get away. They’ll find you.’

She smiled.

‘Maybe they will.’

She laughed, moved her body in close to his.

‘But not just yet…’

Marina sat back, waiting to see what Mark Turner would say next, waiting to see where Mickey’s questions would guide him.

He was good, she thought. Getting the information out of him in his own way at his own pace. He was surprising her. She had thought on first meeting him that he was just a typical copper: boorish, macho, problems with women, especially those with authority over him, the usual. But he was proving himself to be different. There was a slight glitch when she saw his response to Turner’s goading of him, calling him thick, throwing quotes at him he didn’t know, but he handled himself well, recovered quickly.

Her eyes caught her mobile on the desk. She had put it on silent when the interrogation started. She checked the screen: two messages. One from Phil, one from Nick Lines. She looked back at Mickey, thought he could handle himself for a few minutes, took out her earpiece and hit voicemail.

Her eyes widening as she listened.

‘So who was this person?’ said Mickey. ‘The one you got to do things for you?’

Turner shrugged. ‘Nobody. A real nobody. Even less important than our targets.’

‘Really? I’d have thought it would be someone quite important if you wanted to get them to do all that for you.’

Turner shook his head. ‘Well you’d be wrong. As you have been about everything else, thick copper.’

Mickey said nothing. Waited.

‘He was just a squaddie. Some damaged, war-traumatised squaddie. Completely mind-fucked. Piss easy to manipulate.’

‘Why?’

‘He’d killed this translator. Woman in Afghanistan that he got obsessed over. Big cover-up about it. Threatened with a court martial, everything. But instead they invalided him out, on the quiet.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t want the embarrassment. ’

‘Can’t blame them,’ said Mickey. ‘Already in enough trouble over there.’

Turner nodded, back to being mates in a pub, then checked himself. Remembered where he was, who he was supposed to be. Worked the arrogance back into his features once more. ‘He burnt this woman to death. Raped her then killed her. Burnt himself pretty badly in the process too.’

‘So how did you come across him?’

‘Fiona did. At the hospital. He’d been sent for therapy.’

‘What kind?’

Turner shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Speech, psychology, occupational, all sorts, I suppose. Whatever he needed.’

‘And he met Fiona Welch.’

Turner nodded. ‘She said he so easy to manipulate it was laughable. She could tell him anything she wanted, anything at all. And he’d believe it. Didn’t matter what kind of stupid, twisted shit she said, he believed it. She used to come home telling me what she’d said and how he’d believed it.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘We used to laugh about that…’

Mickey was about to speak when he heard Marina’s voice in his ear. Fast urgent. ‘Can you talk?’

‘Give me a minute, Mark.’

Without waiting, Mickey stood up, exited the interview room.

Marina was waiting for him in the corridor outside. ‘I wouldn’t have interrupted you unless it was something important,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a couple of phone calls. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

She told him.

When Mickey went back into the room he could barely keep the smile off his face.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Where were we? Oh yes. You were telling me about your squaddie.’

‘The Creeper, we called him.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Because he’s a creep.’

‘And Fiona chose him because he was easy to manipulate? ’

Turner nodded. ‘Like a retarded little kid.’

‘No other reason?’

‘No.’ He saw the half-smile on Mickey’s face. Doubt crept into his features. ‘Why? What d’you mean?’

‘She didn’t choose him for another reason?’

‘Like what?’ Very uneasy now.

‘Like, the fact he was Adele Harrison’s brother?’

Turner’s mouth fell open.

Stayed open.

Mickey kept his smile controlled.

Got you, he thought.

‘ I’m going to tell you a story,’ said Fiona Welch to Phil, still up close to him, almost sitting on his lap, moving her hips rhythmically, grinding slowly against him.

Phil swallowed hard, tried to look – move – away. He couldn’t. ‘What about?’ he said. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘Me,’ she said, the words whispered breathily, Marilyn Monroe-like. ‘How naughty I am.’ She traced her finger down his chest. ‘And what drives me to do… what I’ve been doing.’

‘Oh,’ said Phil. ‘Nothing interesting, then.’

She drew back from him, teeth bared. Hissing. ‘Just another thick copper. Like all the others.’ Leaned into him again, her finger back on his chest, joined by the others, dug the nails of her left hand into him this time. Hard.

Her nails were sharp. Strong. They hurt. Drew blood.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell me. Why you do what you do.’

She took her finger away. Smiled. ‘That’s better. Much more fun when you play along with me, isn’t it?’ A sigh of contentment. ‘Now. Where were we? Yes. Why I do what I do.’ She stuck her hands out, together at the wrists. ‘Because I’m a bad girl, Mr Policeman. You’d better take me in your big strong arms and handcuff me.’ She giggled. ‘Oh, I forgot. You can’t.’

Venom in the final words.

‘You’re so funny,’ said Phil. ‘See how I’m laughing?’

Her eyes blazed. ‘You think you’re clever? Do you? Really?’

Her hands were on him, slapping his face, tearing at him.

‘Do you? Do you?’

More slaps, more scratches. Digging her nails into the side of his face, deep, sharp, dragging them down to his chin.

Phil wanted to scream, to shout right into her face. But he managed to stop himself, despite the searing pain in his face. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

‘Do you?’ The words screamed in his face.

‘No,’ he said, gasping for air, ‘No. I… I don’t…’

She took her hands away. They were bloodied, parts of his face beneath her nails. She examined them like they had just gone through an expensive manicure. She nodded, pleased with the results. Turned her attention back to Phil.

She smiled. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’

‘So,’ Phil said, his face burning with pain, ‘why are you… are you doing… what you’re doing…’

‘Good boy. Doing what you’re told.’ Whispering again. ‘I like that in a man. In fact, I demand it. So why have I done all this?’ She swung her arms round, as if taking responsibility for their surroundings. ‘Simple. To prove a point.’

‘Which is?’

‘How superior I am,’ her voice sing-song.

‘You mean to me?’

‘Oh, certainly to you. But to everyone else, too. Everyone . I am the Nietzschean concept of the Superman made flesh. Or, rather, Superwoman.’

‘And how do you… do you go about that, then?’

‘I… bend people to my will. Make them do my bidding. Make them do…’ A gesture, a theatrical flourish of the wrist. ‘Anything I want.’

‘Even murder?’

She knelt in close to him again. He felt her hot breath on his ruined face. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, licking his blood off her nails, ‘especially murder…’