by Tania Carver
‘Sorry?’ He looked up. ‘What?’
She was smiling at him. Innocent, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having on him. ‘I said how do you know you’ve got the right van?’
‘Oh, erm . . .’ He could feel himself blushing. He looked down at the screen, away from her, started talking. ‘We, er, I cross-reference. Get a list of everyone who owns the van we want then check it against . . .’
He looked up again. Fiona Welch was no longer looking at him; her eyes were jumping between the screen and the printout, scanning her way down both, lips moving as she read. He stopped talking. It took her a couple of seconds but she stopped reading, looked back to him. ‘And you know what kind of van it is.’ she said, more of a statement than a question.
‘A Citroën Nemo.’ He smiled. ‘Finding Nemo, eh?’ He had been waiting for an opportunity to do that joke.
Fiona Welch didn’t laugh, just nodded. Looked around once more, checking desks and empty spaces. ‘So where’s everyone else?’
‘Anni’s looking into Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot’s background, Rose is checking on Julie Miller and Phil, well, you know where Phil is.’
She nodded, made to stand up. ‘Nice chatting to you. Got to make my report now. But thanks. Knowing what he drives, the van, it all helps.’
She turned and, before he could say anything else, walked away from him.
He watched her go, her legs striding across the office to where a makeshift desk had been made for her.
She was an odd one, he knew that much. Probably because of all that academia, that learning. They forget how to talk to people properly in the real world. And she wasn’t his type, not at all.
But the way she arched her back, her breasts . . .
He wouldn’t say no.
Probably.
Mickey looked at the screen once more. Tried to get his attention back on the job in hand. Glanced across the room to Fiona Welch. She was sitting at her desk, BlackBerry in her hands, thumbs working away. Making notes or texting or something. Lips moving with the words, head cocked again on one side, smiling, nodding as she wrote.
Lucky bloke, thought Mickey. Then admonished himself. Was he really falling for a mousy little thing like her? Was he getting jealous over who she was talking to?
Her legs were stretched out, crossed at the ankles.
Nice legs, too.
He shook his head, tried to force himself away from the direction his thoughts were heading in, the feelings running through him. Tried very hard to ignore the growing bulge in his trousers.
He took a sip of the cold brown water, grimaced. Looked at the screen.
Forced Fiona Welch out of his head.
Himself back to work.
47
The Creeper was missing Rani.
Lying there, slowly rocking, the gentle sway going from side to side, should have been comforting, lulling.
But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he had had. It wasn’t back in the flat with Rani.
That was what he lived for. Planned for, worked towards. The time they could spend together. And when it was cut short like that it hurt. Especially when she hadn’t spoken to him yet, given him her next location.
Maybe he should get up, go for a walk, see if he could spot her. No. He’d tried that before. Daytime made him too visible. Too obvious. Attracted too much attention. He worked better in darkness, where he could use the shadows, practise stealth. And even then he might not find her. At worst, he would just settle for someone who reminded him of her. And that didn’t satisfy anyone.
He knew. He’d done it before.
So he would wait. Be patient. Lie low. Even though it was killing him.
The reason it felt so bad this time was because he felt so . . . unconsummated.
It was the third time she had appeared. Each one better than the last. Closer. And in the flat, just the two of them . . . that was the best so far. Perfect. Living with her, watching over her, looking out for her. They had eaten together, watched TV together, even slept together. Him right above her, watching over her in bed. He smiled, his heart sang again at the memory. Sure, certain people got in the way and had to be dealt with but that was nothing. That always happened. The course of true love, and that.
And then she said she was leaving. And he had to dump the husk. It wasn’t right. All his plans, his ideas . . . never got to carry them out. And that upset him. He had such plans for Rani, such exquisite plans . . . she would have been screaming in pleasure at them.
But no.
Or rather, not yet.
He sighed, looked round. At least he could see Rani from where he was. He had covered the walls with pictures of her in her various incarnations. He saw her everywhere. Sometimes glimpsed only through TV and magazines. Newspapers. Sometimes tantalisingly close, near enough to reach out and stroke, but just too far away. And sometimes right beside him. With him. He had photos from all of that.
He smiled. Lost in his world, lost in Rani.
And eventually he heard her voice again.
Had you given up on me?
‘Never. Always. I’m here for you always . . .’
I’ll remind you of that sometime.
He heard her laugh, waited until it died away. Felt like his heart had stopped beating, waiting for her to speak again. Waiting for her to say the words he wanted to hear.
I’m back, lover . . .
He sat up. ‘A new host? When can I see you?’
Soon . . .
She was being playful. He should enjoy it, play along. But it just made him angry when she did that. Like she was mocking him. His love for her.
He said nothing, waited.
You’ve gone quiet. Don’t you want to see me?
‘Course I do. You know that . . .’ He could wait no longer. ‘So . . . where are you? When can I see you?’
Soon. I’ll give you the new address. Might be a bit difficult, this one. You see, I don’t live alone in this body.
He felt himself starting to shake. Someone else with Rani? He couldn’t have that . . . ‘I’ll see to them.’
No, she said quickly. Not yet. Wait for my signal. I’ll let you know when. Trust me.
‘OK.’ He calmed down a little at her words. Patience. That was all. No matter how much it hurt. And then there was the next question. The one he always asked. He both feared and loved the answer at the same time. ‘What . . . what do you look like now?’
The same as I always do. Just a bit different. Give me time to adapt. I’ll start to look like my own self soon.
And she did. Always. That was the strange thing. When he would first see her in her new body he wouldn’t recognise her. But when he’d looked at her for a while, spent time with her, she started to change, resemble the Rani he knew and loved. It was weird. He wondered how it was only him who noticed, never the people around her.
‘When can I see you?’
I’ll let you have the address. And what I look like now.
‘And your new name. Don’t forget that.’
I won’t. She sighed. I have to go. But I’ll see you soon, my love.
‘I can’t wait. I love you, Rani.’
I know.
And she was gone.
He lay back, grinning like some love-struck teenager. Happy once more.
He ran over everything she had said to him, all her words. Over and over. Memorised them. Like always.
Then he had her new address. Easy enough to find. Then he saw what she looked like. And smiled again. Beautiful. But not as beautiful as she was going to look.
The name meant nothing to him because he knew her real one. Her secret one. But this was what the husk was known by so he would have to remember it, get used to it before he could start calling her by her real one.
He said it out loud, practising. Once. Twice. Then again, loud as he dared.
‘Rose Martin,’ he said and smiled.
48
‘I thought we might be seeing you again .
. .’
Rose Martin forced a smile. She found the man sitting before her obese and obnoxious. His suit was stretched tight over his flabby frame, as if wearing a size smaller would make him look slimmer, and he seemed to be composed of melting lard. His face so sweaty he looked like he was leaking oil, his hair stubbornly refusing to be gelled down. He had a squint and a lecherous smile and his eyes constantly addressed her breasts.
As Head of Occupational Therapy he might be good at his job, she thought, a truly gifted man in his profession. But to Rose he was a dead ringer for BNP leader Nick Griffin. And just as charismatic.
‘Julie Miller . . .’ He lay back in his chair, the springs and joints groaning, and furrowed his brow. ‘I read about it in the papers. Terrible . . .’
‘We haven’t officially confirmed that it’s her, Mr Laverty.’
He rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘Oh come on. Why else would the whole of this wing be getting torn apart by your people?’
She frowned. ‘My people?’
He ploughed on, pleased to have the upper hand. Thrilled, even. ‘The police. The murdered woman whose body was found this morning was a SALT. Speech and language therapist. So was the woman who went missing.’
Rose Martin understood. And was immediately angry with herself. Ben had briefed both her and the new profiler separately otherwise she would have made the connection straight away.
If the police were here, then the connection had already been made.
‘So I suppose it’s all connected, then?’ Laverty said, reading her mind.
‘It’s too early to say at the moment.’ The answer trotted out automatically.
Laverty wiped his brow with the back of his hand, wiped his hand on the side of his jacket. His eyes were dancing, he was almost buzzing with excitement. Some people were like that, thought Rose. Ignoring any tragedy, horror or upset to personal relationships, just thrilled to be part of a police investigation.
‘We’ll need to see your files.’
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘To cross-reference them against the speech and language therapists. See if any patients match up. See if we get a hit.’
A look of horror was creeping up his face. ‘Patients? Our patients’ records?’
Rose nodded.
‘Don’t you need a warrant for that kind of thing?’
‘I can get one. If I need one.’
He sighed. It took some effort. ‘Out of the question.’
Rose leaned forward. She wasn’t in the mood for this. She was behind in the investigation, and she didn’t want Brennan and his acolytes to take over. She needed to catch up quickly. ‘Mr Laverty. I will get a warrant. But that takes time. However, if you wish to cooperate and willingly allow my team access to your patient records then you won’t be officially blamed.’
He frowned. ‘For what?’
‘For the next death. Because the way things are going, there will be one. And if there is, I’ll make sure everyone knows you held us up.’
Laverty looked down at his desk. Reluctantly, he nodded.
Rose smiled. ‘Thank you. I’ll get someone on to it straight away.’
But not me, she thought. I’m going to follow some other leads.
‘Are there any of Julie Miller’s colleagues here? I just want a word.’
‘Haven’t you done all that?’ Laverty, miserable now, wanted her out of his office.
‘I have but . . . let’s just say I’m pursuing another line of inquiry.’
Mine, she thought.
‘Julie? Yeah. She was lovely.’
Amy Hibbert was walking through the corridor on the way to see a patient. She had asked Rose to walk with her. Small, compact, with bobbed, blonde hair, she seemed the opposite of Julie Miller.
‘You and her started the same time, is that right?’
She nodded. ‘We kind of clung together, you know? Till we got settled. Went for lunch, that kind of thing.’ She shook her head. ‘Can’t believe it . . .’
‘It gets people that way. Amy, did Julie mention any boyfriend to you?’
She shook her head. ‘She wasn’t seeing anyone. Between boyfriends, she said.’
‘Was there anyone who was interested? Did she mention that?’
Amy Hibbert screwed up her eyes. Rose knew what she was doing. Sometimes people just wanted to help. Even if they didn’t know anything or had nothing to contribute, they wanted to help.
‘No,’ she said eventually, looking disappointed, ‘not really.’
‘Not really? What d’you mean?’
‘Well, she said she had friends who were boys. But they weren’t anything more than that.’ A sad smile. ‘She wondered whether hanging round with them was stopping her getting a boyfriend.’
‘Do you know the names of these boys?’
Amy shook her head. ‘Not really. We were supposed to meet them one night, all go out together. Never happened. Never will now . . .’ She stared off into the distance, lost in her own thoughts.
Rose straightened up. ‘Thanks, Amy. Do you think it would help looking through Julie’s Facebook page?’
‘Might do.’
‘If I saw anyone there you know would you help me identify them?’
‘If I know them.’
Rose smiled. ‘Thanks, Amy. You’ve been a big help.’
She touched the girl on the shoulder. Amy tried to smile.
Rose’s phone rang. She checked the display: Phil. She was considering ignoring it but decided he wouldn’t be phoning unless it was important. She picked up.
‘Where are you?’ he said, no preamble.
‘Doing what you told me to. Chasing down information on Julie Miller.’
‘Good. Need you back here by six thirty. The profiler’s done her report and wants to share it with us.’ From the tone of his voice she could tell what he thought of it.
‘That’s quick,’ she said.
‘Isn’t it.’
Rose put her phone away, thanked Amy, headed out of the hospital.
She needed to think. Find another connection.
Do it her own way.
49
Phil looked round the room. The last time he had been in the bar for a briefing during a major case like this Marina had been here too. And Clayton, his old DS. Both gone.
But one returning. Hopefully.
He pushed those thoughts aside, concentrated. It was still light outside with just a crepuscular hint creeping across the sky. The nights getting longer and warmer, summer on its way. The board was in front of the shuttered bar, the tables and chairs pulled in a loose semi-circle round it. Fenwick was standing to one side, discussing something in hushed tones with Rose Martin. Anni had sat down in the seat next to him, a pile of papers and files over on her desk that she kept glancing at as if it was pulling her back. She looked exhausted. Probably they all did.
Fiona Welch sat at the far end of the row, head down, making notes, her BlackBerry next to her, pen stuck in the corner of her mouth, fingers absently playing up and down the length of it. Beside her, Mickey Philips was trying hard not to be transfixed. Phil didn’t know whether to be amused or angry. He didn’t like the profiler. Couldn’t get on with her. And that made him wonder just how accurate her profile would be.
There were others in there too. Milhouse had managed to drag himself away from the computer screen, eyes blinking behind his thick black frames, like a miner emerging into the light. The Birdies sat behind him, together, as always, the wiry Adrian Wren contrasting with the large Jane Gosling like an old variety act. Beside them were other detectives, drafted in from other teams to help out with the case. Phil knew some of them personally, some only to nod at. It didn’t matter. They didn’t have to know each other. As long as they got their jobs done.
Fenwick turned away from Rose, gestured for her to sit down. Then he crossed the room, stood in front of the whiteboard.
‘Thanks, everyone,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘Let’s get started. Phi
l?’
Phil stood up, walked to the front. He hated speaking in front of people, even his own team, preferring to just get on with the job. But he knew it was necessary and he was getting better at it. No panic attacks now.
‘Right,’ he said, wasting no time. ‘This is what we’ve got so far. Julie Miller. Missing, presumed dead. Just waiting for confirmation from her PM.’
‘Nick said he’d be across soon to join us,’ said Adrian.
‘Good. Zoe Herriot. Dead. Murdered.’
‘Why do we presume it’s the same person for all of this?’ said Mickey. ‘Isn’t her death different? Don’t serial killers find a way of killing and stick with it?’
Phil saw Fiona from the corner of his eye. She tentatively raised a finger to answer but he didn’t want her to. Instead he answered for her. ‘We’re not sure this is a serial killer, Mickey. Or the work of one person. But all the other evidence would seem to point that way.’ He turned, pointed to the board. ‘Adele Harrison. Missing. Dead or alive, we don’t know. Suzanne Perry. Missing.’ He drew his finger in a line between Suzanne, Adele and Julie. ‘Note the similarities. All dark-haired, all approximately the same height, same build. Same age, or thereabouts. Dark eyes. Now look at Zoe Herriot. Blonde, blue-eyed. Not the same at all.’
‘But Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot were both speech therapists,’ said Anni, ‘and Julie Miller’s an occupational therapist. There’s a connection.’
‘Definitely,’ said Phil. ‘So are we getting the patient lists cross-referenced?’
‘Yep,’ said Anni.
Phil noticed Rose didn’t rush to reply. ‘Good. Rose?’
Rose Martin looked at him as if she wasn’t going to speak just to spite him. But he was in no mood for her games. He kept staring at her. ‘Rose?’
She sensed the steel in his voice. Started to speak. ‘Same as Anni. I’ve got some of my old team going over Julie Miller’s casework, checking for overlap. I’ll let you know.’
