The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Look, I’d better go. Listen, get your paperwork done and get down here. We could use a bit of help.’

  ‘I’ll see.’

  They made their goodbyes, Anni rang off. She sat back once more, considering her options. Polish off the paperwork of what looked like a fantasist wasting police time and go join Phil, or investigate Suzanne Perry’s claims thoroughly.

  She checked her notes, moved her fingers over the keyboard.

  Looked for Anthony Howe’s contact details.

  15

  Phil felt like a ghost hunter.

  Julie Miller’s flat held a kind of terminal emptiness, a sense of a life interrupted, never to be finished. Sadness and loss hung heavier in the air than dust.

  This was one of the things he hated most about the job. He could face down a knife-wielding drunk or tackle a two-fisted husband using his wife for target practice, no problem. He could hold his own in court against some defence barrister trying to provoke him and belittle him. He could even write up a whole barrage of arse-covering reports and attend box-ticking diversity training sessions. But to stand in the ruins of someone’s life and be expected to make sense of their absence just depressed him to the core. And left him with no answers.

  Phil closed his eyes, blinked the thoughts away. They wouldn’t help him to find out what had happened, to catch Julie Miller’s killer. To do his job.

  ‘So Julie Miller went missing a week past Thursday,’ he said.

  ‘Reported missing a week last Thursday,’ said Rose Martin. ‘By her mother. Lives in Stanway. Julie hadn’t been at work the day before. Missed some appointments. Parents were down as contacts. Work called them, asked if she was ill. No reply. Quick call, and there we were.’

  ‘And everything was checked? The doors, the windows-’

  ‘Yes.’ Exasperation in her voice. ‘CCTV. Door-to-door. Statements taken from neighbours. I am a professional, you know.’

  Phil reddened. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I have to check.’

  Rose nodded. Waited a few seconds before speaking. ‘I know. We couldn’t understand it either. It was like she had just… vanished.’

  Phil looked all round the room as if the walls would answer him. ‘And no one saw her?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Upstairs? Downstairs? Heard nothing?’

  ‘Downstairs said they heard nothing. Concierge says upstairs are away on holiday.’

  He sighed. ‘Let’s look round. See if anything stands out.’

  They were in the living room. Phil tried not to acknowledge the cruel irony in that. It was sparsely furnished, what furniture there was chosen as if not to upset the bland, beige colour scheme on the walls and ceiling. A sofa in a darker shade of beige had a brightly coloured throw over it. A multicoloured rug covered the fitted beige carpet. A small, flatscreen TV and DVD recorder was on a glass stand against one wall, a small hi-fi unit with a docked iPod next to it. A blond wood bookcase stood in the corner of the room, the shelves mostly empty of books and ornaments, as if a life was just being acquired and collected.

  The heavy-handed remains of a police presence also contributed to a sense of a life interrupted. Windowsills and door frames held residues of silver, black and white powder where prints had been lifted. Furniture and possessions had clearly been moved and not returned properly to their original positions. Drawn curtains added to the gloom.

  ‘Check the shelves,’ said Phil. ‘See if there’s a diary, anything like that. A photo album, anything.’

  ‘We did that,’ said Rose.

  ‘I know,’ said Phil. ‘But you were looking for a misper. I’m looking for a killer. And open those curtains, let some light in here.’

  Phil went into the kitchen. It was clean and tidy for the most part. A single mug stood on the draining board, coffee stained dry inside it. He checked the dishwasher. A small number of dirty dishes in it, ready to be washed.

  He went looking for other rooms. Found the bedroom. Bedrooms, in cases like this, were even worse for Phil than living rooms. Living rooms were for show. There were no secrets in bedrooms. No hiding.

  He looked round. It was hard to tell whether it had been left in a mess by Julie Miller or by the investigators. The bed was unmade. Underwear and jeans were piled at the bottom. A pair of trainers that looked liked they had been kicked off. Drawers pulled open, their contents spilling out.

  Phil looked at the bedside cabinet. A Jodi Picoult novel lay there, the bookmark about a third of the way in. He opened the bedside cabinet door. Another couple of books, some prescription blister packs of contraceptive pills. Nothing else.

  He knelt down, looked under the bed. Saw something silhouetted against the light on the other side. He stretched his arm in, made contact, pulled it out. A laptop wearing a thin coat of dust. Phil took it out, opened it, booted it up.

  ‘You missed this,’ he called out.

  Rose Martin entered the bedroom, stopped when she saw what he had. ‘Where did you find that?’

  ‘Under the bed. Right under the bed, mind.’

  Rose nodded, her features tight. ‘As you say, we were looking for a missing person. Whoever searched this room wouldn’t have thought she’d be able to fit under there.’

  Phil, eyes on the laptop, didn’t rise to her words. He just hoped it wouldn’t be password protected. It wasn’t. Desktop wallpaper appeared, a shaggy-haired dog, its tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth.

  ‘What about the boyfriend?’

  ‘Clean. And, believe me, we looked at him from every angle.’

  His fingers moved over the keys, searching for anything that would give him a clue as to Julie Miller’s life. He established Wi-Fi connection, clicked on Facebook. Julie Miller’s homepage appeared. In the corner was a photo of a dark-haired woman in her twenties, lying on a bed, her hand in her hair, smiling shyly for the camera, her mouth open as if she was in mid-sentence to the photographer. The photo looked both innocent and intimate at the same time.

  ‘That her?’

  Rose sat down next to him. ‘From the other photos I’ve seen, yes. Do you agree with me that it’s her down there?’

  Phil tried to imagine the smiling, pretty face before him superimposed on to the body on the boat. It was depressingly easy to match the two. ‘I… it’s looking that way.’ He kept looking at the photo. ‘Why did she put this one on? Out of all of them she could pick, why this one?’

  Rose looked at it too. ‘Because it’s flattering, a good likeness… Maybe her boyfriend liked it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He sighed, kept looking through the Facebook profile. She had her place of work as Colchester General Hospital, her schooling as the local secondary in Stanway, her university as Essex in Colchester. She hadn’t moved far away from home.

  She didn’t have an enormous number of friends, which was good news for the officers who would have to trawl through them, but there were enough. He started to look through them but didn’t get far.

  ‘Phil?’

  He hadn’t noticed Rose get up and move away. Her voice came from the living room. He got up, followed her. She was standing by the window, the drawn curtains slightly parted, looking downwards.

  ‘I was right,’ she said. ‘Look.’

  Phil looked. Down below them was the River Colne. And the lightship.

  He looked at her. ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘No such thing,’ she said. ‘Not in cases like this.’

  Phil looked at his new junior officer. Saw only sadness and concern in her eyes. And a copper’s hunger for answers. Good, thought Phil. The right stuff. Then looked again out of the window.

  The white tent had been erected on the boat, a temporary barrier placed along the road. A small crowd of print journalists, photographers and TV cameras had gathered behind the barrier and Detective Chief Inspector Ben Fenwick was still down there giving an address. Or practising his clichés, thought Phil.
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br />   ‘There he is,’ said Phil. ‘King Cliché rides again.’

  Without looking at her, Phil felt Rose bridle and stiffen beside him. He had said that deliberately to see what her reaction would be. He knew now. She was sleeping with his boss. And no doubt telling him everything he said. Phil would have to watch himself. Or make sure he only said things he wanted to get back to Fenwick.

  Phil sighed. ‘Time to pay the parents a visit, I think.’

  ‘We don’t know for definite it’s her, do we? Shouldn’t we wait?’

  Phil gestured to the crowd of reporters below them. ‘And let one of them do it instead? I think we should at least talk to them.’

  Rose nodded.

  They would move in a moment. But for now they just stood there. The room still and tomb-like behind them.

  16

  The bell rang again.

  Suzanne stayed where she was, slumped against the front door.

  Was it him? Back again? Had he hidden himself outside, waiting for the police to leave, to see Suzanne return alone? Was it?

  The doorbell rang again.

  Suzanne stared at the door, at the chains across, at the lock. Hoped it would be strong enough. She reached out a hand to open it, pulled it back. Just stared at it.

  ‘Leave me alone… leave me alone…’

  The angry resolve of a few moments ago was dissipating. Panic was again threatening to overwhelm her. Her heart began pumping like sports car pistons, pounding the blood round her body. She stretched out her hand.

  Her third-floor flat in the old Edwardian house had no entry phone or intercom system. If someone rang, they had to be let in manually. Down three flights of stairs to the front of the house.

  No. Opening the door was one thing. Going down all those stairs – alone – was another. So she stayed where she was. Waited.

  The bell didn’t sound again.

  They had gone, left her in peace. Suzanne sighed.

  Then her phone rang.

  She jumped again. Looked around. The handset lay on the floor, the plastic and metal flashing and bleating.

  ‘No, just… just fuck off…’

  It kept ringing, an insistent, piercing, metallic clang. She stayed where she was, eyes screwed tight shut. Wanting it to end, wanting to be somewhere – anywhere – else.

  The phone kept ringing.

  Until the answerphone kicked in, her voice telling the caller to leave a message, then the tone.

  Then: ‘Hey, Suzanne, it’s me. I’m outside now, you-’

  Zoe. Her best friend. She got to her knees, made her way into the living room, grabbed the phone.

  ‘Zoe?’ She was breathing heavily, like the last few minutes had given her an hour’s worth of gym workout.

  ‘You OK? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh… oh…’ Struggling to get her breath.

  Zoe’s voice was full of concern. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s started again, Zoe, it’s started again…’

  Suzanne stared into her coffee mug. It was one of her favourites, an Indian design in various swirling shades of turquoise, bought from The Pier before the shop crashed and disappeared.

  Before her life did the same.

  ‘C’mon, then.’ Zoe sat in the same place Anni Hepburn had occupied earlier. She placed her mug on a side table and stray strands of perfectly coloured blonde hair fell, as if by design, around her face, framing her pretty features. Zoe seemed to find the business of looking beautiful effortless. It made Suzanne feel even worse.

  ‘You told me to come over. I’ve had to throw a sicky so tell all.’

  Suzanne sighed, held the mug in front of her once more like a shield, told her everything.

  ‘So…’ Her account didn’t actually conclude, she just seemed to lose the energy to make words. ‘That’s, that’s it…’

  Zoe stared at Suzanne, eyes wide, lips parted. Even her look of horror seemed perfect. Suzanne felt suddenly tired once more.

  ‘God, Suzanne, that’s, that’s really horrible…’

  Suzanne closed her eyes, said nothing. She knew that already.

  Zoe leaned forward. ‘Was it…’

  Suzanne opened her eyes again. ‘Couldn’t have been. I… No.’ She sighed. ‘No.’ Her head dropped. ‘No.’

  Zoe leaned back, said nothing.

  Suzanne looked up. ‘Why would it be him? Why now?’ Emotion was building inside her once more. ‘Why?’

  ‘It can’t be him, not Anthony… ’

  ‘You weren’t there, Zoe. You didn’t see the photo, you didn’t have the dream.’ Her mind slipped back to the previous night. ‘The dream, oh God, Zoe…’

  ‘Suzanne.’ Zoe’s eyes locked on to Suzanne’s. Clear and bright and blue, not like Suzanne’s muddy-brown ones. Her hands reached out, took Suzanne’s.

  ‘You being a therapist, now?’ Suzanne’s smile was as weak as her voice.

  ‘Bringing my work home with me,’ said Zoe. ‘Now take a deep breath. Be calm. It can’t be Anthony. You know that.’

  Suzanne said nothing, just concentrated on breathing, waited for Zoe to continue.

  ‘What happened with Anthony, Suzanne… that’s all done with.’

  Suzanne said nothing, kept her eyes averted from her friend.

  Zoe tried to make eye contact, frowned. ‘Suzanne, it is finished, isn’t it?’

  Suzanne said nothing.

  Zoe sat back, dropped Suzanne’s hands. ‘Oh, you’re not. Suzanne, tell me you’re not…’

  Suzanne looked up. ‘No. I’m not.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ Suzanne said, looking at the carpet. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Good.’ Zoe smiled. ‘Well, you needn’t worry. I’ll stay tonight.’

  Suzanne looked up. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? You can’t stay on your own. I’ll be with you. We can go to work together tomorrow. You are going in tomorrow? ’

  ‘Well, yes, I hope so, but…’ Suzanne tried to find some objection. This was typical of Zoe. Good-looking and good-hearted. Sometimes she didn’t feel worthy of her friendship. ‘What about Russell? He’ll-’

  ‘-be fine for a couple of days. He can cope.’ Zoe smiled.

  ‘Might give him a chance to miss me. Appreciate me all the more when I go home.’

  ‘But-’ Suzanne felt tears well within once more.

  ‘Stop it. None of that.’ Zoe stood up. ‘I’ll just nip home and get a few things. Will you be OK on your own for an hour or so or d’you want to come with me?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Lock the door after me.’

  Suzanne did so, triple-checking the locks. Then walked back into the living room, sat down. Her coffee was cold. She looked round for something to do, something to distract her. Take her mind off things until Zoe returned. Saw the phone.

  No.

  No. She shouldn’t.

  She knew what she was going to do. Who she was going to call. No.

  She picked it up. Put it on the table.

  Kept looking at it.

  No.

  Picked it up again. Her hand a claw, holding the receiver like an eagle would its prey.

  Dialled a number she knew by heart. A number she had never forgotten.

  17

  Anni Hepburn stared at the painting on the wall and wondered what to make of it and also the person who owned it.

  It took centre stage in a very small, cramped office, a narrow, shelf-lined room that could have doubled as a store cupboard or a corridor to nowhere. The shelves were full of books: textbooks, novels, old, new, with no particular order to them that she could work out. Shoved in around the books were magazines, folders, papers. A few ornaments and nicknacks sat on what space there was. Small and disparate, things that probably had a story or at least a joke behind them when first placed there, but were now dust-heavy and sun-faded. Opposite the shelves a desk dominated the rest of the room. A computer in the centre surrounded by a mini city
scape of piles of books. Around the painting on the wall was a timetable, a wall planner, a few postcards, a couple of yellowed cartoon strips cut from newspapers. But it was the painting that drew the eye. Anni was sure that was the intention.

  Mounted in an elaborate, yet old and chipped gold frame, it showed a man, tall, young and handsome, head back, chin up, standing in some marbled hall, his hands grasping the lapels of his jacket, gazing out with, on first viewing, a look of untouchable arrogance and haughtiness that bordered on contempt. On closer viewing, however, it showed the skill of the painter. The arrogance that informed the handsome features never reached the eyes. They held a mirth, a mockery, saying that the whole thing was a sham and that the man was going to burst out laughing at any moment.

  A smaller piece of artwork was pinned up next to the painting. Superman, all massive chest, huge arms and tiny underpants, was soaring above the Earth, an American flag fluttering behind him.

  The man has a serious ego problem, thought Anni.

  She sat in a gap between the desk and the doorway in a chair, ancient and wooden, dark and worn, with a tired tapestry cushion on the seat. It seemed to be at odds with the rest of the room, more like something found by the fire in an old, wood-beamed pub rather than in a functional 1960s office, all breeze-block walls and cast-iron windows, of a university professor.

  The subject of the painting was now sitting in front of Anni, at the book-covered desk, and he was no superman. His appearance showed, even more than the damaged frame, the dust collected on it or the fading of the oils, just how long ago it had been painted. He was still tall, but the black hair was largely grey and thinning slightly at the temples. The arrogant, haughty set of his features had deepened to become a set of permanent lines, like a mask worn for so long and so often it had become the wearer’s real face. The eyes, though, were what had changed the most. Rather than the self-mocking dancing in the painting, they just showed a weariness. And, once Anni had announced who she was, a wariness.

  ‘You’re lucky to catch me,’ he said. ‘I was about to go home.’

  She smiled. ‘So, Professor-’