by Tania Carver
He pulled the earpieces out, letting the tinny sound bleed out. He turned it off, looked at her. Fear and indignation fighting for dominance in his eyes.
‘What d’you want now?’
‘Ssh,’ Rose said, ‘we’re in a library.’
He looked round quickly, checked that no one was watching them, dropped his head and leaned in close. ‘Are you following me? This… this is, is harassment, you know.’
Rose raised an eyebrow.
‘I could have you… have you… struck off for this.’
‘That’s doctors not police officers,’ she said with a patronising smile.
‘So what d’you want?’ Resigned now. Take the pain, get it over with as quickly as possible.
‘Same thing we talked about yesterday, Mark. Suzanne. Seen the papers today? The news?’
He shook his head, unsure where this was going.
‘She’s disappeared. Her friend has been murdered and she’s disappeared.’
His mouth fell open. ‘Oh my God…’
Rose waited.
‘Did she… did she do it?’
‘What?’
‘Suzanne. Did she, did she kill her friend?’
‘State she was in? I doubt it. No. She’s missing. Someone broke in, killed her friend Zoe-’
‘Zoe… oh my God…’
‘-and took Suzanne.’ Rose sat back, looked at him, trying to gauge his reactions. So far his shock and horror seemed genuine. Her questions might change that. ‘Where were you last night?’
‘Last night?’
‘Yes. After I left you, where did you go?’
He looked around as if seeking someone to supply his answer for him. ‘I… I was at home.’
‘All night?’
He paused before answering, weighing his words carefully. ‘No…’
A small thrill ran through Rose. ‘Where were you?’
‘I… went to the pub.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes.’
Another raised eyebrow from Rose.
‘Well, I mean I went on my own. But I met some people there. Some friends.’
‘How many?’
‘Four. No, five. Six, including me.’
‘And was your girlfriend there?’
A smile played over his lips. ‘No.’
‘Why’s that funny, Mark?’
‘Just… because. You’d think so if you knew her. If you knew my friends.’
‘And what are your friends like?’
He took a deep breath, let it out. Here it comes, thought Rose. They’re paedophiles. Or worse, gamers.
‘We’re a… film society.’
She sat back a little. ‘What sort of films?’
‘Horror.’
She crossed her arms. ‘Right. Video nasties, that kind of thing?’
‘All sorts. The university British Horror Film Society. We just get together upstairs in this pub-’
‘Which pub?’
‘The Freemason’s Arms. Military Road. New Town.’
Rose knew it, nodded. Motioned for him to continue.
‘Well, we… that’s it, basically. We sit and watch films on this huge video screen they’ve got there. Have discussions, a few drinks.’ He was becoming animated, interested in what he was saying. ‘Sometimes we get guest speakers. Kim Newman’s been.’
He said the name like Rose should have been impressed. She humoured him.
‘I’ll need their names,’ she said, taking out her notepad.
He gave her them.
‘And what did you watch last night?’
Light was shining in his eyes. ‘A double bill. Horror Hospital and Killer’s Moon.’ He laughed. ‘It’s hilarious.’
‘Yes,’ said Rose, ‘murder always is. And you were there the whole night?’
He nodded. Then leaned back, relieved. The relief brought with it a cocky light in his eyes. ‘So, you see, Detective Sergeant, I have an alibi. Once again.’
‘And you also have a key.’
The light went quickly out.
‘What?’
‘A key. To Suzanne’s flat. The one you never gave back. Where is it?’
He looked speedily round once again, head darting from side to side, appealing mutely for anyone to step in and help him.
‘The key, remember?’
‘I… don’t know where it is. I… haven’t seen it in ages.’
‘Why did you keep it?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just…’ Sighed. ‘I don’t know.’
Rose nodded.
‘I never gave it back. That’s all. She never asked for it and I never gave it back.’ He made an imploring gesture, desperate to be believed.
Rose looked at him, unblinkingly. She got the feeling that something was off with him but also knew she wouldn’t be getting any more out of him at the moment. She flipped her notepad closed, stood up.
‘That’s all for now, Mark. But stay where we can find you. We’ll want to talk to you again.’
She left him sitting there, pleased that she had managed to upset or unnerve him.
But her victory didn’t last long. She still had to negotiate the lift.
43
Phil stood in front of the door, hand out, ready to knock. He paused, waited.
A terraced street of old houses in New Town. Front doors leading directly on to the pavement, no gardens. Windows to the left and right so passers-by could stare right in, watch other people’s lives like television.
Colchester didn’t have high-rises or sprawling estates. Instead it had New Town. Streets and streets of old red-brick houses, curling and narrowing and circling in on itself, and nothing new about it. Drugs, prostitution, gangs… all thrived in, and were controlled from, New Town. Phil wasn’t naïve, he didn’t think everyone who lived there was a criminal. But it was a poor area, and poverty, he knew both from studies and personal experience, created the conditions for crime to flourish. Poverty led to envy to anger to desperation. To crime. A doomed attempt at gentrification stood over the road by Aldi, a new, exclusive, gated development built right alongside the old terraces to attract a new, moneyed type of dweller, pull the area up a bit. The locals had turned and it now had the highest rates of property and car crime in the whole town.
Envy to anger to desperation.
To crime.
He looked up and down the street. Most of the houses had been quite well maintained; rotted old sash windows and wooden front doors replaced with uPVC. But some had not been touched, their doors and frames rotted away, an outward manifestation of whatever decay was housed within.
Phil stood before one of the uPVC replacements.
‘Is this the right house?’ said Fiona Welch.
Phil hadn’t wanted her with him but she had insisted. She would just sit quietly, she had promised, say nothing. Observe. It would help with her report, honestly. All perky and smiling, eyes glittering. Phil gave in. Not because he wanted her there but because he thought her report would need all the help it could get.
‘It is,’ he said.
‘Bet you’ve been round these streets a few times,’ she said.
‘Most Colchester police have at one time or another.’
‘Not surprised,’ she said, giving a small laugh. ‘All crack dens and brothels round here…’
‘Not all,’ he said, irritated at her tourist attitude. ‘Lot of lettings round here. Students, immigrants, some belong to elderly people. Too old to keep up the maintenance.’
‘Move them into a home, then. Stop cluttering up the street.’ Her voice suddenly frosty.
He looked at her, frowned. She smiled at him. ‘Anyway,’ she said, perkiness back in her voice, ‘I do know what it’s like round here. Shared a house in my second year at uni.’ She pointed. ‘Two streets over.’
Phil couldn’t help himself. ‘Crack den or whorehouse?’
She looked up at him, eye to eye. A smile slowly uncoiled on her face, like a librarian’s appro
ximation of sultry. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know…’
He turned away from her. Knocked on the door.
He waited, glancing round, watching life continue as normal. Eyes had been averted as he approached, pavements suddenly found to be interesting. If people didn’t know who he was they knew what he was. That kind of area.
The door was eventually opened. A young girl answered, about two or three, pyjamaed and messy haired. She stood before them, eyes wide and staring, as if she had just woken from a deep sleep. It was nearly lunchtime.
Phil found a smile. ‘Hello there. Is your mum in?’ He realised his mistake, corrected it before she could answer. ‘I mean your grandma?’
The girl kept looking between the two of them.
‘Please,’ said Phil. ‘It’s important.’
The girl slammed the door shut. Phil looked at Fiona. ‘Probably been told not to talk to strangers.’
Fiona laughed. ‘Or coppers.’
The door reopened. Paula Harrison stood there. She looked no better than the day before. If anything, she looked worse. She had both hands on the door, peering round it as if expecting to be attacked. She recognised Phil and the hope drained from her face.
‘Oh no…’ She backed away from him, legs crumpling but still clutching the door like it was the only thing keeping her upright. ‘Adele… oh no… oh no…’ The words came out in a breathless rush.
‘No, Paula,’ said Phil, stepping towards her, taking the door, ready to catch her if she fell, ‘it’s not that. We still haven’t found Adele.’
‘The news, that girl on the Maldon Road…’
‘Isn’t Adele. I promise you. Can we come in?’
She released a juddering breath, her strength leaving her body along with it. Phil took her hand. Guided her inside. She allowed him to do so.
The house was small, the door opening straight into the living room where large lumps of furniture made a small room seem smaller. A huge, off-white leather three-piece fought for space with a sub-cinema-screen-size TV. An elaborately patterned rug sat on the pale beige wall-to-wall carpet. Cupboards held figurines of big-eyed porcelain children and photogenic animals. Family photos were prominently displayed on the shelves and the walls. Most of them showed herself and Adele. And the little girl who had answered the door. There were also a couple of photos of a young man in army uniform. Children’s toys littered the floor, creating a primary coloured assault course to negotiate. Old, stained mugs sat on the floor, coats and other bits of clothing, dirty plates and cutlery. Paula Harrison seemed oblivious to the mess.
Phil led her to the sofa, sat her down.
From the huge TV came an oversized image of a cartoon dog running along a road with a cat and a hamster in a ball. The sound came from all round the room. Paula pointed the remote at it, silenced it. The tiny girl looked at her, uncomprehending.
‘Nana needs to talk to these people, sweetheart. Go on upstairs.’
The girl looked between them but, still with an uncomprehending expression on her face, made her way upstairs.
‘Is that Adele’s daughter, Mrs Harrison?’ said Phil, sitting on the opposite armchair.
She looked surprised for a moment, as if she didn’t know who he was talking about. ‘Yes, yes, she is…’
‘Seems a nice girl.’
She nodded. ‘Nadine? Yes, she’s… she’s lovely…’
Phil smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. ‘This is Fiona Welch, by the way,’ he said, gesturing to Fiona who was still standing. ‘She’s a… helping us with the investigation.’
Fiona Welch moved forward, hand outstretched, smiling as if being introduced to someone at a party. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Paula dazedly shook hands.
Fiona pulled away, took out her BlackBerry, sat down, started making notes.
‘Why don’t you go and make some tea, Fiona, while I talk to Paula? Yes?’ The look on his face, for Fiona only, told her it wasn’t a question.
Fiona looked up, eyes alive with unasked questions. Clearly she wanted to stay. Expected to. Phil’s gaze didn’t waver. Fiona’s eyes dropped. She put her BlackBerry back in her bag, sloped off into the kitchen.
Phil turned his attention back to Paula. ‘Did DS Farrell come and talk to you yesterday?’
She nodded. ‘He did. Thank you.’
‘That’s OK. Family Liaison been round?’
Another nod, head down at the carpet. ‘She wanted to stay with me but I told her no. As long as she kept me informed, made me feel part of it, that would do.’ She looked up. ‘That’s all I wanted, Mr Brennan. Just to know what was happenin’.’
‘I know.’
‘Thank you.’
He managed another smile. Paula’s face darkened once more.
‘That girl, the one on the news… is she, are you the one dealing with that?’
He told her that was his investigation. ‘And that’s why I’m here. We think – and I must stress we don’t know for definite – but we think that the two may be connected. ’
‘And Adele?’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some questions. About Adele.’
Paula braced herself, knowing this wouldn’t be pleasant.
There came a clatter from the kitchen. Paula jumped.
The mood broken, Phil cursed inwardly, stood up. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’
44
Suzanne was once again aware of nothing but the sound of her own breathing.
The other woman’s voice, her fellow captor – if that’s who she was – had kept her word and not spoken after her outburst. In the silence that followed, questions had massed inside Suzanne’s head, fizzing and spitting like frenzied bubbles in a boiling pan. Questions, fears, screams… but not hope.
Anything but hope.
She tried moving around, making herself more comfortable, relieving pressure on her back and sides, stopping her muscles cramping. There was just enough room to do that but any movement was temporary. Lack of space made sure her body always came back to rest in its original position.
She didn’t know how long she had been there. Could have been minutes or hours or days. No. Couldn’t have been days. Because she hadn’t eaten since she had been put in here. And she was getting hungry now. Not to mention wanting to pee.
As if on cue, her stomach growled.
And the pressure on her bladder increased.
Panic gripped her again as the reality of her situation took hold once more. She tried moving around, looking for a way out, throwing her tied hands against the ceiling of her chamber, hitting, hitting, breathing heavily, adding a few grunts and shouts, helping the exertion.
Nothing. She lay back, heart hammering, panting, the sound of her breathing an almost physical thing in there with her.
‘It’s better if you just lie there… makes it easier…’
The voice was back.
‘But I’m… I’m hungry. I need to, to go to the bathroom.’
‘Just hold it in. Hold it in.’ The voice, cautious, quiet and steady. Balanced on a tightrope where a slip would involve a long, screaming fall.
‘Hold it – how long? I can’t…’
‘They’ll let us out at some point. Hold it in till then.’
‘What? When?’
‘Don’t know…’ The calmness in the voice was beginning to crack. It struggled to return resolve. ‘They will. He will. Just, just hold on.’
Suzanne sighed, closed her eyes. It made no difference.
‘And, and don’t make so much noise.’ The voice, pleading with her. ‘Please.’
‘Why not? Maybe someone’ll hear, come and rescue us.’
‘No.’ The voice, strong now. ‘They won’t.’
‘But how do you know?’ The other voice talking to her, making some kind of communication, knowing she wasn’t alone… Suzanne was starting to feel hope well up inside her. She ignored the danger of that, kept talking. ‘Look, if we bo
th do it together, shout at the same time, maybe someone will hear-’
‘No.’ The voice emphatic, almost shouting. ‘No. We can’t.’
‘It’s worth a try.’
The voice laughed. ‘That’s what the other girl said. Look what happened to her.’
‘But… we have to try…’
‘That’s what she said.’ The voice fell silent for a few seconds. Suzanne thought she had disappeared once more but when she spoke again it was clear from the quaver in her tone that she was just trying to hold herself together. ‘Yeah. What she said. Exactly what she said. D’you want the same thing to happen to you?’
Suzanne didn’t answer. Couldn’t face giving an answer.
Silence fell again.
Suzanne couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t lie in the dark any longer and not communicate. She had to talk and make the other woman talk. Whether she wanted to or not.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘please. Talk to me. I can’t… if we’re here we may as well talk. Please.’ The final word echoed round her box.
Silence.
‘Please… don’t leave me on my own. Please…’
A sigh. ‘How do I know you’re not a plant?’
Suzanne almost laughed. ‘A what?’
‘A plant. They’ve put you in here to see what I’m goin’ to say. You’re one of them.’
She did laugh this time. There was no humour in it. ‘I could say the same about you.’
Silence once more.
‘Look,’ said Suzanne, ‘we’re stuck here. Let’s just talk. Please.’
Another silence.
‘All right,’ the voice said eventually. ‘But if they say anything I’ll tell them it was your idea.’
‘OK.’ Suzanne nearly smiled. The hunger, the pressure on her bladder were almost forgotten with this small victory. ‘Good. Well. My name’s Suzanne. What’s yours?’
Silence.
Sadness began to envelop Suzanne. Even blacker and heavier than the darkness in the box. ‘Oh, come on. Please. You said you’d talk to me…’
A sigh. ‘I’m taking a risk here. A real risk.’
