The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  92

  Mickey didn’t have to wait long for something to happen. There was a knock on the door. He got up to answer it, went into the corridor, shutting the door behind him. Hoped it was something or someone to help him.

  Anni.

  ‘Here.’ She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Preliminary DNA results from Adele Harrison’s body. Like Nick said, there’s something funny about one set.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There.’ She pointed to the relevant section.

  Mickey read it. Smiled. ‘Thanks, Anni. This might be it.’

  She returned the smile. ‘Good luck.’

  Marina appeared. ‘Good work, Mickey.’

  His smile faded. ‘You think so? I’ve lost him.’

  ‘You’ll get him back. I think he’s the follower. Fiona Welch is the leader. If he’d never met her, come under her influence, he wouldn’t be here. I don’t think he’s all that bad. Not really. Play on that. Use it. Appeal to his good side. Be his mate.’

  ‘Be blokey?’

  ‘Worth a try.’

  He waved the sheet of paper. ‘And if that fails, there’s always this to fall back on.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  He went back inside. Sat down again.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ He smiled at Turner. ‘Where were we? Oh yes. You were telling me how superior you were.’

  Turner smirked, said nothing. Accepting the words as if they were due praise.

  Mickey scrutinised Turner. ‘You used to go out with Suzanne Perry, didn’t you?’

  ‘You know I did.’

  ‘Nice girl. Why’d you ditch her?’

  ‘Found someone better.’

  ‘Really?’ Mickey shook his head. ‘You mean Fiona Welch? Listen, mate, you backed a wrong ’un there.’

  Turner just stared at him.

  ‘I mean, there’s Suzanne. Good-looking, intelligent, good company… And Julie Miller. You were with her before Suzanne, yeah? Same. Real looker. And then you go from them to Fiona Welch.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it’s like trading in a Rolls-Royce for a Mondeo. She must be a good shag, mate, because there’s nothing else going for her.’

  Turner’s face reddened, his eyes narrowed. He struggled not to rise from his chair. ‘And what would you know? Eh? Mr Thick Policeman? Mate? Nothing. That’s what. Nothing. “All things are subject to interpretation. Whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth”.’ He managed a smile. ‘Know who said that? Course you don’t. Because you’re thick. Thick thick thick thick thick.’

  Mickey said nothing.

  ‘I’ll go and look it up.’ Marina’s voice in Mickey’s ear. He shook his head. Hoped she caught it.

  Turner was still talking. ‘That’s your interpretation. Because you think you’ve got power. But it’s not. It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Then tell me what it is like.’

  Another humourless laugh. ‘You wouldn’t understand. You’re not intelligent enough to understand.’

  ‘Then make me. Because I’m all that stands between you and a life sentence for four murders. Make me.’

  Turner sat back. ‘All right then.’ Closed his eyes. ‘What Fiona and I have is so, so much more than anything I have ever felt in my life. Suzanne, Julie, even Adele were nothing. Boring little nobodies. But Fiona has shown me things, made me realise what I am, what I’m capable of…’ He sighed, a happy, cruel smile on his face. ‘I’ve never felt so alive. All because of her.’ He opened his eyes. Fixed Mickey with a direct gaze. ‘I pity you. Really pity you.’

  ‘Why, Mark?’

  ‘Because you’ll never feel what I’ve felt. Experience what I’ve experienced. Your life will always be boring. And you will always be stupid. “Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world.” And that’s you. Bet you don’t know who said that, either.’

  ‘Would it matter if I did?’

  Turner laughed, shook his head. ‘Course not.’

  Mickey sighed, sat back, folded his arms. Fixed Turner with a direct look. ‘Mark, I’ll be honest with you. No bullshit now. You can sit here and come out with all these quotes and all these insults and it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference. No any more. Not to you. Because, like I said, you’re looking at a life sentence for four murders. At least. That we know of. And it looks like your girlfriend’s dumped you. Left you to take all the blame.’

  Turner flinched at that.

  ‘Good one,’ said Marina.

  Mickey leaned forward once more. The last few minutes forgotten, mates again. ‘So why don’t you tell me, Mark? Eh? Tell me everything. You’re not going anywhere.’

  Turner stared at him, mouth moving, chewing the inside of his lip.

  Nerves, thought, Mickey. Good. Getting there.

  ‘Tell me the whole thing, Mark.’

  Turner sighed.

  ‘All right.’

  Mickey managed to hide his smile.

  93

  The boat was almost gone. It hadn’t been much to start with, but the fire and explosion had rendered it down to a black, rusted skeleton. A charred, blurred representation of what had once been moored there. A smudged after-image.

  Phil stared at it, wanting it to give him answers. He looked round.

  Fire teams had handled the blaze, stopped it from spreading. But King Edward Quay had been evacuated along with the apartments on the opposite side of the river, the house-boats and businesses sealed off, no access to anyone.

  TV crews had been kept at a distance and the crews working the lightship murder site and Julie Miller’s neighbours had also been stood down until the area was declared safe. Uniforms were keeping watch, stopping any trespassers, so Phil had the place to himself.

  He had phoned Marina, tried to tell her what was going on, but got only her voicemail. So he had left a message telling her about his conversation with Paula and for her to phone him back as soon as possible.

  He closed his eyes, listened. Tried to get a feel for the area, for the space inside Ian Buchan’s head. For where he had been, where he would go next. He turned round. The old Dock Transit building stood behind him. Huge and hulking against the orange sodium darkness, holding shadows and secrets behind its boarded-up doors and windows. The corrugated, rusted metal along its roof making it look like the crenulated top of an old, haunted castle. Phil found a uniform, showed his warrant card.

  ‘Has inside there been checked?’

  The uniform was middle-aged, greying hair, well-built. Time-serving but sharp-eyed. Doing his job but counting up the overtime. ‘A few hours ago,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get far. Place is a death trap. Doubt he’d be in there. Didn’t look like it. Could barely get it opened.’

  Phil turned towards the building, back to the uniform. ‘Got a torch I could borrow? Just have a nose round for myself.’

  The uniform handed it over. Phil thanked him.

  Worth a try, he thought. From the way the officer had spoken, he doubted the building had been seriously searched.

  He crossed the rubble-strewn, broken concrete forecourt, walked under the huge, rusting metal arm of the crane, approached the building. He could imagine it as it once was, a working building, the crane moving constantly, grabber sliding back and forth along the overhead beam, containers being emptied, filled and transferred, loading and unloading cargo from Europe, the dock alive with bustling activity. A confident place, making a serious challenge to Harwich.

  And now. A rusted, wrecked shell. As much of a ghost as the burnt-out husk of a boat in front of it.

  He walked up to where the door used to be. Now just several huge sheets of thick plywood decorated with ‘Danger – Keep Out’ signs, gang tags and graffiti art. He felt round the edges for some purchase, something to pull at, saw the rusting imprint of well-hammered-in heavy-duty nails.

  Maybe the uniform was right, he thought. Maybe there hadn’t been anyone here.

  M
aybe.

  Phil knelt down, felt all along the bottom of the wood.

  Something gave.

  Just a little bit, a slight movement accompanied by the creak of old wood against rusted nail. Not much, but enough to give him hope. He pulled, wondering which part of the building the uniforms had entered from. Or even if they had.

  The wood didn’t want to give. At least not without a fight.

  And Phil was in the mood for a fight.

  He edged his fingers beneath, prising the wood away, catching his fingernails, feeling splinters embed themselves in his palms as he did so. He ignored everything but the need to pull the wood off.

  More creaking, more straining as the wood reluctantly pulled away from its surrounding. Phil screamed with the exertion, fell backwards as the corner of wood came away. He sat up, looked at it. There was a big enough hole for him to squeeze through.

  Just.

  He put his arms through, managed to pull his body along.

  As he did so, he was reminded of a similar crawl through a restricted space he had made several months before. He hoped this one turned out better than that.

  He made it through to the other side. Lying on the floor, he looked round. Pitch-black, he saw nothing. The air was damp and cold. Fetid. He listened. Heard the wind playing through the rust-eaten walls, ghosts drifting.

  He felt for the torch, took it out of his jacket pocket, switched it on. Swung it round. Saw small black shapes scurry away from the beam. The walls were mottled, discoloured, crumbling. The metal struts holding up the roof rusted and flaking. The floor pitted and broken concrete, a pile of old rags in a far corner, with a stack of old, stained cardboard next to it. Empty cans, bottles. Someone had been living there at some point. Not recently, though.

  He stood up. Walked towards the centre of the building, looking all round all the time. Checking the dust on the floor as he walked. This place hadn’t been searched. Uniforms had probably decided to leave it for the morning.

  Lazy bastards, thought Phil.

  He swung the torch. The building had another floor towards the back, a metal staircase leading the way. He looked up to the ceiling. A metal walkway ran along the length of the building leading to the crane outside. No one up there. He walked on, towards the back of the building, ready to mount the steps to the next floor.

  Stopped dead.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Tucked away in a shadowed corner were two large black boxes. Phil moved in closer. Wooden packing crates, rectangular. A concrete block, the kind used in roadworks, in front of each one. And before that a trough of water.

  There was something in the water.

  Phil moved quickly, fearing the worst.

  His fears were justified. In the water was a body. Charred and burnt. Electrocuted, he guessed.

  He looked round. Saw cables snaking into the water. He traced them with the torch. Saw that they connected to a generator in the corner. He crossed over, made sure the generator was switched off. Turned back to the trough of water, reached in, turned the body over.

  A young woman, tall, brunette. Julie Miller or Suzanne Perry, he was guessing.

  Too late. Damn.

  He stood still, listening. Heard a sound. Scratching. Moving. Not the rats, too big for the rats.

  Looked round. One of the crates was open, the end pushed out against the concrete block. The other block was still in place. Phil moved round the side of the water, bent down beside the end of the box.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  The scratching stopped.

  ‘Hello?’ he said again. ‘Is there anyone in there?’

  Nothing.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Phil Brennan. Essex Police. Is there someone in there?’

  He waited. Eventually he heard a voice.

  ‘How… how do I know you are who you say you are?’

  A woman’s voice. Phil felt a rush of adrenalin course through him. ‘Are you Suzanne Perry or Julie Miller?’

  ‘Suzanne…’

  Relief flooded through him along with the adrenalin. He smiled to himself. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get you out.’

  She started to scream.

  He tried to calm her down. ‘Hey, hey it’s OK. It’s fine. You’re safe now. You’re with me. You’re safe. Don’t worry. I’m going to get you out, OK?’

  He waited. Nothing.

  ‘OK?’

  A sigh, then sobbing. ‘OK…’

  ‘Right…’

  He pulled away the concrete block, slowly. It was heavy. Then, when there was space enough, he prised open the bottom of the packing crate.

  ‘Come on, Suzanne, out you come…’

  ‘The water…’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s taken care of. Just come on out.’

  He heard movement, shone the torch in. Slowly, Suzanne made her way towards the light.

  He smiled, encouraging her.

  She emerged. Blinking, shaking. He reached out a hand for her, helping her to the side of the trough, so she wouldn’t get wet.

  ‘Come on…’

  She froze. He frowned.

  ‘It’s OK, Suzanne. Come on. You’re fine, you’re safe…’

  ‘No,’ she said, backing into the crate, ‘no…’

  ‘Suzanne?’ Phil looked after her. ‘Come on, Suzanne, it’s fine, I’m here…’

  ‘And so am I.’

  Phil froze. Turned quickly.

  Saw something come towards him. Fast.

  Saw the world explode.

  Then, finally, blackness.

  94

  ‘How did you meet Fiona Welch?’

  Turner sat staring straight ahead, arrogance exuding from him in waves like cheap aftershave. ‘University. She was Psychology, post grad, I was doing an M.Sc. in Biological Science. We were friends. Hung around in the same groups.’

  ‘So what made you leave Suzanne Perry for her?’

  He smiled. The arrogance waves increased. ‘Nothing. She just told me how much better I could be.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Turner gave a laugh that he probably thought went with his arrogant smile but made Mickey think of camp villains in old James Bond movies. He said nothing.

  ‘You know what transgression is?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘It means stepping over your limit. Violating your laws and codes. Being what you would call wrong. That’s what Fiona offered me. She took one look at my life, my boring, ordinary little life, and she changed it. Get with her and it could be so much better. I did. It is.’

  He sat back, arms folded, as if waiting for applause.

  ‘So what does this transgressing involve? How did you go about it?’

  ‘By doing what we wanted. Nothing is real. Everything is permitted.’ Another laugh. ‘That’s what we did.’ He leaned forward, eyes blazing. ‘Everything.’

  ‘Right. Specifics?’

  He put his head back, laughed. Trying to look superior, but Mickey caught a glimpse of his eyes before he did it. They looked uncertain. Fearful. His arrogance, Mickey was learning, wasn’t very convincing.

  ‘Too many to name.’

  ‘Just one instance. Of your superiority. Your transgression. Go on, Mark. Just one.’

  Turner sat forward. Again, that fear flashed in his eyes. ‘It’s enough that you know that that’s what we are.’

  Mickey sighed. ‘Fair enough, Mark, if you say so.’

  Turner felt Mickey’s disbelief, felt he needed some qualification. ‘We plotted, that’s what we did. Planned. To find a way to transgress, to make everyone see we were serious. Show people what we were all about.’

  ‘So… what? You kidnapped Adele Harrison? Why? How does that demonstrate your superiority? Or that you’re transgressing anything?’

  Turner’s voice rose. He slapped his arms down on the table. ‘Don’t you understand? That was the point. Take a life, any life, someone worthless, some nobody, and do with her what we
want.’

  He sat back, pleased with himself.

  ‘What you want.’

  Turner nodded.

  ‘What did that involve?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘What, killing? Torture? Maiming? What?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘And you did that, did you? What you wanted? Anything you wanted?’

  He smiled. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What d’you mean, sort of?’

  ‘That’s when the experiment moved into it’s next phase. Because we didn’t just do that ourselves. That would be too simple. No.’

  ‘What did you do, then?’

  ‘Obvious. Got someone to do it for us…’

  95

  Phil opened his eyes. Felt pain lance through his head. Closed them again, groaned.

  ‘Ah. He’s awake.’

  Phil tried opening his eyes again. It hurt, but he managed it this time. He tried to move. Couldn’t. His hands were behind his back, his legs curled beneath him. He blinked, letting his eyes get accustomed to the darkness.

  A light went on. He shut his eyes quickly, the sudden glare burning him.

  He opened them slowly. Looked down. Gasped. He was high off the ground, still in the old Dock Transit building. On the metal walkway that ran along the roof of the building.

  The light was coming from a hastily rigged arc light that had been positioned next to him. He saw chains hanging from the ceiling. With huge hooks on the ends.

  He remembered Adele Harrison’s body. Took a deep breath. Shuddered.

  Phil moved what parts of his body he could, checking himself for damage. His head hurt, his vision was blurred. Concussion, probably, from the blow that had knocked him out. He flexed his arms, his legs. Moved his torso. No damage that he could feel. Good. That was something.

  A groan from behind him.

  He tried to turn to the source of the sound, twisting his body as far as it would go. Suzanne Perry was curled up on the walkway next to him. She wasn’t tied to the railing. From the look of her she didn’t need to be.

  ‘Suzanne?’ he said.

  She looked up. Her eyes signalled that she was exhausted, totally beaten. She didn’t speak, just stared.