head and knocked her over. She hit the concrete floor hard, the wind knocked out of her lungs, hot wires of pain radiating out from her left knee.
‘Up.’
The hand pulled her up once more.
Soon her feet were back in the water trough and she was being pushed inside her coffin once more. The same creaking, groaning sound and the box was sealed up.
She put her tied hands to her head, pulled the hood off, grateful to be able to breathe freely again. She listened for sounds outside of the box. Heard nothing.
Suzanne found her voice again. ‘Is that it? What about some food? When do we eat?’
Nothing.
‘Hello… hello…’
Nothing.
She lay back, sighed. And felt something at her side. Hard and round. A can. She leaned over, managed to get it between her two hands. There was a ring pull on the top. She opened it. Smelled it. Meaty, solid. But not pleasant. She had no idea what it was but had no choice. She put her fingers in, scooped a fingerful towards her mouth, ate. It tasted awful. And she realised what it must be.
Dog food.
Her first reaction was to spit it out but if she did that, she knew that would be it, no more. Left to starve. So she ate. Kept eating.
Barely aware of the tears streaming down her face, the sobs coming from her body.
She ate like it was the best meal she had ever had.
52
Phil stared through the two-way mirror, scrutinising. Anthony Howe sat in the interview room, sitting at the table, nervous, agitated. Looking round all the time, occasionally making fruitless attempts to engage the uniform by the door in conversation, fear fighting disbelief for prominence on his face.
‘Sure you want to do this?’ Ben Fenwick beside Phil, staring through the glass alongside him.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Well, it’s late, you’ve been working all hours, a new father… don’t you want to go home?’
Phil kept looking straight ahead, his eyes, his voice, flat. ‘This needs to be done.’
Phil felt Fenwick take his eyes off the glass and look at him. His body language had softened, there was nothing arrogant, adversarial about his manner. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Look, Phil, I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but if there’s anything…’
‘Everything’s fine.’
Fenwick turned away, back to looking at Anthony Howe. ‘Whatever you say.’
The door opened. Fiona Welch came in, arms full of files and papers. As soon as Anni had spoken at the meeting, moves had been made to reach Anthony Howe. Anni and Mickey had found him at a pub in Wivenhoe near the university, sitting with students. Taking, Anni had told Phil when she came back, special notice of one young brunette in particular. Doing all the tricks, leaning forward, appearing to be hanging on to every word, his hand ‘accidentally’ landing on her thigh.
When Anni and Mickey had spoken to him, he had made a scene, refused to come with them at first, but they had been insistent. Eventually, and with great embarrassment, he had left the pub.
‘How’s he doing?’ said Fiona Welch.
‘Just sitting there,’ said Fenwick, turning towards her.
She nodded, as if that was what she expected. ‘Good.’ She turned to Phil. ‘You doing the interview?’
He nodded.
‘Right. Here’s the plan.’ She set her folders down on the desk, opened one, scanned the page.
Phil turned away from the mirror, looking directly at her. Giving her profile before the whole team seemed to have energised her. Bringing in Anthony Howe based on what she said had changed her mood to one of vindication. Consequently, Phil was finding her even more insufferable.
‘I think I know what to do by now,’ he said.
‘Yes, but-’ She held up a sheaf of papers.
Phil’s eyes flashed. ‘I know how to conduct an interview. Thank you.’
Fenwick was looking at him with concern. ‘You sure you want to do this?’
Phil felt anger rising within him. Fenwick was right. He should have been at home now. With Marina. With Josephina. As a family. But he wasn’t. He was still at work about to question a suspected murderer and sexual sadist.
‘I want to do it,’ he said, louder than he intended. ‘Let’s get going.’
‘Go in hard,’ said Fiona. ‘That’s the best way with this type of sociopath.’
Phil ignored her. He had planned on that but didn’t want to tell her.
‘D’you want a relay from in here?’ said Fenwick.
Phil shook his head. Left the room. Ready to find an outlet for his anger.
Anthony Howe looked up when Phil entered the room, nodded to the uniformed constable standing by the door, sat down opposite the university professor, stared at him, his face stone.
‘I… I want to know why I’m here,’ said Anthony Howe. ‘On what charges.’
‘As you know you’ve been formally cautioned but you haven’t been charged with anything.’
‘Good.’
‘Yet.’
Another wave of fear swept over Howe’s face. ‘Now, wait a minute…’
Phil opened the file he had slapped down on the desk, pretended to be reading, looked up. ‘You had an affair with Suzanne Perry.’
Howe put his hands up, palms out, as if in supplication or surrender. ‘Look, I’ve explained all this to your, the other detective, the other day. It’s finished. Over.’
‘Why did she call you yesterday, then?’
Howe’s eyes widened. ‘I… I don’t know…’
We’ve checked her phone records. She called you yesterday afternoon. You didn’t answer. She left a message.’
‘Ah… yes… I didn’t phone her back.’
‘No.’ Phil looked down at the file once more. ‘You were investigated for stalking her.’
Howe leaned towards Phil, looking desperate. ‘That was never proved. No charges were ever brought.’
‘Always the last refuge of the guilty, I find, that line. “That was never proved”. Person who says that always thinks they’ve got away with something.’
Howe swallowed hard. ‘What am I… what’s happened that I should know about…?’
Phil shook his head, felt his anger rising a notch at Howe’s manner. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what’s happened. It’s been on the news, the internet, everywhere. Suzanne Perry is missing. Her friend Zoe Herriot is dead. Murdered.’
His hand went to his mouth. ‘Oh God…’
‘Yes, oh God.’ Phil sat back, looked at him, squirming and sweating in his seat. ‘So where is she?’
‘I… I don’t know…’
‘Not good enough.’ Phil’s voice was tight, coiled. Contained. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know!’ Howe was leaning across the table, pleading to be believed.
Phil leaned in also, screaming in Howe’s face. ‘Not good enough! Where is she?’
Howe crumbled, head in hands. ‘I don’t know…’
Phil sat back, stared at him. Either he was telling the truth and was genuinely innocent or he was the cunning
