It stopped.
She sighed. Sat back. Looked at it.
She felt empty once more, alone.
She could pick it up, call him.
She could.
But she wouldn’t. Because she didn’t know what to say.
So she sat there looking at it.
Her heart breaking.
Phil put the phone down. He didn’t leave a message. He lay down on the bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
He tried to sleep.
Couldn’t.
Added it to the list of things he couldn’t do.
56
The Creeper stood outside the house. Smiled.
It was a large house but, crammed into a small street with other large houses, it just looked small. Old, with grey and red brick and big bay sash windows with stained glass in them. Nice. The sort of place that looked welcoming. The sort of place you could call home.
Rani had done well for herself this time.
The Creeper would never have dreamt of calling a place like this home. It was a different world. But he might. Soon.
He had watched it for a long time. A man had driven up, parked down the road in the first available space and let himself in. Suited and carrying a briefcase, he was young, confident looking. Like he knew what he was worth. Or thought he knew.
The Creeper had smiled. The man would soon find out.
He had waited longer. Eventually another car had pulled up, parked in the road. There were two people in it, a man driving and a woman in the passenger seat. His heart skipped a beat. There she was. He knew it as soon as he saw her.
Rani.
He couldn’t stop smiling. It was all he could to stop himself running out to meet her. But he did. He would be patient. He would wait. Bide his time.
He watched them talk. The driver looked like an older version of the man who had entered the house. He saw them hold hands before she left the car. Felt a sharp pang of anger when that happened. The car drove away. He watched it go, saw Rani enter the house.
Went back to waiting.
It wasn’t perfect where he was but it was good. It would do. It wasn’t as good as the last place, where he lived with Rani, was together with her all the time, but it would do. He wouldn’t be disturbed. The owner of the house he was in would be no more trouble. He could see her leg sticking out from the spare room where he had left her body.
All he had to do was wait.
And he was good at that. He could be a patient man. Because he had something to wait for. Someone.
Rani.
PART THREE
57
Phil knew what he must look like. But he didn’t care.
He had made an effort to smarten himself up, sort himself out. Clean shirt and a shave. Wash and brush up. But his eyes were black-rimmed, broken capillary fractals, gazing away when they should be staying focused, clouding over when they should have been clear.
He sat at his desk in the bar, waiting for the briefing to start. Caffeine-alert, telling himself to pull it together, compartmentalise. Shut off his home life, live only in his work life. But whether he was actually listening was another matter.
He had tried Marina again last night. And again and again. A different message every time. Inquiring about her safety and wellbeing, their daughter’s too. Then telling her how much she was missed, just to talk to him if something was wrong. She didn’t need to come back home. Even asking for her opinion on his case. Different every time, something he hoped would attract her to pick up, make it impossible not to. She didn’t. Eventually he stopped leaving messages. Eventually he stopped calling.
He must have slept at some point. But he couldn’t remember when. Woke up on Marina’s side of the bed once more. Several more bottles at his feet. He couldn’t remember those getting there either.
He had formulated a plan for contacting Marina. Really simple, wondered how he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He would do it later. First he had the briefing to get through.
He pulled his eyes on to the whiteboard, took another hit of pitch-black coffee, forced himself to concentrate on the case.
The team were assembled. The same faces as the day before looking marginally refreshed and rested. Anni would catch Mickey’s eye then turn away with a private smile while Mickey would look anywhere but at her. He didn’t know what was going on there, didn’t want to know either unless it affected their work. Rose Martin seemed to be humming with some kind of energy, ready to go. Either that, thought Phil, or she’d just had another fight. Fenwick was at the end of the room, trying not to look at her. Fiona Welch sat at her desk, straight-backed, pen poised. Face unreadable. She still unnerved Phil. Nick Lines had come over, armed with more findings from the post-mortems.
Fenwick moved to the centre of the room, ready to go.
‘Thanks for coming in early, people. Appreciate it. Let’s get started. Phil?’
Phil stood up, took centre stage. ‘As you know, we’ve got Anthony Howe downstairs in the cells. He’s been charged with Suzanne Perry’s abduction. Progress report, Adrian?’
Adrian Wren stood up. ‘He’s got no alibi for the night of the abduction and murder. Says he was out on his own, walking. Stopped in a pub for a drink. Can’t remember which one.’ He checked a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Took a call from Suzanne Perry in the afternoon, tried calling her a few times that night. No reply.’
‘Left a message?’ said Phil.
Adrian shook his head. ‘No. But called her three times up until ten o’clock. After that, nothing. Says he went home. Wife’s left him so there’s no one who can say yes or no to that one. Got the CSIs going through his house now, though.’
‘Thanks, Adrian.’ Phil turned to the rest of the team. ‘So that’s where we are with him.’
‘Gut feeling, Phil?’ said Fenwick, his usual question.
Phil thought. He was the one who had interviewed him and charged him but he honestly didn’t know if he was guilty. Usually he got a feeling, a copper’s instinct. It wasn’t infallible but was accurate about 90 per cent of the time. But this time, no yes or no, nothing.
But before he could answer, Fiona Welch jumped in.
