She recognised some of the surroundings. Colchester’s main shopping centre. Maldon Road. The hospital where Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot had worked. All blurred, grainy. As if they had been taken without the subject’s knowledge. Like surveillance photos.
Something a stalker would do.
Her heart skipped a beat. She knew who the women in the photos were.
But that was only an educated guess. She couldn’t make a positive identification. Because all the pictures, whether from newspapers, magazines or those taken in the street, all had one thing in common.
The eyes had been scratched out.
She recoiled from them, her heart hammering in her chest, suddenly wanting to get out. She stepped on the sleeping bag, gave a small cry.
Then stopped dead.
A noise from the deck above.
Someone was up there.
Anni froze, looked quickly, desperately round. Shining her phone display everywhere. Finding no other exit but the stairs.
Another footstep, then another from above.
‘Oh God, oh God…’ Her breath was coming in short, ragged bursts.
She looked round frantically.
Another footstep, getting nearer to the wheelhouse.
Her phone was in her hand, ready to dial. She just hoped that someone could get to her quick enough.
The doorway above her opened. A voice called down.
‘What you doing down there?’
Anni closed her eyes. Froze.
65
Phil had struck lucky. The building that Julie Miller lived in had a doorman.
‘Awful business,’ the doorman said. He was a small man, in his fifties, Phil guessed. Everything about him was round. Bald head, long-sight glasses that curved and emphasised his eyes, portly figure, even bow legs. He was polite and deferential but the tattoos that covered his hands – home-made, blue ink – spoke of a different past. Phil wondered whether he had had a run-in with him before. He couldn’t place him. Which was fine. He was all for second chances.
‘Julie Miller…’ The doorman brought his brows together in concentration. ‘Awful…’
‘I just wondered whether you’d seen anything else unusual in the flats.’
His frowned intensified. ‘Unusual? What d’you mean?’
‘You know.’ Phil tried to spell it out him. ‘Different people coming and going. The same people disappearing, maybe not coming back. That kind of thing.’
‘Hmm.’
More brow furrowing, like he was really trying to be helpful. Phil gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was. Part of putting his past transgressions behind him.
‘Have you got a description? Of this person I should have been looking out for?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Then how am I supposed to know who he is?’
Phil smiled. Fair point. ‘You’re not. I’m just looking for anyone who sticks in your mind.’
‘Hmm. Not easy. Kind of people who pay to live in a block like this tend to want a bit of privacy. Bit of blind-eye turning, know what I mean?’
‘I do. But if you could just think of anyone, anything.’ Phil had an idea. ‘Somewhere near Julie Miller’s flat.’
Again, more brow furrowing. Then, like a light bulb going on, his eyes widened. ‘The Palmers. Christopher and Charlotte.’
‘What about them?’
‘They went away. Long holiday, apparently. Short notice. Had a win on the lottery, apparently, so I heard.’
Phil’s pulse quickened. His fingers tingled. ‘Where do they live?’
‘Near Julie Miller. Flat above her, in fact.’
The doorman’s pass key let Phil into the apartment.
The doorman himself had wanted to accompany him but Phil had put him off. He was well-meaning and the last thing he needed was hand-holding a well-meaning amateur.
Phil closed the door behind him, looked round the flat. He didn’t need to be a detective to know something was wrong.
The flat hadn’t been lived in but it had been occupied. And he could guess who by. Empty Red Bull cans littered the floor, interspersed with energy bar wrappers. Just like Suzanne Perry’s loft. Opened food cans joined them, some with spoons still sticking out. Like someone who had no respect for their surroundings had squatted here.
He checked the bedroom. More of the same. Sheets, duvet left all over the place. He went back into the living room, scanned it once more. He had been here. Phil was sure of that. He must remember to tell the CSIs to check Julie Miller’s flat for hidden cameras. He was sure they would find some.
He had one more room to check. The bathroom. He found it, walked inside. The shower curtain was pulled across as if someone was in there. He pulled it back.
And stood back, gasping.
‘Oh shit…’
Phil took his phone out, hit speed dial.
‘It’s Phil Brennan here. Listen, we’ve got a situation.’ He looked again, looked away quickly.
‘A hell of a situation…’
66
Anni was too terrified to move.
She stood stock-still. She was sure he could hear her hammering heart, her ragged, shallow breaths. She wanted to move, scream, or at least take in a full breath. But she didn’t dare.
The voice laughed. Footsteps started on the stairs.
A figure blocked out the light, came slowly towards her.
She had to do something, buy herself some time.
‘My name is Detective Constable Anni Hepburn,’ she said, feeling sure her breath wouldn’t carry her to the end of the next sentence, ‘please identify yourself.’
Another bout of laughter. ‘You sounded so formal there.’
‘And I know who you are, Anni.’ He moved into one of the beams of light, laughing. ‘Should have seen your face…’
She hit him. And again, and again, slapping him on the chest out of fear, frustration and relief. ‘You… bastard… fucking bastard, Mickey Philips…’
‘Hey, hey, stop.’ He put his hands up and, still laughing, caught her wrists.
She managed to regain some semblance of composure. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
‘Said to meet you here. Remember?’
She dropped her hands. Looked round, took in the walls once more. ‘Glad you did.’
