Mickey followed her gaze, took in what she had seen. ‘Jesus Christ…’
‘I know. Think we might be on to something here. Fiona Welch and her profile…’ She shook her head.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘Last night.’
Anni raised an eyebrow. Waited.
He looked round once more, took in the photos and pictures, seemed clearly unnerved by them. ‘Can we go outside? Think I’ve seen as much of this place as I need to.’
They made their way back on to the quay. Anni was amazed that the sun was still shining. After being down below in that boat she thought she would never see the sun again.
Mickey seemed to be feeling it too. ‘Fancy an ice cream?’
‘I fancy a gin and tonic. Bloody huge one.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t blame you.’
Her smiled faded. ‘So. About last night…’ She attempted a smile but what they had just seen didn’t make it easy.
‘Fiona Welch,’ said Mickey. ‘What d’you think of her?’
Anni shrugged. ‘Haven’t had an awful lot to do with her. Can’t say she’s the best profiler ever to work in the department. ’
‘I can’t make her out. One minute she doesn’t want to talk to me the next she’s all over me.’
‘Must be your aftershave. Is that the Lynx effect?’
‘I’m serious. She’s really starting to bug me. I was thinking about this last night. And then this morning when Anthony Howe tried to kill himself, I was watching her again.’
‘And?’
He looked around, suddenly uneasy about speaking his mind. ‘She seemed to be, I don’t know, getting off on it. Like this was all some great day out that she was having.’ His eyes dropped. ‘Like… it was all going according to plan.’
Anni stared at him. ‘What d’you mean?’
Mickey’s hands became restless. ‘I… look. I checked the logs. She went to talk to him last night, Anthony Howe. Down in the cells after Phil had finished.’ He sighed. ‘And sometimes I’ve watched her in the office when she thinks no one’s looking at her and she’s smiling.’
‘Very rare. Especially in our office.’
‘Don’t mean just that. It’s like she’s, I don’t know, laughing at us. All of us. Like it’s some big secret joke.’ He sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It seems really stupid saying it out loud. I’m probably making something out of nothing. But… she doesn’t feel right.’
Anni looked at him. Mickey’s discomfort seemed genuine enough. And he didn’t seem like the kind of person to make up false accusations for the sake of it.
‘So what d’you think she’s done?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And what are you going to do about it?’
‘I don’t know that either. I just wanted to… I don’t know. Tell someone.’ He looked away down the quay. ‘Someone I could trust.’
Anni smiled. ‘Thank you. Maybe a background check wouldn’t go amiss.’
He nodded. ‘Thanks.’
Anni’s phone rang, startling the pair of them. She answered.
‘It’s Phil Brennan here. Listen, we’ve got a situation…’
67
‘Julie? Julie…’
No reply. Suzanne’s fellow captive had drifted away from her again.
Suzanne no longer knew whether it was day or night or how long she had been there. She had tried counting from when she had been allowed out, given that can of disgusting food, trying to give structure to time, but it hadn’t worked. The counting had slowed then speeded up. She lost count several times, going over the same numbers twice, three times. Sometimes she forgot to keep counting, her mind drifting off. A couple of times, like counting sheep at night, she nodded off. All sense of time was gone.
Even her panic, her anger, had abated. In its place was a dull acceptance, her body slipping into a kind of fugue state, shutting down everything but the most basic of life-support systems. Even her ability to dream, to imagine, was gone. She just lay there, enveloped in nothingness.
‘Julie… Julie…’
Suzanne hoped she would answer. She had a question. But she doubted there would be a reply. She was just saying the name out of habit, a quickly established ritual. Something that kept her going. Or maybe if she could work out Julie’s sleep patterns it might help to synchronise.
‘Yes…’
A reply. Suzanne’s heart quickened.
‘What d’you want?’ Julie sounded drowsy, just pulled out of a deep sleep.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Suzanne. ‘You’re Julie, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not Julie Miller, are you?’
Silence. Eventually, she spoke. ‘How… how do you know my name…?’
‘You disappeared. It was all over the news. The police were on the wing for days.’
‘On the wing?’
‘Gainsborough.’
‘But…’ Julie’s voice sounded animated, urgent. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I think we know each other. I’m Suzanne. I work there as one of the SALTs.’
‘With Zoe?’
‘That’s me.’
Silence, while they both took the information in.
‘God…’ said Julie eventually. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But… who’s done this, then? Do we know them?’
‘We must. We’ll have to think.’
There was the sound of a body moving. Julie must have been excited, turning in her box.
But another sound followed the noise Julie made in turning and moving. A different kind of sound, yet one that was also familiar. The ripping, tearing sound Suzanne had heard earlier, the one that accompanied the box being opened. Just small, fleeting, like an echo of the earlier sound, but unmistakeable.
‘What was that? Julie? What was that?’
The sound came again. Slightly louder, longer this time.
‘Julie? You there? What’s happening? What’s going on?’
Silence. Suzanne thought Julie must have disappeared again, but her voice came back eventually.
‘Suzanne?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I think…’ Her voice was no longer sleepy, she was wide awake now. Energised. ‘I’m not sure, but I think I’ve just found a way out…’
68
‘In here,’ said Rose Martin, ushering Ben Fenwick into his own office, closing the door
