Got you, he thought.
97
‘I’m going to tell you a story,’ said Fiona Welch to Phil, still up close to him, almost sitting on his lap, moving her hips rhythmically, grinding slowly against him.
Phil swallowed hard, tried to look – move – away. He couldn’t. ‘What about?’ he said. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘Me,’ she said, the words whispered breathily, Marilyn Monroe-like. ‘How naughty I am.’ She traced her finger down his chest. ‘And what drives me to do… what I’ve been doing.’
‘Oh,’ said Phil. ‘Nothing interesting, then.’
She drew back from him, teeth bared. Hissing. ‘Just another thick copper. Like all the others.’ Leaned into him again, her finger back on his chest, joined by the others, dug the nails of her left hand into him this time. Hard.
Her nails were sharp. Strong. They hurt. Drew blood.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell me. Why you do what you do.’
She took her finger away. Smiled. ‘That’s better. Much more fun when you play along with me, isn’t it?’ A sigh of contentment. ‘Now. Where were we? Yes. Why I do what I do.’ She stuck her hands out, together at the wrists. ‘Because I’m a bad girl, Mr Policeman. You’d better take me in your big strong arms and handcuff me.’ She giggled. ‘Oh, I forgot. You can’t.’
Venom in the final words.
‘You’re so funny,’ said Phil. ‘See how I’m laughing?’
Her eyes blazed. ‘You think you’re clever? Do you? Really?’
Her hands were on him, slapping his face, tearing at him.
‘Do you? Do you?’
More slaps, more scratches. Digging her nails into the side of his face, deep, sharp, dragging them down to his chin.
Phil wanted to scream, to shout right into her face. But he managed to stop himself, despite the searing pain in his face. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
‘Do you?’ The words screamed in his face.
‘No,’ he said, gasping for air, ‘No. I… I don’t…’
She took her hands away. They were bloodied, parts of his face beneath her nails. She examined them like they had just gone through an expensive manicure. She nodded, pleased with the results. Turned her attention back to Phil.
She smiled. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’
‘So,’ Phil said, his face burning with pain, ‘why are you… are you doing… what you’re doing…’
‘Good boy. Doing what you’re told.’ Whispering again. ‘I like that in a man. In fact, I demand it. So why have I done all this?’ She swung her arms round, as if taking responsibility for their surroundings. ‘Simple. To prove a point.’
‘Which is?’
‘How superior I am,’ her voice sing-song.
‘You mean to me?’
‘Oh, certainly to you. But to everyone else, too.
‘And how do you… do you go about that, then?’
‘I… bend people to my will. Make them do my bidding. Make them do…’ A gesture, a theatrical flourish of the wrist. ‘Anything I want.’
‘Even murder?’
She knelt in close to him again. He felt her hot breath on his ruined face. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, licking his blood off her nails, ‘especially murder…’
98
‘What… what d’you mean?’ Turner looked confused, scared even. ‘He was… he was just a squaddie. Just a squaddie that Fiona found. That we could use.’
‘No he wasn’t, Mark. He was Adele Harrison’s brother.’ Turner shook his head. ‘No. You’re lying. Her brother died in Afghanistan. Roadside bomb. IED. She told me.’
‘She told everybody that, Mark. Because it’s easier to believe than what, or who, he really is.’
‘A murdering rapist,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear. He nodded.
‘A murdering rapist,’ he said aloud.
‘No… no… you’re lying. She said you would, Fiona said you’d, you’d try something like this. Play mind games, try to get inside my head…’ He put his elbows on the table, head down. Hands balled into fists, rubbing his temples.
Mickey leaned forward, his voice, calm, quiet. No need to shout or scream, just let the authority of his words carry over. ‘Mark. I’m telling you the truth, mate. She’s lied to you.’
‘No… no…’
‘Yeah.’
‘She wouldn’t…’
‘He’s going,’ said Marina, ‘don’t lose him, keep him talking. If he goes into himself now we’ll have lost him. Bring him back, Mickey.’
Mickey nodded. ‘Well, let’s come back to that. Tell me what you wanted him for.’
Turner looked up, confused once more. ‘What?’
‘The Creeper, as you called him. Tell me what you wanted with him. What you did with him.’
‘We… we programmed him.’
‘Why?’
‘To do what we wanted. To prove we could do it.’
‘And what did you do? What did you make him do?
‘We turned him into… anything we wanted, really.’
‘A weapon?’
The sneering smile made a small reappearance. ‘The British Army had already done that to him.’
‘You just refined the process, yeah?’
Turner shrugged.
‘So, this programming. How’d you do it?’
‘Told him… told him what he wanted to hear.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Rani. That was the translator he killed. The woman. We told him she was still alive. Still… still in love with him.’ Another laugh. ‘And he believed it. Stupid bastard.’
‘How did that work?’
‘She spoke to him.’
‘How?’
‘Through her BlackBerry. She texted him. We told him it was the spirit of Rani speaking to him. He had to imagine that the words that appeared on his phone he could hear in his head. And he could text back to talk to her.’
‘And he believed that?’
‘Yeah. Soft bastard.’
Mickey sat back, sighed. This wasn’t what he was expecting. This was too much. He didn’t know how to deal
