By the time Mickey had emerged from the interview room, the whole station was in action. He found Anni.
‘Did you hear?’ he said. ‘The old Dock-’
She cut him off. ‘The circus is ready to go. We had an idea it might be there. The last call from the boss came from there. We haven’t been able to reach him since so there was a squad already being put together.’
‘Right,’ he said, disappointed that his thunder had been stolen.
Anni sensed that. She managed a smile. ‘You were good in there. Well done.’
‘Thanks.’ Was he blushing?
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go.’
He didn’t need to be told twice.
The team left the building. Marina was still in the observation room, watching Mark Turner.
She had seen the same patterns of behaviour before. When a suspect had given a full confession, got all their crimes out of their own souls and into a police report, they often slept. Turner, with his drooping eyes and lolling head, looked to be no exception.
Marina was curious. She left the observation room, crossed to the interview room. Stood outside, poised. Should she go in? Would that violate his confession in any way? Speak of harassment, coercion? She didn’t know. But it was a good opportunity to talk to him before he was taken away.
‘D’you mind?’ she said to the uniform on the door.
He stood aside, let her enter.
The room smelled of sweat. Hardly surprising, considering the way the two men had being going at it. Turner sat, barely registering her as she sat down opposite him.
‘Hello,’ she said.
He didn’t reply.
‘I’m… the new profiler on this investigation. Can we talk?’
He shrugged.
‘It’s just,’ she said, ‘that this is such an unusual case, I feel someone should be writing it up. Would you let me do that, interview you with that in mind?’
He looked up, seeing her for the first time, she thought.
He smiled.
‘They’re too late, you know.’
She frowned. Not what she had been expecting. ‘What d’you mean? Who’s too late?’
‘They are. The
‘Too late for what?’
‘To save them, of course.’
Her heart flipped. ‘What d’you mean? Has he killed them? Is that it? Are they dead already?’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet…’
‘Then… what?’
‘The building. The Dock Transit building.’
‘What about it?’
If things got too bad, too out of hand. There was a plan in place.’
‘What kind of plan?’
‘Remember what he did to the boat?’ Then, just in case Marina didn’t get the picture, he gestured, his fingers exploding slowly in the air, like a gently opening flower.
‘
Marina ran out of the room as fast as she could go.
107
Phil reached the bottom of the steps. It hadn’t been easy. There were times he had had to steady himself with both hands to stop himself from either going over the side or tumbling down the metal staircase. But he had managed it.
At the bottom he looked round. Pulled at the cuffs tying his hands together. Searching for something sharp enough to cut through.
Wind was blowing through the gaps in the rusted corrugated sheet metal walls. That gave Phil an idea. He crossed over to one wall, going slowly in the dark, watching his footing, until he came to the outer wall and, putting his back to it, felt along for a gap.
There were plenty. He eventually found one at waist height with a rusted, jagged edge.
Perfect.
He found the sharpest point, put his wrists over it, worked the plastic up and down as hard and as fast as he could.
His arms ached, shoulders burnt with the exertion, chest heaved. But eventually it started to give. Encouraged by that, he rubbed all the harder, ignoring the growing pain until he could feel it coming and started to pull. It stretched and sharpened, digging in as it got thinner and eventually came apart. He was free.
He fell to his knees, gasping, rubbing his wrists.
Looked around, searching for any sign of the Creeper or Suzanne.
None.
He set off into the shadows, listening, watching, hoping his eyes would soon be acclimatised.
Hoping he wasn’t too late.
The Creeper felt the thrill of the hunt coursing through him. This was what it was about. Never mind all that is she/isn’t she Rani, this was the real thing. What he lived for.
Stalking, hunting down, trapping his prey. He loved it. Came truly alive then.
This was when he remembered his father, could honour the man’s memory. Even if he had run away and left him.
Not that he blamed him. Not with those bitches in the house.
He thought of all those holidays camping in the woods, tracking an animal, hunting it down and killing it. That, his father had told him, is what a real man does. How a real man lives.
The Creeper couldn’t have agreed more.
Then there was the other stuff, the things that happened afterwards… he didn’t like them so much. In fact he hated them. The pain, the hurt, being made to do things with his body he didn’t want to do.
At first, anyway. Eventually he got to tolerate it. Expect it, even.
Because it came along with his father’s words, words he had taken to heart, always lived by: ‘Women are whores, son. All of them. And you’ve got to treat them like that. Every one.’
And he had.
And he did. The snake within him uncoiling, ready to strike.
He scanned the area. Saw nothing, no movement at all.
Then his eyes fell on the boxes in the corner. The trough of water beside them, the blocks before them. There. Quick, fleeting. Just a movement.
He smiled. He had her.
Kept looking. There she was again, thinking she was hiding but showing herself at the far end of one of the boxes, beside the water.
This was so easy. In fact he wished it could be more of a challenge, more of a struggle. But it didn’t matter. A hunt was a hunt.
He moved in slowly, stealthily.
