Free The Creeper by Tania Carver Page A

Shoved in around the books were magazines, folders, papers. A few ornaments and nicknacks sat on what space there was. Small and disparate, things that probably had a story or at least a joke behind them when first placed there, but were now dust-heavy and sun-faded. Opposite the shelves a desk dominated the rest of the room. A computer in the centre surrounded by a mini cityscape of piles of books. Around the painting on the wall was a timetable, a wall planner, a few postcards, a couple of yellowed cartoon strips cut from newspapers. But it was the painting that drew the eye. Anni was sure that was the intention.
    Mounted in an elaborate, yet old and chipped gold frame, it showed a man, tall, young and handsome, head back, chin up, standing in some marbled hall, his hands grasping the lapels of his jacket, gazing out with, on first viewing, a look of untouchable arrogance and haughtiness that bordered on contempt. On closer viewing, however, it showed the skill of the painter. The arrogance that informed the handsome features never reached the eyes. They held a mirth, a mockery, saying that the whole thing was a sham and that the man was going to burst out laughing at any moment.
    A smaller piece of artwork was pinned up next to the painting. Superman, all massive chest, huge arms and tiny underpants, was soaring above the Earth, an American flag fluttering behind him.
    The man has a serious ego problem, thought Anni.
    She sat in a gap between the desk and the doorway in a chair, ancient and wooden, dark and worn, with a tired tapestry cushion on the seat. It seemed to be at odds with the rest of the room, more like something found by the fire in an old, wood-beamed pub rather than in a functional 1960s office, all breeze-block walls and cast-iron windows, of a university professor.
    The subject of the painting was now sitting in front of Anni, at the book-covered desk, and he was no superman. His appearance showed, even more than the damaged frame, the dust collected on it or the fading of the oils, just how long ago it had been painted. He was still tall, but the black hair was largely grey and thinning slightly at the temples. The arrogant, haughty set of his features had deepened to become a set of permanent lines, like a mask worn for so long and so often it had become the wearer’s real face. The eyes, though, were what had changed the most. Rather than the self-mocking dancing in the painting, they just showed a weariness. And, once Anni had announced who she was, a wariness.
    ‘You’re lucky to catch me,’ he said. ‘I was about to go home.’
    She smiled. ‘So, Professor—’
    ‘Just Anthony, please,’ he said, offering a tentative smile. ‘No need for formality.’
    ‘Right.’
    Professor Anthony Howe had been easy to track down. Anni had made one phone call to the university to find him in his office. He had finished teaching for the day and was catching up on his marking. He would be in for a few hours, he said, if she wanted to drop by, but what was it concerning? Once she mentioned Suzanne Perry’s name, however, he hurriedly said he had to leave for home. When she suggested she meet him there he claimed to be on his way to a pressing engagement. No problem, she would catch him in the morning. But she would talk to him. It was important.
    And he had sighed and, realising she was going nowhere and that it would be best to get it over with as soon as possible, had relented. So there she was.
    ‘I must say,’ he said, still working on his smile, ‘you’re not what I was expecting.’
    ‘Really.’ Anni raised an eyebrow. Almost stifled a yawn. ‘Because I’m black?’
    He nodded, then realised what Anni must have been thinking. ‘Oh no, not because you’re . . . because of that. No. Just . . . when I spoke to you on the phone I got quite a different impression of you.’
    ‘In what way?’
    He tried for a smile. ‘You sounded like a police officer. Now, sitting here, you could pass for a