Free Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper by Tania Carver

around her face, framing her pretty features. Zoe seemed to find the business of looking beautiful effortless. It made Suzanne feel even worse.
    ‘You told me to come over. I’ve had to throw a sicky so tell all.’
    Suzanne sighed, held the mug in front of her once more like a shield, told her everything.
    ‘So . . .’ Her account didn’t actually conclude, she just seemed to lose the energy to make words. ‘That’s, that’s it . . .’
    Zoe stared at Suzanne, eyes wide, lips parted. Even her look of horror seemed perfect. Suzanne felt suddenly tired once more.
    ‘God, Suzanne, that’s, that’s really horrible . . .’
    Suzanne closed her eyes, said nothing. She knew that already.
    Zoe leaned forward. ‘Was it . . .’
    Suzanne opened her eyes again. ‘Couldn’t have been. I . . . No.’ She sighed. ‘No.’ Her head dropped. ‘No.’
    Zoe leaned back, said nothing.
    Suzanne looked up. ‘Why would it be him? Why now?’ Emotion was building inside her once more. ‘Why?’
    ‘It can’t be him, not Anthony . . . ’
    ‘You weren’t there, Zoe. You didn’t see the photo, you didn’t have the dream.’ Her mind slipped back to the previous night. ‘The dream, oh God, Zoe . . .’
    ‘Suzanne.’ Zoe’s eyes locked on to Suzanne’s. Clear and bright and blue, not like Suzanne’s muddy-brown ones. Her hands reached out, took Suzanne’s.
    ‘You being a therapist, now?’ Suzanne’s smile was as weak as her voice.
    ‘Bringing my work home with me,’ said Zoe. ‘Now take a deep breath. Be calm. It can’t be Anthony. You know that.’
    Suzanne said nothing, just concentrated on breathing, waited for Zoe to continue.
    ‘What happened with Anthony, Suzanne . . . that’s all done with.’
    Suzanne said nothing, kept her eyes averted from her friend.
    Zoe tried to make eye contact, frowned. ‘Suzanne, it is finished, isn’t it?’
    Suzanne said nothing.
    Zoe sat back, dropped Suzanne’s hands. ‘Oh, you’re not. Suzanne, tell me you’re not . . .’
    Suzanne looked up. ‘No. I’m not.’
    ‘Sure?’
    ‘Yes,’ Suzanne said, looking at the carpet. ‘I’m sure.’
    ‘Good.’ Zoe smiled. ‘Well, you needn’t worry. I’ll stay tonight.’
    Suzanne looked up. ‘You can’t do that.’
    ‘Why not? You can’t stay on your own. I’ll be with you. We can go to work together tomorrow. You are going in tomorrow? ’
    ‘Well, yes, I hope so, but . . .’ Suzanne tried to find some objection. This was typical of Zoe. Good-looking and good-hearted. Sometimes she didn’t feel worthy of her friendship. ‘What about Russell? He’ll—’
    ‘—be fine for a couple of days. He can cope.’ Zoe smiled.
    ‘Might give him a chance to miss me. Appreciate me all the more when I go home.’
    ‘But—’ Suzanne felt tears well within once more.
    ‘Stop it. None of that.’ Zoe stood up. ‘I’ll just nip home and get a few things. Will you be OK on your own for an hour or so or d’you want to come with me?’
    ‘I’ll be fine.’
    ‘Lock the door after me.’
    Suzanne did so, triple-checking the locks. Then walked back into the living room, sat down. Her coffee was cold. She looked round for something to do, something to distract her. Take her mind off things until Zoe returned. Saw the phone.
    No.
    No. She shouldn’t.
    She knew what she was going to do. Who she was going to call. No.
    She picked it up. Put it on the table.
    Kept looking at it.
    No.
    Picked it up again. Her hand a claw, holding the receiver like an eagle would its prey.
    Dialled a number she knew by heart. A number she had never forgotten.

17

    A nni Hepburn stared at the painting on the wall and wondered what to make of it and also the person who owned it.
    It took centre stage in a very small, cramped office, a narrow, shelf-lined room that could have doubled as a store cupboard or a corridor to nowhere. The shelves were full of books: textbooks, novels, old, new, with no particular order to them that she could work out.