The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) Page 10

  But here she was. With a chance.

  Anything can be a weapon. She had read that in a book, seen it in a film. Anything. And what did she have? Herself.

  The man was groaning and sweating, pushing her head harder, his hands rougher. Faster. And that was when she did it. Used her weapon.

  Bit down as hard as she could.

  The man screamed. She kept biting. He screamed some more. Tried to pull away from her. She held on to him. Snarling. Growling. Not letting go.

  Eventually others came running to the room and managed to get her away from him. The man was led screaming and crying from the room. She never saw him again.

  She looked up at the others, staring down at her. There was Tel and Dev. And Ellis too. All staring at her in horror. In fear. And she loved it. Because this was the last time she would be someone else’s victim.

  Ever.

  Ellis had kept her distance after that. Word had gone round once more that she had done something scary and the rest kept their distance too.

  They had wanted to punish her. Teach her a lesson in some way. But all of them, staring down at the half-dressed child, mouth and chin covered in dripping blood, hadn’t known what to do. So they had sent her back to the home.

  And as the time passed she watched. Ellis took other girls away. Plenty. And yes, they got presents and nice clothes and all of that. But she noticed something different about them. Like a light had gone out in their eyes. They drank. They took drugs. Trying to fill that hole inside them that the men had hollowed out. They disappeared, never heard from again. One of them killed herself. Several others tried. And she knew what they all were.

  Victims.

  That wasn’t going to happen to her. Oh no. She kept telling herself that. Never. Never.

  But still, the car kept arriving and the girls kept going. And it was a constant reminder to her of what had happened. Of how scared she had been. The ghost-like victim girls drifted around the home, haunting her memories. And she couldn’t have that. So she decided to do something about it. Nightmares had to be faced. So she would confront this one head on.

  One night she heard the car outside. Ellis got up, ready to go. She stopped her.

  I’ll take over now, she said.

  Ellis stared at her. What d’you mean?

  My job. I find the girls. I bring them over. I take a cut.

  Ellis stared at her, terrified. She wanted to say something, assert her authority once more, but the look of steel in her eyes stopped her.

  She walked out to the car. Tel saw her coming, looked as scared as Ellis had.

  I’m taking over from Ellis. I’ll supply the girls. You get paid, right?

  Yeah…

  And now I do. You’re just the driver. I do the work. We split the money.

  They won’t like it…

  Let’s ask them.

  But Tel didn’t want to do that. And he was so scared he agreed.

  And that was that.

  It was a good arrangement. She made money. She had to pay off Michael at the home like Ellis had done, as she had suspected, for turning a blind eye to what was going on but that was OK. And the girls became victims, not her.

  And everybody was happy.

  Until she met a girl called Fiona.

  18

  Marina stared out of the window. It was clean, a double-glazed unit in a uPVC replacement frame. The view: a railway line, an industrial estate and beyond that a road. In the middle of all that, on a patch of reclaimed brownfield land, had been built a relatively recent housing development, all small orange boxes, and adjacent to that were the beginnings of a shed-based retail park. It still looked like somewhere Marina wouldn’t want to live. She couldn’t imagine anyone would look forward to coming home there.

  ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ said a voice behind her. ‘It’s the view that sells it.’

  Marina turned. Caitlin Hennessey, the current manager of the children’s home, was behind her. Tall, her blonde hair artfully mussed, dressed in various combinations of florals, denim and wool with a pair of brightly coloured, neo-designer DM boots on her feet. Just what Marina would have imagined. But she also displayed a core of compassionate steel and a no-nonsense protective attitude. Not what Marina would have imagined this time but, given what she did for a living, what she would have hoped to see.

  ‘I’m sure it’s always the first consideration in council-run homes,’ said Marina, smiling.

  Caitlin nodded. ‘Of course. And then they make sure there’s no expense spared in providing for the kids we have to look after.’

  After the abortive and, if she was honest, heartbreaking call to Anni, Marina had called Rainsford House, the children’s home on the outskirts of Chelmsford in Essex where Fiona Welch had spent the majority of her adolescence growing up, and got straight through to the manager, Caitlin. After explaining who she was and what she wanted, Caitlin had said it would be better to talk face to face rather than on the phone and was she anywhere nearby? Marina said she would be there as quickly as she could.

  So, deciding not to check in with Cotter, fearing her response if she knew what she was about to do, she had phoned her work colleague and friend Joy, asked her to pick up Josephina from school, and drove straight from Birmingham to Chelmsford.

  She had felt guilty at leaving her daughter with friends, no matter how reliable and trustworthy they were. She had given her word to Josephina that everything was going to be all right and while she was sure she wasn’t the first adult to tell that lie to her own child, it didn’t make it any easier to bear. Josephina had yet to discover her father was missing. Another confrontation she was dreading.

  The car journey there had been full of such thoughts. Guilt had lain oppressively on her. Not just Josephina but also Anni. She should have realised how traumatised her friend still was, still grieving over Mickey. The last person she should have asked for help. Especially without giving anything in return. All she had thought about was Phil. Finding him. Getting him back safely. And then: neutralising this woman once and for all. In whichever way possible.

  She had turned the radio up as loud as she could bear it in the car, tried to let the aural wallpaper of Radio 2 wash away her guilt, compartmentalise her feelings. She could feel hurt later. She had work to do.

  It was now dark. The light from the room reflecting on the glass, turning it into a mirror, letting Marina see her frazzled reflection. Professional, she thought. Look and act professional.

  The room had four beds, each placed at corners, all trying to give the impression of individuality and personal space. Different coloured duvets, a small set of shelves adjacent to each bed personalised by the owner’s own belongings, a cheap self-assembly wardrobe.

  ‘We try and provide a home,’ said Caitlin, sensing what Marina was thinking. ‘Or at least a safe and happy environment. The kids come to us for all different reasons. Parents can’t cope, parents in prison, no parents… all sorts. We don’t generalise. We do what we’re meant to do, by law and inclination.’

  ‘Looks like you’re doing a good job.’

  ‘We try.’ Caitlin gave a wry smile. Marina knew that wry needed only two letters to become weary.

  ‘So,’ said Marina, putting her back on track, ‘Fiona Welch.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caitlin. She looked at Marina, scrutinising her. ‘What did you say this was concerning? And which police force are you with?’

  ‘West Midlands,’ she said. ‘And I’m not an officer; I’m a consulting psychologist working on an investigation. I can give you the name of the DCI in charge if you’d like to check.’

  ‘You already did on the phone. And I’ve already checked.’

  Shit. Marina held her breath.

  Caitlin smiled. ‘DCI Cotter said that given the nature of the investigation she wasn’t surprised that you were on the way to see me.’

  Marina breathed out. ‘That’s good of her.’

  ‘Now, shall we go to my office?’

&nb
sp; They did so, walking through the rest of the home as they went. Marina was impressed by how Caitlin was running it. It had a good feel to the place: the staff and residents seemingly getting along fine. They had taken this forbidding old house on the edge of Chelmsford and turned it into somewhere less imposing, more welcoming. She could see the children were well looked after and cared for. They behaved just like regular teenagers. But Marina knew from experience how much of that was bravado. She tried to imagine Phil in a place like this. Couldn’t.

  They reached the office and Caitlin made them comfortable. One of the teenage boys was given the job of making tea for the pair of them.

  ‘This should be an adventure,’ said Caitlin.

  The tea arrived eventually and the door closed.

  ‘Fiona Welch,’ said Caitlin.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marina. ‘She was here… when? Late nineties?’

  ‘Round about then. I don’t have her exact details to hand. I could get them sent on to you.’

  ‘But you remember her?’

  ‘I remember the case, obviously. The news. Doorstepped by the tabloids. Not an experience I want to repeat.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Marina.

  ‘And I also remember because of what happened while she was here.’

  ‘What did happen?’

  Caitlin paused. ‘You have to remember something. Each and every generation and the theories and practices of that generation tend to come as a reaction against the previous one.’

  ‘Same in my line.’

  Caitlin nodded. ‘Right. But I’m not saying everything done then was wrong and everything we do now is right. There’s good and bad in both. And that’s what makes – or should make – good practice.’

  ‘So what happened here then that was so bad?’

  ‘This place used to be badly run. Very badly run. The Dark Ages, we call it now. At around the time Fiona Welch was here the management was lax. Drugs were allowed on the premises. As was alcohol. As was sex. Now we know that sometimes happens, all these teenagers with raging hormones, course it does. And we have to try and legislate for that as realistically and honestly as possible. But there were people here, in charge, who weren’t always as stringent as that.’

  Marina felt a sense of dread at what was coming but still had to ask the question. ‘How d’you mean?’

  Caitlin looked at her, her eyes weighing up what to say. Eventually she continued. ‘All I can tell you is what’s a matter of public record. If you’re in a hurry it may speed things up. Otherwise you’ll need to come back with a court order. Sorry, but that’s the way it has to be. I have my position and this home to protect.’

  It was less than Marina had hoped for but about what she had expected. She nodded.

  ‘Right. You know all those old scandals about children’s homes? Letting pimps prey on the most vulnerable? Renting the kids out to rich paedophiles? All those tabloid headlines.’

  Marina nodded.

  ‘Well, it pains me to say it, but this was one of the worst. When Fiona Welch was here. She was right in the thick of it.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Marina, sitting back. ‘She was one of the victims?’

  A smile crept across Caitlin’s features.

  ‘Not quite.’

  19

  ‘Jason Lansdowne. Local bloke. Address in Essex. He matches. Result.’

  Imani – and the rest of the room – looked at the young officer who had just made the announcement. The atmosphere had changed in the room, the surge of energy palpable. Like they’d all suddenly taken a jolt, become electrified. She knew what they were all thinking and feeling: breakthrough.

  ‘Brilliant work, DC Matthews,’ said Beresford, then turned to the room. ‘Let’s keep going. DC Matthews, come and tell me what you’ve got.’

  Red-faced, he stood up, walked to the front of the room. Imani noticed just how young he was, how small. No, not small, compact. Neat. Everything in proportion, just waiting for life to fill him out. His suit was uncreased, sandy hair short and conservative, no stubble on his smooth face. He looked as if he didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or arrogant about his discovery.

  ‘Right,’ said Beresford, sitting down at his desk and looking up, ‘let’s be having it. What you got?’

  He didn’t introduce Imani so she did so herself.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Imani Oliver, West Midlands. Here temporarily.’

  ‘Detective Constable Simon Matthews.’

  They shook.

  ‘Waiting,’ said Beresford.

  Matthews cleared his throat. ‘Jason Lansdowne. Address 46 Holloway Crescent, Leaden Roding. That’s in Essex, sir, near Chelmsford.’

  ‘I know, DC Matthews, keep going.’

  ‘Apparently he’s been missing a few weeks now. His wife notified the local force but because they live on the border with Hertfordshire there seems to have been a mix-up and the information went there.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Imani.

  ‘He, er…’ Matthews was flustered. ‘He worked in Bishop’s Stortford. Over the line. He spent most of his time that way. His wife said he’d probably be there. It was only recently that we got involved.’

  ‘Has he vanished before?’ asked Imani.

  ‘He’s got a history of it, apparently. Gets drunk and disappears for a few days. At first his wife didn’t think anything of it. But when he’d been gone for longer than a week she called it in.’

  ‘Tolerant woman,’ Beresford commented. ‘Has she been contacted?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ll have to inform her.’

  Beresford sighed. ‘Hate informing the families. But I suppose as senior officer in charge —’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Imani.

  Beresford frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you’ll be needed here. I could take DC Matthews with me. I’ve got to do something to be useful. May as well be that.’

  Beresford actually looked disappointed, Imani thought. Usually a copper would jump at the chance not to have to be the bearer of bad news. So why did he seem so put out?

  She studied him further. Something about him made her uneasy. A few minutes earlier, when the rest of the team had been adrenalised by Matthews’ discovery, she had glanced at Beresford and he didn’t seem to be sharing in the exultation. His reaction was more of trepidation, she thought. And that couldn’t be right. He had hidden it well, but from his expression it seemed as if he hadn’t wanted the information to be discovered and was putting a brave face on it.

  She dismissed the thoughts as ridiculous. She was imagining it.

  And yet he had wanted to do the death knock…

  ‘Fair enough,’ Beresford said, although his eyes said a different thing. ‘Off you go.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s getting late. Once you’ve done that, call it a day. I’ll want you in here bright and early tomorrow. You got anywhere to stay?’

  ‘Haven’t had time to sort it. I’ll find a B and B on the way back.’

  Beresford nodded. ‘Go on, then.’

  Imani turned to Matthews. Smiled. ‘Get your coat, mate. You’ve pulled.’

  It was worth it just to see his expression.

  Matthews drove. His car, some kind of Toyota, Imani noted, seemed as shiny and compact as he did. Even though it wasn’t new it seemed to have a new car smell. Same as Matthews, thought Imani, then felt slightly guilty. But only slightly.

  Off they went down the A12. Patches of countryside were interspersed with industrial estates and railway lines. At times the railway ran alongside the main road, as if the cars were being invited to race the trains.

  Matthews had asked her why she was there, what was her part in the investigation.

  ‘Phil Brennan,’ she said. ‘He’s my boss over in Birmingham. He disappeared this morning.’

  ‘So I heard. You think there’s a connection between that and the case we’re working on?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out.’

  They drove on. Matthews had the radio tune
d locally. An Essex-accented DJ playing songs that should have been in a nursing home. She tuned out. Matthews held the wheel rigidly. It seemed like he hadn’t exhaled since he got in the car.

  ‘What’s he like?’ asked Matthews eventually.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘DI Brennan. He was before my time. But we heard a lot about him. Made a name for himself. One way and another.’

  ‘Bit of a trouble magnet, you mean?’ Imani smiled.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Matthews, relaxing slightly.

  ‘As a boss? Good. Really good. Encourages you to think outside the box, you know? Be creative. Follow procedure, but not slavishly. Be inspired. And he’s a nice guy, too. As far as I know him.’

  Matthews nodded. Said nothing.

  ‘How’s Beresford?’ asked Imani.

  Matthews hesitated before answering, seemingly choosing his words carefully. ‘He’s… well, he doesn’t sound much like DI Brennan. Quite the opposite, actually.’

  ‘Not much of a maverick?’ said Imani, smiling again at her choice of words.

  Matthews barely smiled. ‘By the book, all the way.’ And said no more. Though from his expression, Imani guessed there was more he wanted to say.

  Eventually they turned off the main road, went round winding, tree- and bush-lined country ones. The satnav directed them.

  They pulled up in a small cul de sac of red-brick houses, fifties, Imani guessed, all looking ex-council, now with uPVC windows and front doors. A fair few of them had white vans parked outside them.

  ‘Thought that was an urban myth about Essex,’ said Imani.

  Matthews frowned.

  ‘The white vans,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Lot of blue-collar workers live round here,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘Electricians, builders, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Right.’

  He turned to her. He still hadn’t loosened his seat belt, she noticed. ‘Can I say something?’ He looked concerned.