The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) Read online

  He felt her hand move over the duvet, make its way down his body.

  ‘Mine…’

  11

  Imani knocked on another door in Phil and Marina’s street in Moseley village. Old Edwardian and thirties houses, substantial and solid, a suburban part of Birmingham but with enough character in pubs, restaurants, non-chain shops and residents to still justify calling itself a village.

  She hadn’t expected much and so far she hadn’t been disappointed. Most of the houses on the street were empty. People at work, school runs done and off into town, or just not answering the door. The only ones who had answered her had been elderly and lonely. They invited her in, made or offered her tea. Tried and tried to think if they had seen anything, willing an image or a memory to mind, not wanting to disappoint this young and attractive woman, to prove they could still be of some use, but ultimately had nothing to tell her. Imani didn’t hint, didn’t lead in the questioning, didn’t want them to pick up on something she said and confirm it just to make her happy. She offered no clues. They gave her no answers. But she was fairly well versed on the occupations and spread geography of their offsprings. The two uniforms she had with her were, she presumed, making a similar lack of progress.

  She knocked and waited at the latest door. Idly checked her watch and found herself agreeing with Marina. Yes, this was procedure, yes, it was to be followed. But all the while she was doing this, whoever had taken Phil – and that was looking increasingly likely – was getting further away.

  Further thought was stopped. The door opened. There stood an old woman. Here we go again, thought Imani.

  She held up her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Imani Oliver.’ She put the card down, smiled. Reassuringly, she hoped. ‘We’re doing door-to-door enquiries in this area. Could I ask you a few questions, please?’

  The woman immediately became suspicious, glancing behind Imani, up and down the street. ‘What about?’

  She took a photo from her pocket, showed it to her. ‘Have you seen this man?’

  ‘I don’t have my glasses on…’ The woman picked up the photo, scrutinised it. ‘Wait a moment.’ She turned, left Imani on the doorstep. She returned quickly with her glasses, resumed looking.

  Imani watched her. Eventually the woman looked up, pointed to the photo. ‘He lives over there.’ She looked quizzically at Imani. ‘Is he in trouble?’

  Imani ignored the question. ‘Have you seen him this morning?’

  The woman looked up at Imani. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Getting into a car.’

  Imani felt her heart thud.

  ‘Could I come in, please?’

  Imani sat on the sofa, the woman opposite in an armchair. An open book lay on the arm of the chair. Imani tried to read the spine, make out what it was. Some non-fiction history. Not the cheap supermarket romance she had been expecting. And she hadn’t been offered tea, either.

  ‘Joan Harrison,’ said the woman by way of an introduction. Imani smiled in turn.

  ‘Joan – d’you mind if I call you Joan?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘It’s my name.’

  ‘Joan, what can you tell me about the man you saw this morning?’

  ‘He was getting into a car.’ Her voice didn’t betray her age at all. Clear and lucid, just like her eyes.

  ‘Can you describe the car?’

  ‘Large, silver. Looked expensive. Big and powerful. Cars aren’t my strong point, I’m afraid.’ She gave a small smile. Like she was testing how it would fit her features. ‘If it had been a hansom cab or a sedan chair or litter, then I might be more help.’

  She continued, answering Imani’s quizzical expression. ‘Historian. Retired, unfortunately.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But I’m not one of those busybodies with too much time on their hands, who spend the day curtain-twitching.’ The statement was more like an admonishment, thought Imani. Don’t expect me to answer all your questions.

  ‘Right,’ said Imani, smiling. ‘It’s good to keep active. I don’t suppose you saw the make or model of the car?’

  ‘Big and silver. Sorry.’

  ‘Or the registration number?’

  Another smile. ‘As I said, I’m not a professional curtain-twitcher. I happened to look out of the window when I opened the living room curtains, here.’ She pointed to the bay window. ‘I saw the man from over the road getting into a car. I didn’t know I was going to be tested on it. If so, I’d have taken more notice.’

  ‘I understand. You’re being helpful, though, thank you.’

  ‘May I just ask one question before you proceed further?’

  ‘Certainly. If I can answer it.’

  ‘What is the man from opposite supposed to have done?’

  ‘Done?’

  ‘You’re a policewoman. You must be interested in him for some reason. Is he a criminal?’

  ‘No. He’s not. He’s a police detective. He works with me.’

  ‘Really?’ The woman’s eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Is he undercover?’

  ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘His clothes. He dresses more like a labourer.’

  Imani returned the smile, shook her head. ‘You’re not the first to say that.’

  Before the woman could speak further, Imani continued. ‘Did you see anybody else? Was someone driving the car?’

  ‘Yes. A big man. Bald. Or shaven-headed. It’s so hard to distinguish these days. A lot do it instead of having to comb over what hair they have that remains. I don’t suppose I could blame them, really. Although it does make one look like some kind of street thug.’

  ‘Absolutely. Did you catch what he was wearing, by any chance?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘A suit? Casual clothes?’

  ‘A shirt. And tie. Like he’d taken his jacket off. He helped the man from opposite with his luggage.’

  ‘Luggage?’

  ‘Put it in the boot. Then the man opposite got into the car with the bald man and they drove off.’

  ‘What time was this, exactly?’

  Another smile. ‘Around nine o’clock. I’m afraid I can’t be more accurate. As I said, I wasn’t expecting to be quizzed about it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Imani. ‘Just one more question.’ She reached into her bag, drew out a photograph of Beresford that had been printed off from the email Franks had sent over. She showed it to Joan. ‘Was this the man driving the car?’

  ‘Well, as I said, I wasn’t watching closely but yes. Yes, it could very well have been.’

  Imani stood up to go. Heart racing, tingling now. ‘You’ve been very helpful. By the way – did the man from opposite look like he was being coerced to get into the car?’

  ‘Not at all. They even shook hands.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Imani hurried out, phone already in her hand, dialling Cotter.

  ‘It’s me, ma’am,’ she said, getting behind the wheel of her car. ‘I’ve got a witness who saw Phil getting into a car this morning.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Big and silver. Driven by a big, bald man. What kind of car does Beresford drive?’

  She heard papers being moved in the background. ‘A Vauxhall Insignia. Silver.’

  A shiver ran though Imani.

  ‘I’ve got what could well be a positive ID on DS Beresford being the driver from a witness.’

  Cotter didn’t reply.

  ‘I’m coming back to the station. Right now.’

  12

  Marina knew how it ended. She had been there.

  Fiona Welch falling to her death from a crane gantry by the old Dock Transit Company building on the River Colne in Colchester. Phil Brennan up there beside her. She didn’t need to bring up reports or old files to remember that.

  Sitting at a desk, going through things as Cotter had suggested, trying to take her mind off what was happening. Or what might be happening. She could have been back in her office on campus. Almost.

  Be
cause this wasn’t a way to forget. All Marina did was remember.

  Fiona Welch. PhD student. Murderer. Killed three women and one man – a police officer – that they knew of. Her self-justification: an attempt to demonstrate a transgressive lifestyle. To show superiority to other humans. In reality: self-deluded jealousy. The victims were all ex-girlfriends of her boyfriends or, in the case of the police officer, her lover.

  Marina knew all that. What she didn’t know was the woman’s life story. Where she came from. What caused her to grow into the monster she became?

  She looked at the screen, rubbed her eyes, ran another search.

  Names appeared. Photos. None of them right. She didn’t want Fiona Welch the business analyst whose LinkedIn profile said hailed from Cardiff. Or the Fiona Welch who, according to Facebook, was a second-year Classics student at Manchester University and was planning a trip to Glastonbury. She redefined her search parameters. Added Murderer to the list. That did it.

  A collection of true-crime articles appeared. She leaned forward, read the titles of each one, checked on their provenance. It was what she had expected. Some were erudite, psychological in approach, attempting – or claiming to attempt – to understand what had formed her, made her behave the way she had. Others were more predictably lurid, their prose sensational, making no attempt at understanding, just glorifying and amplifying her violently murderous career.

  Marina realised she should have been looking at the reports with a degree of professional detachment but since it was her own husband who she was trying to find she found it increasingly difficult. Especially after reading the tabloid reports.

  My husband has been taken by that woman…

  She shook the thought out of her head. Not that woman. That woman was dead. Another woman. One who she needed to find. Hoped this would help her to do so. Head down again, she tried to continue. She read everything, attempting to ignore both the tabloid prurient descriptions of crime scenes and skipping over the broadsheet pseudo-psychology behind her motivations. Just the facts. All she wanted. Facts. From them and more official reports and associated databases she managed to piece together Fiona Welch’s early life.

  Fiona Welch had been brought up in various care homes in Chelmsford, Essex. Marina made a list of the ones noted. Foster homes were also mentioned but she could find no specific details of them. She had attended various schools in Chelmsford, not lasting very long at most of them. Marina leaned forward. It was becoming interesting. The schools she attended all spoke of an initially disruptive pupil who, with time and effort, settled down and began to apply herself to work. Such an achievement in itself shouldn’t have been a surprise, thought Marina, but children from care and foster homes always struggled, always started on a lower rung to children from happy homes. She immediately felt guilty for thinking that. Her husband Phil had had a similar background, brought up by foster parents who had eventually adopted him. Phil’s adoptive father, and possibly the greatest male influence on his life, had been a police detective. And that was, even after all this time, something she still couldn’t work out about him.

  Phil, Marina had often observed, was the last person most people would think of as a police officer. She had watched, amused, as he had introduced himself to friends and colleagues at the university. His dress sense, hair and general manner all suggested another lecturer, possibly English, maybe History or even Drama. Then she would see their faces change when he told them who he was and what he did for a living. Apart from the fact that he was good at catching criminals, Marina wondered whether he wouldn’t have been happier doing something else. But then she also wondered if Phil would have thought he’d be letting the memory of his adoptive father down. That was why she believed he had joined the force. Not that he had ever said as much. Not even to her.

  She put those thoughts from her mind, concentrated once more on the task at hand.

  Essex University in Colchester was next. Then secondment with the police while she was a PhD student. The murders. Then her demise. Marina didn’t need to read about that again.

  Marina sat back. Looked at the screen once more, at her notes.

  Children’s homes. Foster homes. Something to go on. She knew – or strongly suspected – that Cotter had given her this job just to give her something to do, to feel like she was contributing in some way. Keep her from worrying.

  Marina hoped that wasn’t true. She wasn’t a frontline detective but she had skills that could catch this woman, could find her husband, skills that most police officers often didn’t possess.

  She kept staring at the notes. Yes, Cotter would follow it up. But no matter how urgent the job of finding Phil was, she would be hidebound by procedure and protocol. And every second counted. But Marina had no procedure or protocol to follow. Nothing to stop her from investigating this herself.

  She smiled. And she knew just the person to ask to help her.

  13

  ‘Get your bags packed,’ Cotter had said, ‘you’re off to Colchester.’ That was how Imani found herself on the A14 driving as fast as she could, ready to hopefully make some headway in the hunt for her missing DI.

  She had gone straight back to Steelhouse Lane after phoning Cotter. Passed on the neighbour’s information to the DCI.

  ‘So he did leave,’ said Cotter. ‘We have to assume as much. And we can’t get in touch with him.’

  ‘And the description matches the one Colchester gave us for DS Beresford,’ said Imani. ‘Even the car fits. This isn’t random. Definitely. There’s some planning been put into this.’

  Cotter nodded, thought. ‘I’ll get Sperring and Khan looking into it from this end. Get Elli to check CCTV in the area, uniforms to get out looking for a Vauxhall Insignia. Perhaps he’s even matched the number plate.’

  ‘It seems likely,’ said Cotter. ‘Or something similar. Muddying the water, perhaps?’

  ‘Could be. Sending us on a wild goose chase.’

  The drive was largely uneventful. The road was single track in parts and although Imani became frustrated when she got stuck behind someone who didn’t share her sense of urgency she refrained from using the lights and siren of her unmarked. The slower pace actually helped her, forced her to take in the surroundings, look for any signs that Phil hadn’t arrived at Colchester, had taken a detour somewhere along this road. She sighed. That could be anywhere.

  She looked at her hands on the wheel. Her knuckles. Steady. No shaking. She hadn’t been back on frontline duties for long. A remarkable recovery, the psychologist said, considering what she had been through. Nearly nine months ago now. But it was still hard to forget. Watching a colleague being killed in front of her, a colleague who perhaps could have become more than a friend, was one thing. Being tasered, kidnapped and imprisoned by a murderer who planned on killing her slowly and making her suffer purely because she was a woman who had bested him was something else entirely. Something she wouldn’t – couldn’t, didn’t – forget easily.

  If it hadn’t been for the support shown to her by her colleagues and family she didn’t know what would have become of her. Especially Marina. She had worked hard to bring her back to some semblance of normal. Hours of ranting, screaming, sobbing, holding. And eventually a small chink of light through her darkness, a light that expanded and grew until she felt confident – safe – enough to walk in it. Marina was brilliant. She understood what Imani had gone through. After all, she had been there herself.

  Whatever doesn’t kill you, her dad had said during that time when she had returned to the small family home to feel safe, trotting out the old Nietzschean cliché (not that he had a clue where it came from), makes you stronger. His bluff way of showing concern. She smiled at the memory. If it didn’t concern Aston Villa he was useless at expressing emotion. The smile faded. Imani had never agreed with the sentiment. If something didn’t kill you straight away it didn’t necessarily make you stronger. It could also kill you bit by bit. She hoped that wasn’t the case.

&
nbsp; The afternoon was more empty than full when she eventually arrived at Queensway station in Colchester, satnav pinging that this was her final destination. She looked at the building before her. It was totally unlike Steelhouse Lane. She always considered her place of work to be like some kind of Gothic schoolhouse, all red brick, turrets and crenellations. This was completely the opposite. Low and spread out, a kind of bland, beige box. She could almost feel her hair lifting from the imagined static coming off the nylon carpets inside. It could have been anything from an office block on an anonymous provincial industrial estate to a low security prison. In a way, she thought, it was both of those things.

  She locked the car, went to the desk, asked for DCI Gary Franks.

  She didn’t wait long. A red-headed, red-faced bull of a man came barrelling down the corridor towards her. He wore his suit grudgingly, as if he’d lost a fight with it. He gave a grim smile, extended his paw of a hand.

  ‘DCI Franks.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Imani Oliver.’ She shook. His eyes looked like they had seen bad things and learned from the experiences.

  ‘Come this way.’

  He beckoned her along the corridor. She followed.

  Despite the beige trappings, the station was the same as what she was used to. Same smell. Same feel. Same atmosphere. Same people doing the same job.

  He directed her to his office, closed the door behind her and gestured she take a seat. She did so. He took his jacket off, ripping it away like it was some kind of parasite that had wrapped itself round his body, and sat down behind his desk.

  ‘Quite a day,’ he said. She noticed, for the first time, his Welsh accent.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Quite a few days, really.’

  ‘How is that going, sir? I presume you mean the hanging bodies?’

  ‘I do,’ he said, sitting back.

  She took the opportunity to glance around the room; through it, take some impressions of the man himself. There was a kind of near-military discipline to the place. Framed photos and citations on the walls. Everything neatly placed. Rugby trophies, handsomely mounted.