The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) Read online

  Franks continued. ‘We’re still working on them. As yet, no one’s come forward with anything. No missing persons that fit the description. But we’re working. We’re looking. Our top priority.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I take it there’s no sign of DI Brennan yet?’

  ‘No. We were hoping you had some news.’

  Franks shook his head. ‘Incredible. Just incredible.’ A ghost of a smile passed his lips. ‘Mind you, if it would happen to anyone, it would happen to him. Magnet for trouble, that man. Murder rate’s dropped since he left. Bet it’s gone up where you are?’

  Imani wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘I… I’d have to check, sir.’

  He did smile this time, but it didn’t stay very long on his features. ‘Only joking, DS Oliver.’ He sighed, all business again. ‘You say someone answering Detective Sergeant Beresford’s description was seen at DI Brennan’s house? And that he got into the car with him and off they went?’

  ‘That’s right. Even the car, make and model, matched. Same with the description. I’m sure Phil —’ she corrected herself, ‘DI Brennan would have asked for identification. There’s no way he would have got into that car otherwise.’

  ‘Phil,’ said Franks, nodding. ‘Still big on informality. But yes, you’re right. And DS Beresford couldn’t go anywhere because of his car.’

  ‘Does he have his warrant card with him?’

  ‘Of course.’ Franks sounded insulted at the suggestion.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Imani, ‘but I have to ask. I’m sure you’ve done the same thing. Even if he is an officer of yours.’

  ‘True. And I have done. DCI Cotter and I have been sharing information all the while you’ve been driving here. I know what’s happened and I’ve questioned DS Beresford. I’m satisfied he told me the truth.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘That’ll be him now.’

  Franks shouted to whoever it was to enter. A huge, bald man came in. Imani stood up. DS Dave Beresford looked just like his photo. He crossed to her, smiled. Shook hands.

  ‘DS Beresford.’ He smiled. ‘Dave.’

  He had an appealing smile for such a large man. Charming, in fact.

  ‘DS Oliver,’ she said. ‘Imani.’

  ‘Right,’ said Franks, while Beresford pulled up a chair, ‘you’ve had your pleasantries, let’s get down to it. I assume DCI Cotter’s sent you here to see how we’re doing, that right?’

  ‘And to assist in any way I can, sir.’

  ‘Right. Well.’ He looked to Beresford and back to Imani. ‘We’ve got a lot to do. Hope you can think on your feet.’

  ‘I can, sir.’

  ‘That’s it then. Welcome aboard, DS Oliver. Here’s to a successful investigation.’

  She smiled, nodded. Aware all the time of Beresford’s eyes on her.

  14

  At least she had stopped touching him. That seemed to be the best he could hope for at the moment.

  Phil still couldn’t move. Every time he pulled against the restraints they just seemed to tighten. But at least the woman had left him alone.

  Terror had crept up on him when she had started stroking. Her hand firmly brushing over him, working its way down the length of his body. All the while smiling at him, holding eye contact. Waiting for him to flinch, move, respond, anything. Phil struggled hard to keep as still, be as passive as he could. Not let his body make any kind of involuntary responses to her touch. In any way.

  Seeing that her fingers weren’t having the response she had hoped for she had stood up, laughed and left the room. He was alone once more. His head reeling with questions.

  He once again tried to work out what he knew, rationalise the situation. He was in trouble, yes. More than that: danger. She had killed before. Clearly she had no compunction about killing again. But he didn’t think she wanted to kill him. Or at least not yet. She wanted him for something else. She had gone to all this trouble, killing three men, even getting a serving police officer to kidnap him. Or who he presumed was a police officer. She wanted something. Something he hadn’t yet given her. Something that, in her twisted mind, it seemed like he was the only person who could provide. That was the one good thought he clung on to, the one thing that kept him going. That meant that, no matter how slim, he still had a chance.

  He looked round the room once more, trying to find some clue as to where he was. His eyes fell on two little capsules on his bedside table. Blue and white, just lying there. He didn’t know what they were, but he was sure they weren’t good.

  But he didn’t have time to dwell on anything further as the door opened and she entered once more.

  ‘Had a little rest?’ she said. ‘Good. Build your strength up. You’re going to need it.’

  ‘What for?’

  She didn’t reply. Just gave him another smile. ‘Dinner will be served soon. One of your favourites. Pork and chorizo goulash, is that right?’

  Phil couldn’t answer for a few seconds. She was right, it was one of his favourites. He often made it himself since it was one of his signature dishes, as he had once laughingly described it to Marina – that and spaghetti bolognese.

  ‘I know you like to make it yourself,’ she said, ‘but I do hope you’ll enjoy my recipe. I’ve followed yours as closely as I could.’

  More questions than Phil could articulate. Before he could seize on one of them, she sat down on the bed, looked at him once more.

  ‘Thought we might have a little chat before dinner.’

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Phil. ‘And why have you got me here like this?’

  She sighed, looked disappointed. ‘I thought you’d be more original than that. Really, I expected better of you.’

  ‘Who are you, then? How about that one.’

  She gave a smile reserved for the most patronising of nurses. ‘You know who I am, darling.’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘Look at me.’ She sat back, flung her arms wide, cocked her head to one side. ‘Who do I look like? Who am I?’

  ‘You’re not Marina. You know you’re not Marina.’

  She leaned forward once more, talking as if explaining something to a slow child. ‘No. I’m not Marina. But I’m more than her. Much more.’

  ‘Like what, who?’

  She leaned even further in. ‘I’m the person who knows you best, Phil Brennan. I’m the only person who understands you.’ She sat back again, smiling, waiting for his response. A manic, self-satisfied glee dancing in her eyes. ‘Really, truly understands you.’

  ‘No you don’t. Don’t talk bullshit. I don’t know you.’

  She looked mock-appalled. ‘No need for that language, lovely one. You know there isn’t. Now.’

  She leaned forward once more, her hands upon him. He stiffened, tried to pull away from her touch. Couldn’t. She smiled.

  ‘Just relax. You’re not going anywhere.’

  He said nothing. Stiffened his body even more, clenched his teeth together.

  She continued. ‘Phil, I know what you’re really like. I mean, really, really like. Underneath it all. I know the real you.’

  She still hadn’t moved her hands. He couldn’t keep still forever, hold his breath forever. He exhaled. Tried to relax, concentrate on her words. Remember his training. Try to engage her.

  ‘This is the real me.’

  She shook her head. ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘Then who, or what, is the real me?’

  ‘The one who’s underneath…’ she gave an expansive gesture, flicked her wrist at where the wardrobe was supposed to be, ‘… all this. The clothes. The attitude. The outlook, that carefully cultivated outlook that puts you at odds with everyone else you work with. Even your own team. Especially your own team. The thrill you get from trying to be… different.’

  ‘I don’t try to be different, I just… I am who I am.’

  She laughed. ‘No. You think you know who you are. Don’t you? You believe the lies you tell yours
elf. You get up every day, look at yourself in the mirror and think, what can I do that’s different? What can I wear that’ll make me stand out at work? What opinion shall I have that’s contrary to everyone else’s? That’s what you do, Phil. Each and every day.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Language, please.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  She sat back once more, stared at him. There was no playfulness in her eyes this time. Just dark, angry blackness.

  ‘Don’t say that to me again, Phil. I won’t tolerate it.’ Her voice low, quiet even, carrying an unmistakable threat. ‘Keep speaking to me like that and I’ll make you sorry. I don’t care what you mean to me. No one talks to me like that. Not even you.’

  Phil glimpsed the madness inside her. He didn’t want to antagonise her further. But he still couldn’t bring himself to apologise to her. So instead he said nothing.

  She waited to see that he wasn’t going to say anything else. ‘That’s better.’

  He glanced to the capsules on the bedside table. ‘What are they for? Suicide pills, are they? Or something to help me sleep?’

  She smiled. ‘All in good time. You’re not ready for that yet. I’ll let you know when you are. You’ve a long way to go.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Oh yes. Now. As I was saying. You get a thrill from being transgressive. There’s no point denying it, because if you do that you’re denying a basic part of yourself. You get a thrill from being different. Don’t you?’

  He listened to her this time, let her words penetrate. He had to admit, grudgingly, she was right. He liked to dress differently for work. He couldn’t abide the opinions that the majority of other officers held. No matter how much some of them pretended otherwise, they would always come down on the opposite side to him. He knew they joked about him, called him a bleeding heart liberal, but he didn’t care. He was. That was one of the main reasons he had gone into the police force in the first place.

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  She grinned, like she had just scored an important point. ‘I knew it. I just had to get you to admit it, that’s all. But I know you are. Because guess what? I am too. We make quite a pair, don’t we?’

  Phil said nothing.

  The smile dropped. A look of mania danced in her eyes once more. She leaned towards him, her mouth by his ear. He could feel her breath on his cheek. ‘Oh yes, I am too. Never forget that. But with me, it’s everything.’

  She sat back once more. Phil found his voice again.

  ‘It isn’t like that with me. I’m not like that. Yes, I like to dress differently at work. That’s one thing. But transgressive? I’m the least transgressive person I know.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘Yes I am. And all this? About me? You’re just guessing. That’s all. You don’t really know anything.’

  ‘Oh I do, Phil. More than you know. More than you realise.’

  ‘Oh really? Such as. Go on, give me an example.’

  She looked at her nails as if what she was about to say wasn’t a big deal. ‘Oh, I know about the darkness inside you, Phil. That real, harrowing darkness that you keep hidden. From everyone. That darkness you can barely acknowledge.’

  ‘Bull —’ He stopped himself. ‘There’s no darkness.’

  ‘Yes there is. So deep, so hidden that you daren’t tell anyone. Not even the sainted Marina.’

  ‘Prove it, then.’

  ‘I will.’ She leaned forward towards him once more, her mouth close to his ear. She cupped her hand round it, so as not to let any of the sound spill out.

  And she whispered two words.

  Then sat back, staring at him. Eyes dancing with a sick triumph.

  Phil couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. His heart was pounding faster than a stampede of bulls. He was frozen.

  ‘Right,’ she said, smoothing down the front of her dress, ‘ready for dinner yet?’ She produced a taser. ‘Sorry. Necessary precaution. Till I know you’re not going to try anything stupid. Till we get to trust each other.’

  She put it to his chest, fired. Phil screamed, shuddered, collapsed.

  Blackness.

  15

  One. Two. One. One. Fast. Two. Slow. Uppercut. One. One. Jab. Hard. Harder.

  Anni Hepburn was in the gym, gloved up, focused, eyes steely and feet positioned. Strong. Pounding the bag for all it was worth.

  She blinked sweat from her eyes, kept pounding, hitting. Felt pain in her chest, her arms. Cramp. The jarring of her fists, even against padded polymer, sent shockwaves up her arms, jangled the joints as they went. Her response was to hit harder, jab faster. Make each punch count. Let each one hurt.

  She knew her opponent wasn’t real. She knew her opponent couldn’t feel. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying. Because she could feel. No matter how much she tried to block it out, she could still feel.

  She paused, let her arms drop to her sides. Exhausted. More tired than she had felt for ages. But she wasn’t done yet. She picked up her towel, wiped away most of the sweat. Squared up against the bag once more. And raised her leg to strike.

  Boxing. Kickboxing. It had become her life. Her obsession. Punching and kicking the pain away. Keeping the loss at bay. Keeping her anger contained. Directed.

  Over six months since she had left the police force. Since she had realised she just couldn’t walk into the station any more, couldn’t face the rest of the team staring at her while they were pretending not to. At least that was what it had felt like.

  She had tried. At first. Once she had gone through sessions with the psychologist, counselling for grief and anything else that came up. Tried to force herself to believe that she was stronger than her faults, that her emotions wouldn’t get the better of her. That she was in control. The sessions went as expected.

  Screaming out the name of her dead partner, Mickey, Detective Sergeant Philips, her partner on the force and in life, asking why him, why not her, why not anyone but him. And hating the woman who had done it. The woman who had called herself Fiona Welch.

  Eventually she had run out of hatred, leaving herself numb. That, she considered, was progress. Or as much progress as she thought she could accomplish.

  And gradually she began to pull herself back together. She refused medication, tried a different way. Exercise to release her body’s endorphins. Then more exercise. Then more. Now, her body was a small, compact walking muscle. Like she was wearing her own-grown armour.

  Eventually she returned to work. Light duties at first, which she hated, then frontline work. Which, she was shocked to learn, she hated even more. She couldn’t cope. More than that, she didn’t care. And she had always told herself that when she stopped caring then it was time to leave the force.

  But the staring. The whispering. The judging, either real or imagined. That was worse. That was the deciding factor.

  So she left. And, pragmatically, turned her fitness obsession into a career. She worked as a personal trainer in one of Colchester’s many health clubs. It was fine. She worked part time, still had her police pension and they allowed her to come in and train as much as she liked. And she did it a lot. Worked her body, tired herself out. It stopped her from dwelling on the past, on the future, on herself. Stopped her from thinking too much.

  She needed a rest, couldn’t ignore her body this time. She walked away from the bag, reluctantly, and headed for a seat. Changed her mind at the last minute and sat at one of the machines instead. If she was going to rest she could be working on her arms and upper body while she did so.

  She took a drink of water, gulping it down from her bottle, exhaled once more. Her arms were shaking from the exercise, her legs likewise.

  And then her phone rang.

  Her iPhone, attached to her arm in a gym strap, used only for her fitness and training programme, for music to listen to when she needed to zone out completely. She had almost forgotten it could take calls. Hardly anyone called any more.r />
  She took it from her arm, looked at the display. And kept looking. Staring all the while, her body now shaking from more than the workout. Just staring. Seeing that one name staring back at her.

  Marina.

  Her thumb hovered between the green and red buttons. It kept ringing. She pressed red. It stopped.

  Sighing, closing her eyes, she began to return it to her arm strap. Just that one name had sliced through all her carefully fortified defences. And everything came tumbling back. Work. Phil. Marina. Her old team. And especially Mickey. His smiling face there in her mind once more.

  They had tried to help her and she had been grateful for that. But she couldn’t see them any more, couldn’t talk to them. It was too painful, brought back too many memories. When she spoke to Phil or Marina she kept seeing the after-image of Mickey standing next to them. An unremarked-upon ghost. She knew they meant well. And they were her friends. But there was some part of her, one she hated to acknowledge, that blamed them for Mickey’s death. She knew it wasn’t true when she looked at the facts logically, but still the thought persisted. They were all tied up together. And Anni had found it better to just cut herself off from all of them.

  Her phone rang again. Her heart flipped. She knew who it would be even without looking.

  She took it from the strap, checked the display once more. Marina. She had been right.

  And again her thumb hovered over the red and the green. Red and green. Stop, go. So easy. Press red and that would be it. The end of it. So easy…

  She pressed green.

  Placed the phone to her ear. Her fingers trembling from more than just physical exertion.

  ‘Anni?’

  ‘What d’you want?’ Her voice as brusque, as emotionless as possible. Use it as a barrier. Keep everyone out.

  ‘Oh.’ Marina was clearly taken aback by Anni’s response. Anni felt guilty about that. Shamed at the response to her friend. But she still wouldn’t change her tone. She had to do what she had to do to get by. That’s what she always told herself. Her mantra.