Lost Girls

by Angela Marsons

  ‘Okay, if the only motivation for the violence was death, there are much quicker ways than kicking a man’s head around like a football. That was for our kidnapper’s benefit. It exposed a higher level of risk but an elevated level of pleasure. The whole incident would have produced more noise than necessary. Brad Evans would have been—’

  ‘Move on, please,’ Kim said, sharply.

  She could feel Bryant’s eyes on her. It was a scene neither of them needed to picture.

  ‘Equally there was no real need to destroy everything in Inga’s home. He smashed the furniture to pieces and didn't care if someone heard. He felt confident that no one would stop him and that is probably how he lives his life.

  ‘At this point I have no way to tell the source of his rage but it isn't simply because Inga didn't follow the plan.’

  ‘What are the chances of negotiation with Subject One?’ Kim asked.

  ‘Negotiation will be challenging. It's unlikely you'll get him to speak on the phone and any text messages will need to be well phrased so you allow him to feel that his control is not being diminished or—’

  ‘Thank you for your input and I'll certainly bear your observations in mind.’

  Matt’s sentence was skilfully delivered with professionalism and a polite nod but Kim guessed he'd do it his own way, regardless of Alison’s advice.

  Kim looked at her own notes. There wasn't much she'd missed.

  She stood. ‘There's something else,’ she said, simply.

  Alison regarded her with a tolerant smile.

  Kim continued. ‘Where's the glue?’

  ‘Excuse me, Inspector?’

  ‘The glue, Guv?’ Bryant asked from behind.

  She approached the flip chart and ripped off page one. She held it up next to page two.

  Matt regarded her with interest.

  ‘We have two extreme personalities here. Who's in charge? Every team, however small, has a leader, a more dominant personality. I’m not sure either of these can be a leader. Their personalities are too extreme. Violent versus non-violent. Methodical versus risk-taker.

  ‘Imagine a see-saw. The seats operate at each end but in the middle is the anchor. It stops each end going too high or too low. I don’t think these two personalities could co-exist without a third, an overriding force; an authority.’

  Alison shook her head. ‘I think it’s obvious that the texter is in charge and Subject Two is the hired help. A clear hierarchy.’

  She shrugged and looked around the room.

  ‘Except Subject Two is not just a goon,’ said Kim. ‘He managed to find Brad Evans, identify a man he’d never met, and kill him without being detected. Yes, he is violent and potentially unpredictable but he has a brain and is not going to be easily controlled.’

  She lifted the page on the flip chart. It was blank.

  Kim tapped it with her finger. ‘I think you need to label up this one. And call it Subject Three.’

  Forty-Two

  Elizabeth tied her hair into a ponytail. The shower she’d taken had been little more than a quick dunk.

  Every activity held the promise of distracting her mind for just a minute or two. She craved the luxury of sleep where the images in her mind would be paused for just a while.

  It had been uncomfortable enough living in someone else’s house before last night, but after that last text message it was positively unbearable.

  Since that text message, she had been trying to speak to Stephen. They needed to talk, discuss their options. They needed a plan.

  She had wandered around the house until midnight, trying to track him down, but somehow in this vast house he had managed to outrun her.

  She felt as though her whole family had disappeared. Her beautiful daughter was God only knew where, terrified. Her son was not with her and now her husband was avoiding her too. She was in the home of her best friend with whom she was now in competition for the lives of their children.

  There were moments when Elizabeth had the uncontrollable urge to laugh. So ridiculous was the situation that for a moment she would convince herself that she was stuck in some kind of nightmare and that soon she would wake up in her home with her daughter, her son and her normal life.

  And then she would realise that it wasn’t a nightmare at all. This was her life and she couldn’t now picture what had gone before.

  She headed down the stairs and paused as she always did just outside the dining room. She had yet to hear anything but she lost nothing for trying.

  The sound of plates being put away told her Karen was in the kitchen. Only yesterday they had been irrevocably bonded by this horror; experiencing what only another mother could comprehend. They had looked to each other for support and understanding – now they couldn’t look at each other at all.

  Elizabeth no longer knew how to speak to her friend. They were competitors in a sick, evil game.

  She needed her husband now more than ever. She took a deep breath before moving to the doorway. Karen was standing over the sink.

  ‘Have you seen …?’

  A ping sounded to Karen’s phone. Both she and Karen stared at it. Elizabeth had the urge to dive forward and grab the phone with both hands.

  Karen lifted the phone and Elizabeth held her breath as Karen’s eyes moved across the screen.

  She frowned as she read it again, aloud.

  Search well for the gifts I have sent. Dig deep as you picture your child.

  Karen looked to her for an answer. ‘What the …’

  She stopped speaking as though she’d realised just who she was talking to.

  Karen darted from the room with her phone, leaving Elizabeth numbed by a barrage of questions flooding her mind.

  What the hell did the text message mean?

  She took out her own mobile phone. There was no flashing light, there was no little envelope and there was certainly no message.

  Why had the message only been sent to Karen?

  And where the hell was her husband?

  Forty-Three

  ‘There’s something here at the house,’ Kim said, after edging Karen gently from the room. ‘Subject One does not use words inappropriately. He said, “I have sent”, which means there’s something here somewhere.’

  Karen had taken her phone away but the words Kim had read were imprinted on her brain.

  She stood at the head of the table. ‘It’ll be outside. There’s no way either of them could have got anything in the house.’ She looked around the room. ‘Bryant, Kev, Stacey, with me. Alison, help Helen keep the parents in the house.’ Her gaze fell on the newcomer. ‘Mr Ward, please mind the shop. No one is to enter this room.’

  He nodded his understanding and Kim stepped out of the room, turned right and headed for the utility room and out into the back garden.

  The early morning mist had turned into a miserable drizzle that quickly seeped through to the skin.

  The area to search was the size of a football pitch. If she divided it into a four-way grid they could search more effectively.

  An expanse of grass was divided into two equal sections by a brown barked path that halved the garden. One lawn held a swing set and a sandpit. The other lawn, a raised herb garden.

  The entire perimeter was formed of old, gnarly oak trees. In front of them were a selection of storage containers for outdoor tools. To the right sat a play house before a decorative rockery.

  On each side of the house was gravel, with bins and storage boxes dotted around.

  Kim wiped the rain from around her eyes. ‘Okay, Stace, take the left side of the house. Kev, take the right. Bryant, take the right side of the garden and I’ll take the left.’

  They all dispersed their separate ways, searching the ground as they went. Kim found nothing and reached the storage boxes just as the thin spots of rain began to fall thicker and harder.

  ‘Guv, I’ve got a jacket,’ Stacey cried from between the trees.

  ‘Place it at the corner of the house, a
way from the parents’ view,’ she instructed. ‘There’ll be more.’

  None of them were wearing outside clothes and the rain was soaking them to the skin.

  She opened the lid of the first storage bin, which held a lawnmower and a strimmer. She picked both items out before ascertaining that it was all clear.

  The second, at knee height, looked as though it held more garden tools. She opened the lid and lifted a leaf blower.

  ‘I’ve got a pair of trousers here,’ Dawson shouted from around the side.

  ‘Me too,’ Kim called, as she pulled the leggings from beneath the tool.

  Bryant jogged over with a T-shirt that they both knew belonged to Amy. His light blue shirt was darkened with rain and had now melded to his skin.

  ‘Guv …’

  ‘I know, Bryant.’

  The same picture was forming in both their heads.

  ‘A jumper in the play house,’ Stacey said, running back to the corner.

  They all looked at the pile of clothes as a second jacket arrived with Dawson.

  ‘How the hell did they manage to set up a bloody game of hide and seek without one person in this house seeing or hearing anything?’ Kim asked, looking around.

  She received no answer.

  Kim counted the garments and mentally put them on each girl from what she’d seen in the CCTV. She surveyed the garden as a sickening thought occurred to her.

  ‘Has anyone checked the rockery yet?’ she asked, praying that someone said yes.

  ‘I’ll do it, boss,’ Dawson said as he sprinted over.

  ‘That’s everything we saw them wearing,’ Bryant observed, wiping the rain from his eyes.

  Kim didn’t respond. She was too busy watching the slump of Dawson’s shoulders. His back was still as his gaze locked on the bricks. The three of them stood waiting for their colleague.

  ‘Damn it,’ she said, as the rage began to build inside her. She knew what he had found.

  He walked slowly back to where they stood and opened his hands. In them were two pairs of panties.

  They stared at the clothes, fully aware of the message they’d been sent.

  Charlie and Amy were now totally naked.

  Forty-Four

  Inga felt defeated. Her body ached and she was sure it was only being held together by the grime.

  She couldn't remember when she'd last showered. A quick freshen up in the public toilets had left her feeling dirtier than when she entered.

  Recalling anything normal that had happened before Sunday was becoming a struggle. She only knew it was Tuesday because she’d heard someone say so.

  One day, which she felt almost sure was yesterday, she had walked for miles, pausing only to buy a cheap cup of tea at a market stall, giving her licence to sit and rest. Inga knew that her appearance would prevent even that small luxury today. Her hair was matted despite trying to use her fingers as a makeshift comb. There were dirt marks on her face that could not be shifted by water alone. Her yellow jeans were smattered with the stains of her recent journey.

  The overwhelming urge to cry engulfed her, yet the tears wouldn't come.

  Everywhere she looked she saw Symes; shorter, fatter, taller … but every male was him until they had passed her by.

  They would never forgive her for messing up the plan. She was supposed to be admitted to hospital and wait for her ‘husband’ to collect her. She was then to be taken to the safe house to take care of the girls until the exchange. But she couldn’t do it. Amy would have known that Inga was embroiled in the events that had terrified both her and Charlie. And if Amy hadn’t worked it out, Charlie would have. And then Inga would have been forced to watch Amy’s relief and happiness change to disbelief and mistrust. She knew the child would hate her forever.

  Inga felt as though her entire life had happened in the last few days. There was no longer a moment she had lived without fear. There was no movement without trembling.

  She had no doubt of what would happen if she stopped running. She had met Symes only once and that had been enough. There had been a detachment in his demeanour that had reminded her of a robot.

  He had offered her a smile that held menace, not warmth, as though he knew something she did not. As his eyes had travelled around the café, she had heard one knuckle at a time crack beneath the table.

  She felt those hands had been wanting to encircle themselves around her throat from the second they’d met. But while she had been useful the hands had been tied. And now she was no longer useful. Now she was a threat, a loose end, and any protection was gone.

  The fear rolled around her empty stomach. If Symes caught her, death would be a welcome gift. This was not a man to offer her mercy. He would torture her and the person she had trusted would do nothing to help.

  She had been on her own for many years, but never had she felt so alone.

  Her body was battered and her mind was breaking.

  Inga knew what she had to do.

  Forty-Five

  Will felt the urge to strike out.

  Ever since he could remember, he had been prone to severe blackouts if the order in his brain was disturbed.

  When things went to plan his mind remained calm, composed. There was a gentle rhythm that played in the background but an unexpected event released the orchestra in his head. Instruments banged out of time, strings screeched painfully, bringing a cacophony of noise from which he couldn't escape.

  He pushed back his chair. The sound of the metal legs scraping on the stone floor reached into the very centre of him like a knife. He paced from one end of the room to the other.

  Ten paces each way. Four lengths of the room and the noise began to recede. Another six lengths put more distance between his conscious mind and the noise within.

  He should never have agreed to the involvement of other people. He detested being told what to do. He’d always worked better alone.

  It was he who had chosen the families, he who had researched their businesses. Did people not realise just how many weeks it had taken to find the right candidates; wealthy families that could be set in competition and then ripped apart?

  The first time should have worked. It would have worked if not for an event completely beyond his control.

  Symes had been his choice to bring on board. He knew that he’d needed a skill that the man possessed but he’d accepted other help and it was now biting him on the arse.

  The source of his stress was not having complete control and it was beginning to piss him off. There were too many people involved.

  As a middle child, the natural groupings of his siblings had always excluded him. He was the barrier between the oldest and the youngest and consequently belonged nowhere. He was the butt of their jokes and the bag for their punch. And he had taken it because he had nowhere to turn. His mother said ‘Boys will be boys.’

  He had taken solace in planning his revenge. That’s where he had found his comfort, his release – as Larry, his brother and most vicious tormentor, had discovered.

  He and Symes were more alike than he liked to admit. He knew that as a young boy Symes had been beaten by his army father after being abandoned by a mother to a cruel and unfeeling man.

  Although he had been surrounded by his brothers, he had felt as alone as Symes. Both had found escape in revenge, him in psychological torturing, and Symes in the physical suffering of others.

  He didn’t like Symes, but he understood him.

  Five more steps, and the tension in his body began to dissipate.

  The clothes had been sent exactly when they were supposed to be. It was part of the plan and it had been executed perfectly. The fact that the parents now had to picture their little girls naked was their early call to action. Empty out the bank accounts.

  But some bitch was demanding proof of life. He had decided to ignore the text. Never had they considered responding to any message that was not from the parents.

  That had been the plan.

  And no
w he had to change the plan.

  Because The Boss said so.

  Forty-Six

  ‘Satnav says we’re 1.2 miles away, Guv,’ Bryant said, beside her.

  She took a sharp left through a residential estate. This was a shortcut that knocked off almost half the distance.

  Bryant held the satnav up to his face and spoke to it. ‘Don’t be offended, she doesn’t listen to anyone.’

  Kim ignored him.

  ‘So, was that your proof of life, Guv?’ Bryant said as she approached a tiny traffic island. There was no way around it.

  ‘No, that was planned all along and it doesn’t prove they’re alive,’ she said, driving straight over the top of it. ‘This was a prompt to the parents. He wanted them to go looking. He wanted them to find the clothes. He wanted them to imagine them naked.’

  ‘Well, that backfired slightly. And why only send it to one parent?’

  ‘Games, Bryant. Our Subject One enjoys the psychological element of it all. He wants to wring every last ounce of misery out of this sick game.’

  ‘Aah, well, he didn’t quite bargain on you, did he?’

  She hoped not. The clothes had been bundled into a bag and spirited away by Dawson to forensics. There was a slim chance that something would be found but for use in court they were hopeless. They had been rolled around in the dirt, grass and goodness knows what else.

  ‘Do you think you should have told them the truth?’ Bryant, her external conscience, asked.

  It was the first time she’d lied to the parents and she hoped it would be the last, but she wouldn’t bet Barney’s next meal on it.

  She had told them they had found only the jackets and that had been traumatic enough. They did not need to know the rest. Stephen had tried to insist on identifying Amy’s coat, just to be sure. But Dawson had already left. Kim had explained to Stephen that she’d been able to confirm from the CCTV.

  ‘What’s to gain?’ she asked. ‘The pictures in their minds are horrific enough as it is.’