The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito)

by Tania Carver

  And that was the last she ever saw of Fiona.

  At least, while she was alive.

  37

  Marina had turned a corner of the Art Café opposite the library in Colchester’s Trinity Square into a makeshift office.

  She remembered the place from when she had previously lived in the town, taught at the university. Had pleasant memories of it. She would meet other lecturers here on free afternoons, put the world to rights – or at least the department – over coffee and cake. Maybe buy a few handmade greetings cards or perhaps occasionally a piece of jewellery too. But she tried not to let any of those memories take over today.

  Now she sat in a corner, table to herself, papers and laptop spread out before her. The coffee and cake was still evident but somehow it didn’t taste as good as it used to. But then, the state she was in, screaming emotion being hopefully channelled into useful professionalism, nothing did.

  She had as much information as she could have possibly found about Fiona Welch in front of her. Even remote access to Home Office files not normally open to the public. Anni had showed her how to do it. Said a computer hacker had taught her in exchange for leniency. It was a good trade-off.

  Now Marina knew where Fiona Welch had been kept and for how long. As a child at least. She had then gone to Portsmouth University to study psychology. From there a PhD at Essex in Colchester. And from there her death.

  She had also looked into her childhood pre-children’s home. It wasn’t good. A typical tale of abuse and family breakdown with the small girl taking the brunt of it. An absent, alcoholic father. A mother who let her various boyfriends take turns on Fiona until Social Services intervened and placed her in care. There, apparently, she came under the influence of another girl. Marina felt that familiar frisson when she knew she was getting somewhere. She knew who this would be. Or thought she did.

  She read on, expecting to find out about this other girl, but there was nothing further about her. No name, no place of birth, nothing.

  She sat back, frowned at the screen. Why? Why no information? There was plenty on Fiona Welch, plenty on all the other children in care alongside her. But why nothing on this particular girl? That just made her all the more curious. All the more certain that this was the girl – now woman – that she was looking for. All she had to do now was find out more about her. A name would be a good place to start.

  But before Marina could do anything about it, her phone rang.

  She took it from her bag, stared at it. A number she didn’t recognise. She shuddered at that, her heart and stomach flipping and diving and immediately she was in turmoil. Her first thought: Phil. Or his kidnapper. Phoning to gloat. Or taunt. Second thought: the police. Phoning to say they’d found a body. Neither a good option.

  But she had to answer. She had no choice.

  She did so. ‘Marina Esposito.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said a voice, then nothing more. Male, she knew that much. And familiar too. Slightly. But recently.

  But not Phil. Not the woman.

  ‘Hello,’ she said again. Waited.

  A sigh that turned into a cough. She waited for the attack to cease. Listened.

  ‘It’s Michael Prosser.’

  Now she recognised it. But it still didn’t answer her questions. Just confused her even more. The last person she had expected to hear from.

  ‘Hello, Michael,’ she said, hoping her voice remained low and calm, ‘what can I do for you?’

  A sound that she presumed was a laugh. ‘Bet you didn’t think you’d hear from me again, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Not after what you called me. Not after how you left.’

  She waited. Should she apologise for what she had said? It was the truth, after all. Maybe she should. At least for the way she had said it.

  ‘Yes,’ she started to say. But she stopped. Unable to bring herself to apologise. ‘So what can I do for you, then, Michael?’

  ‘Saw what happened to you when you left me.’

  Another shudder ran through her.

  ‘And before you start, it was nothing to do with me. At least, not directly.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You’ve been asking questions. About her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t insult me by going suddenly thick. You know who. That woman. The one who’s got your old man.’

  ‘You know her? What’s her name?’

  Another noise that she interpreted as a laugh. ‘Steady on. It’s not that simple. Never is, though, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ she said, humouring him. Keeping him talking. Waiting until he asked her for something in exchange for information.

  ‘I mean what you said to me the other night. What you called me. Never that simple. Never that clear-cut. Nothing is.’

  ‘Then if I was wrong, I apologise.’ Trying to keep calm, keep her temper.

  ‘Oh, thank you very much, your fucking majesty,’ he said, sarcasm dripping through the phone. ‘But that’s not the point. Well, not the only point. If you see what I mean.’

  ‘Not really, Michael,’ said Marina, trying to hide her exasperation. ‘Perhaps you could explain it to me.’

  ‘Respect. I’ve been thinking and that’s what I’ve decided I want. Respect.’ A deep breath, ragged and rattling at its nicotine-stained edges. ‘For starters. You see, I wasn’t going to call. Was going to let someone else deal with it. You, probably. Let it all go away. Have nothing to do with it.’

  She listened, decided that he wasn’t used to speaking so much to another person. The years of living alone in his self-righteously imposed exile had left him unsocialised, unable to follow his thread of conversation. As long as she made the right kind of encouraging noises, she hoped, he would continue. Maybe even reach his point.

  ‘So what changed your mind?’

  ‘I’m not one of the bad guys. I’m not.’

  She wondered whether he was speaking to himself now.

  ‘I saw what happened to you. And I know who it was.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Not the question. You have to ask why. And what for.’

  ‘Because I was asking questions about that woman, you said.’

  ‘Right. Well, now it’s all about respect. I’m not one of the bad guys.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So don’t fucking treat me like one. I’m trying to help here.’

  ‘And for that I’m very, very grateful. So how can you help me? What can I do?’

  ‘Come back to see me. At the flat.’

  ‘You can’t leave it to meet me?’

  ‘What d’you fucking think?’ Bitterness in his voice now. She didn’t push him on it.

  ‘So you’ve got something to tell me.’

  ‘I’ve got everything to tell you.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just do it over the phone?’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. Course we couldn’t. You’ve got to come over here and bring something with you. Respect. Like I said.’

  ‘I’ll certainly come with respect for you, Michael. You have my word.’

  ‘I want more than that.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Respect doesn’t come cheap.’

  She had been expecting that. She just nodded to herself. ‘How much?’

  ‘I’ll decide by the time you’ve got here. Give me a chance to think. I want my side of the story heard. Properly. And I want some compensation for all the shit I’ve had to put up with.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll bring my chequebook. What time?’

  ‘Just get over here.’

  The connection was broken. Marina stared at the phone.

  Was he for real? Was this the breakthrough she had been waiting for? Or was it some kind of trap, a way of getting revenge on her for the way she had treated him. She didn’t know.

  But there was only one way to find out.

  38

  Simon Matthews had surprised himself.

>   He had driven back to Queensway, taken his place at his desk, started work. At first he was angry, full of bitterness and resentment towards Imani Oliver and her friends. Really annoyed at the way he had been sidelined. But, as he worked, he thoug.ht. He hadn’t been sidelined. Not really. He had asked to do this job, volunteered for it. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that no one else had stepped up and asked to do it. Only him. So really, the logical part of his brain said, he had nothing to complain about.

  And yet…

  It still gnawed at him. The way they had all greeted each other, old friends. Leaving him out. Well, not leaving him out, not as such, just feeling left out because he didn’t have the shared experience they all had. If he was honest, that was what had annoyed him. That they had all been part of something and he hadn’t. And that in turn opened up a whole lot of other thoughts.

  Because he hadn’t found his place in the squad. Not yet, not really. He was a fairly recent addition and, although he seemed to be building respect among his peers, he wasn’t yet at the heart of the group. And that hurt him more than he would normally admit, even to himself.

  So he had come back to the office, hoping, if he was honest, to impress both groups with his work.

  And he was already surprising himself.

  He had entered details into the computer, scanned countywide at first. And received two positive results. The first from a Holiday Inn just outside Colchester. Seven years ago. A four-day convention of fireplace retailers. The mind boggled at such boredom, he thought, then remembered he was sitting inputting data at a computer. But at least he seemed to be getting somewhere. Andrew Murray. Forty-eight years old. Married. Apparently last seen talking to a group of people in the bar. He’d had dinner (steak) and plenty to drink (beer, wine, whisky). At first it had looked like a heart attack. But his wife hadn’t believed it. He played tennis, she had said. Golf. Kept himself fit. Was training for a triathlon. Simon Matthews knew a mid-life crisis when he read about one, the intimations of mortality creeping close. But he was glad of it. Because of the wife’s insistence another post-mortem was performed. And that was when the puncture wound to the back of the spine was located. Not only that, but Andrew Murray had withdrawn quite a large sum of money the same night, transferred it into an account bearing his name, then had it emptied and closed that same night.

  Then it became a murder inquiry. Everyone that could be contacted from the convention was questioned. All of them said the same. He was seen chatting to a lot of people in the bar the night he died. No one in particular. A couple of people did say he may have been flirting with a younger woman but there didn’t seem to be anything serious going on. Attempts had been made to locate this woman. A dead end. It was assumed she was just another fireplace retailer.

  The investigation was still, officially, open. But that was seven years ago. No leads, nothing.

  Matthews cross-referenced further. Southend-on-Sea was the next one. Five years ago. No convention this time, just a single man staying at a waterfront hotel. Graeme Parker. Divorced and down in Essex for a few days hoping to see his children before his ex-wife emigrated to Canada and took them with her. Last seen that night in the bar unsuccessfully trying to order hot food after the kitchen had closed. After that he had apparently got into a conversation with another guest, a female one, and they had disappeared off together. The next morning he had been found dead.

  Attempts were made to locate the woman he had been talking to but without success. She hadn’t shown up on CCTV and there was no record of anyone answering her description staying there that night. And that was another thing. Her description. No two people could agree on it. She seemed to be young, or fairly young. Pretty or plain. Unmemorably dressed. No one could remember her.

  That was enough to order an in-depth post-mortem. And that was when the puncture mark was discovered. Toxicology showed something but it was dispersing fast. Traces of Rohypnol, or a derivative, it looked like. And again, a large sum of money had been transferred. This was again traced but reached a dead end. An account had been opened and closed on the same day. The name and all information given was that of Graeme Parker. The account, like the previous one, had been cleaned out.

  Matthews sat back. Barely able to hold his excitement in check. This was what he loved most. Not the physical side, chasing down criminals, getting a few surreptitious fists in before carting them away, the adrenalin rush that comes with it. No. He loved this side. Chasing down information, watching patterns emerge from it, webs of data spun tighter and tighter the closer he got to the centre, helping to trap some villain who had thought themselves too clever, too untouchable to get away with it. This was his adrenalin rush. This was what he had signed up for.

  He decided to widen his search, take in a few more counties, keep seven years as a parameter.

  And there it was. Another one in Kent. This time —

  ‘Having fun?’

  Matthews jumped, looked up startled. DS Beresford had appeared at the side of him, was looking over his shoulder, checking his screen. He laughed.

  ‘Feeling guilty, DC Matthews? You nearly jumped out of your skin.’

  A few others nearby laughed too. Matthews didn’t know if it was with him or at him. He reddened.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I was…’

  Beresford was peering at the screen. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘We went to see Nick Lines, sir,’ he said, running on adrenalin and enthusiasm before he could stop himself. ‘He gave us the PMs for the three men who we found killed.’ Matthews stopped speaking, remembered Nick Lines’ words. About giving the information to DS Beresford. And Beresford saying he hadn’t had it. He tried to look at his screen, aware Beresford was looking at him.

  ‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Beresford asked, a studied attempt at breeziness. ‘Whose idea was that?’

  ‘DS Oliver, sir.’

  Beresford nodded, his expression unreadable.

  Matthews felt he should explain some more. ‘You told me I had to extend her every courtesy, sir. I was just doing what you ordered.’

  Beresford looked at him. Fixed a smile in place. ‘Very good, DC Matthews.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘And this?’

  Matthews explained about the wounds found on the three bodies and how he had decided to look for any historical cases where the same thing had happened.

  ‘I’ve found three so far. And I’ve only just started.’

  ‘Good police work, DC Mathews. Excellent.’ Beresford’s smile had atrophied on his face. He looked round the room, checked no one was listening to them and leaned closer.

  ‘How is our friend from the north?’

  Matthews looked confused. ‘Sir?’

  ‘DS Oliver. North, West Midlands, same difference. How you getting on with her?’

  ‘Fine, sir.’

  Beresford nodded. Brought himself even closer still.

  ‘Just want to remind you, Simon, that DS Oliver is only here temporarily. She’ll be gone soon. But you’ll still be here. And so will I. Understand me?’

  Beresford locked eyes with Matthews. Bored right into him. Matthews blinked, flinched. He knew what his superior officer was intimating. He was reminding him who was boss. But more than that.

  ‘So with that in mind, she doing anything I should know about?’

  ‘I’m…’ He pointed to the screen. ‘This, sir. I’m working on it.’

  ‘Good. Anything else?’

  Matthews didn’t reply. He knew what Beresford was asking him to do. Rat out a fellow officer. But Imani had talked with him. Assured him that if she looked into some of the lapses in Beresford’s handling of the investigation, then it wasn’t a question of disloyalty. It was all about getting the job done. Getting the right results. No matter who was in charge.

  But…

  There was also the question of how excluded he had felt by Imani and her friends. Yes, he had rationalised it away. He also felt excluded here in the office.

  Bu
t…

  ‘DC Matthews? Anything you want to share with me?’

  Matthews stared at his screen.

  ‘Because if this officer from another force is coming into my investigation and has something to say about it, I’d like to know. More than that, I’ve got a right to know. Wouldn’t you say so?’

  Matthews nodded.

  ‘So go on then. There’s something you want to share with me, isn’t there? She not happy with the way I’m doing things? Just remember, DC Matthews, like I said she’ll be going home soon. But you’ll be staying here. With me.’

  Matthews nodded once more.

  ‘So?’

  Matthews looked round. No one was listening to them or looking at them. Or they were all doing a damned good job of pretending not to.

  ‘She’s…’ his voice low, unsteady, ‘not happy with the way you’re running things.’

  ‘I see. Specifics?’

  ‘She thinks… she suspected you may be withholding things from the investigation. Like the PMs.’

  ‘Right. Anything else?’

  ‘I… I don’t know. Sir.’

  ‘Come on now, DC Matthews…’ Beresford unable to hide the threat in his voice.

  ‘I don’t know. She… that’s all she told me. There’s others working on this with her. Anni Hepburn who used to be here. And Marina Esposito. Phil Brennan’s wife.’

  ‘I know who she is. And what do all of them say?’

  ‘I… I don’t know. I came back here to work on this.’

  ‘So where is she now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Beresford stared at him.

  ‘Honestly, sir, I don’t know.’

  Beresford laid a huge paw of a hand on Matthews’ shoulder. Squeezed hard. He straightened up. ‘Well done, DC Matthews. You did the right thing. Loyalty is a rare commodity these days. A highly prized one. Even amongst such as ourselves. And you’ve just demonstrated it. Well done, lad.’

  Matthews kept nodding until Beresford had walked away.

  He tried to go back to work. But couldn’t concentrate on the screen.