The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (5 page)

W
ork. That’s what Marina thought would take her mind off things. Work.

She sat at her desk in her office at Birmingham University, the once temporary arrangement now looking more permanent. Dark wood bookshelves covered the walls, initially filled neatly, now overflowing and haphazard. Framed photos of Phil and Josephina rested on desk surfaces. Journals, periodicals and magazines accumulated in piles all around. The room looked slightly chaotic but still managed to retain a kind of academic order to it. Framed prints hung in between the bookshelves, mainly Edward Hopper. Marina thought she had been expected to put something on the walls that reflected her subject, psychology. Something like Escher or even Magritte. Something that could become a talking point for the students who visited, get them revealing layers of meaning in the work, become some kind of symbol or metaphor for the study of the mind. But Marina wanted Hopper.

He wasn’t a great painter, she thought, not in a technical photorealist way, but something about his sketchy, almost blankly realised characters stuck in often bleak environments while the light, usually luminous and penetrating, fell somewhere else, invited constant questions. Who were these people? Why were they drawn to that particular spot? What was their relationship with the other characters in the paintings?

Nighthawks
, his most famous piece, showed disparate figures sitting round a diner counter at night. None of them touching or close to the others.
Office at Night
showed a man at a desk and a woman at a filing cabinet. Light came in from somewhere, missing them both. Marina liked to imagine what went on before and after the moment Hopper had captured them. The psychogeometry of the spaces in between them. The lives they lived, the values they held, what they meant – or didn’t mean – to each other. If that wasn’t a psychological view of painting, and a valid reason for hanging them on her walls, she didn’t know what was.

But she wasn’t looking at them now. She had marking to do. Piles of essays from second-year students on reinterpreting and modernising Jungian archetypes. Get them to think creatively but constructively. She tried to get involved in their arguments, correct and question with a light hand where possible, condemn and contradict only as a last resort. She had hoped that doing this would take her mind off Phil and his journey. And it did, intermittently. But something she would read, or a random thought would spark within her and she would find herself thinking about him again. Wondering. Hoping.

Her phone, beside her on the desk, pinged. She glanced at it. Smiled. A text from Phil.

She read it twice, the smile not moving from her face. Tried to break it down, squeeze every last item of information, both real and imagined from it. He was on the way. In a car. Franks had sent a driver. Someone he could trust, someone who would keep Phil safe. So there was nothing to worry about. Nothing.

She went back to work, resolved to become as involved as she could with the essays.

She did, not noticing another hour slip away.

Until her phone rang. Her office phone.

She picked up. ‘Dr Esposito.’

‘Marina? Alison Cotter.’

Marina immediately sat up straight, asked what she could do for her.

‘It’s Phil. Just wondering where he is.’

Marina frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Well, I’ve just had a call from Gary Franks telling me the officer he sent to pick him up, DS Beresford, couldn’t get his car started. Developed some kind of problem, apparently. I went looking round the building for Phil but couldn’t find him. I’ve tried your home number but no reply. Same with his mobile. Any ideas?’

Marina froze. Thought of the previous text.

‘I’m coming in. Right now.’

She ended the call, went straight to the door. Passing a Hopper print on the way:
House by the Railroad
. Bleak and forlorn. The model for the Bates Motel in Hitchcock’s
Psycho
.

‘S
o you got a first name, then, DS Beresford?’

‘David,’ grunted Beresford. The word, grudgingly given, seemingly excavated from his body.

‘David. Right.’

‘But everybody calls me Dave.’

‘Dave.’ Phil nodded. ‘Sure they do.’ He checked his watch. ‘You thinking of stopping soon?’

‘DCI Franks told me to get you to Colchester as quickly as possible.’

‘I’m sure he did. But didn’t he say anything about coffee stops or toilet breaks?’

Beresford acted like he hadn’t heard.

‘DS Beresford.’ Phil slipped a blade of authority into his voice. ‘I want to stop.’

Beresford didn’t reply, nodded.

They drove in silence until he found a Little Chef on the A14, pulled the Insignia off the road, parked up. Turned to Phil. ‘Quick as you can, please, sir.’

Phil got out of the car, made his way to the restroom. Finished up, made his way to the café. Queued. Saw that the coffee was instant and picked up a bottle of water instead. There weren’t many things Phil couldn’t abide but instant coffee was one of them. No excuse, he thought, this day and age, for instant. No excuse. He paid for the water, went back to the car.

Beresford looked like he hadn’t moved. He started the car, not looking at Phil, and drove away.

‘So,’ said Phil, once they were on the road and had gone some distance, ‘you got any hobbies, Dave?’

Beresford shrugged. ‘Play golf. That’s about it.’

Phil nodded, wished he hadn’t said anything. Nothing worse than a golf bore. Thankfully Beresford didn’t feel the need to expand on that. Phil went back to looking out of the window.

He may have nodded off. In fact he was sure of it. He sat up, looked around. Still on the road. He leaned over to the back seat where he left his jacket, felt inside for his phone, thought of checking for emails or texts. Couldn’t find it. Tried his jeans pocket. Not there either. Felt around on the seat. Nothing.

‘You seen my phone, Dave?’

Beresford kept his eyes on the road. ‘No, sir.’

Phil checked once again. ‘You sure?’

‘Sure, sir.’

Phil frowned. ‘Must have put it in my bag.’ He thought back, tried to remember. He had texted Marina. Put the phone back in… his pocket. He felt again. No phone. Had he left it in the Little Chef? No. He didn’t take it in with him. He tried looking round, seeing if it had fallen out underneath the seat.

‘Do you need it, sir?’

Phil straightened up. ‘I just thought I’d check my work emails. That’s all.’

‘Won’t be long now, sir. We’ll be there soon.’

Phil nodded. Glanced across at Beresford. The DS was sweating. Despite it not being particularly warm.

Phil began to feel uneasy. He didn’t know why, couldn’t explain. Just a feeling. But it was the kind he had come to trust over the years.

‘Can you stop, please, DS Beresford? I need to find my phone.’

Beresford didn’t reply.

‘DS Beresford? Hello?’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Beresford, sweating even more now, his voice shaking slightly, ‘I can’t stop.’

‘DS Beresford. I’m ordering you to stop. Right now. Pull over and stop.’

‘I… I can’t, sir…’

Beresford pushed harder on the accelerator. Phil looked round. Something wasn’t right. Seriously not right.

‘DS Beresford. Stop right now. I’m commandeering this vehicle.’

Beresford ignored him.

‘I’m your superior officer and I’m telling you —’

‘Just don’t move…’ Beresford shouting now. But not angry, just like a pressure cooker about to blow. ‘Stay where you are…’

Keeping one hand on the wheel and increasing his speed, he reached into his jacket and produced a taser. Pointed it at Phil.

Phil just stared. Open-mouthed.

‘Listen, sir,’ said Beresford, not able to look Phil in the eye, ‘I really don’t want to use this. Not on a superior officer. Just do what I tell you and don’t give me cause.’

‘Why would I give you cause, DS Beresford?’ Phil tried to keep his voice calm and steady, despite his heart hammering away. So fast he was sure Beresford could hear it. ‘What would I do that would make you use that?’

Beresford increased the speed of the car. ‘Just keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t make any sudden moves. I really don’t want to use this…’

‘Who says you’ve got to?’

Conflicting emotions appeared on Beresford’s features. ‘She… I really didn’t want to, sir, especially not a fellow officer, but I had no choice. She’s… it’s my son, sir. I have to… have to do this for…’

Beresford’s words confirmed all of Phil’s fears. He felt his heart sink as he tried to find the right words – any words – to say. ‘Look,’ he said eventually, ‘you don’t have to do this, Dave. You don’t. Just stop the car now, give me the taser and we can sort this out. OK? Just do that and we can sort this out.’

Beresford stared straight ahead, some kind of struggle being waged on his features.

Phil kept on. ‘Your son, that right? She’s threatened your son?’

Beresford nodded. ‘More than that.’ Moisture appeared at the corners of his eyes. Tears or sweat, Phil wasn’t sure which.

‘That’s… that’s understandable. Your behaviour – this – is understandable. If we’re talking about the same person then I know what you mean. She threatened my daughter too. And my wife. But I didn’t let her win. I can’t let her win. And you… you can do the same, Dave. Can’t you? Just… just stop the car, hand over the taser and we can make this all go away.’

Beresford didn’t reply.

‘Come on, Dave, you can do it. We can do it.’

Nothing.

‘We can sort this together. Stop her together. That’s… that’s what I’m here for.’ Phil waited, kept staring at him. Tried to ignore the countryside as it rushed past in a blur, tried not to look at the speedometer. ‘Come on, Dave…’

Beresford’s face was stone. Phil took that as encouragement, that his words were breaking him down.

‘That’s it,’ said Phil, expelling breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. ‘That’s it. Just stop the car and we can get this sorted. We’ll protect your son. We’ll get her. We will. Just…’

Beresford started to laugh. An alien sound, like an old battery cranking into life one final time, a death rattle. ‘You’ve got no idea, have you?’ he said. ‘No idea at all…’

‘Look, Dave…’

‘Sorry, sir, mind’s made up.’

Phil’s words ended in a scream then trailed off to silence as Beresford tasered him.

Phil jerked, spasmed, fell unconscious.

The car sped on. Away from Colchester.

S
he wouldn’t play with dolls. Not any more. Not after the centre. Or whatever it was called.
 

She had been taken there from the unsafe safe house. When they found her they thought she was dead. Lying beside the corpses of her parents, not daring to move, to breathe, in case the sweaty men with the meat breath came back again. Feeling the blood – Mummy’s blood – thicken and harden on her hands. Not knowing where her brother was. Hoping he was alive, somewhere. Waiting for him to come back and save her. Waiting for anyone.
 

It was the police at first. A man in a blue uniform had tried to touch her and she had just screamed. And screamed and screamed. Eventually a woman with a soft voice had come, talked to her and helped her up. Mummy and Daddy were taken away. She never saw them again.
 

They took her to a place where people tried to be kind to her. But they were also scared. She could tell. She saw something in their eyes when they tried to talk to her. Scared of her or scared for her, she didn’t know which. Maybe one, maybe both. But scared.
 

The room they gave her was brightly coloured, paintings and pictures of smiling animals and things on the walls, filled with equally brightly coloured stuffed animals and plastic toys. Belinda was long gone and she felt sad about that. Nothing like she had been used to. Like they had belonged to another child entirely.
 

She kept having nightmares. Couldn’t have the door closed or the light off. She kept seeing the man, smelling his breath, feeling Mummy’s blood all over again. She woke up screaming. Night after night after night.
 

Then one day another lady appeared. A different one. Call me Caroline, she said. All smiles. And you are? She said her name. Caroline nodded, like it was a test and she had given the right answer.
 

Then Caroline had more questions. She took a doll out of her bag, handed it over. Do you want to play? she asked.
 

She said nothing, made no movement. Caroline kept her hand extended, the doll still there. It didn’t look like Belinda. It had arms and legs, eyes and nose, but no mouth.
 

Here.
 

The girl took it.
 

Now, said Caroline, let’s imagine. This doll is you, right? It’s got your name. Yes?
 

The girl nodded.
 

Right. So what I want you to do is think about where you used to be. When you were with your Mummy and Daddy, back before the safe house. Can you do that?
 

Caroline was wrong. This wasn’t playing. But she said nothing. Just nodded because that’s what she thought Caroline wanted to see.
 

OK, good. Now. She handed her a black pen. Here. I want you to draw your mouth on the doll’s face.
 

She stared at Caroline.
 

Were you happy? Were you sad? Would you have been smiling then or frowning?
 

She thought. Back before they escaped. Was she happy? Had any of them been happy? She didn’t know. It was just what it had been. Her life. There had been things that upset and things that didn’t. So she didn’t know what to put on the doll’s face. Then she thought of Mummy. Daddy. Her brother. Saw Mummy’s blood all over her hand again. Thought back to before the safe house. Drew a smile on the doll.
 

Good, said Caroline. She took a cloth, wiped the smile off the doll’s face. Now how were you at the safe house?
 

She started to draw another smile then stopped. Snow angels, she said.
 

Caroline frowned. Sorry?
 

Snow angels. We were playing snow angels. I saw my wings. Then the men came
…
 

Right. OK. Just a few more questions, and then we can play some more.
 

And Caroline kept going. She had other dolls with her. Some to make her feel happy or safe, some to make her feel scared. Or so she could tell when she was feeling scared and what scared her. Caroline wanted to be her friend, she said. To help her. To tell her things so she could make her happy again. And she wanted to be happy. She wanted to see Mummy and Daddy and her brother again. So Caroline asked her about the men. And what they had done and said in the house.
 

Show me with the dolls, Caroline said.
 

She did so. Moving the dolls, making them talk, doing the voices and the actions.
 

Good, said Caroline when she had finished. Well done. Then she looked serious at her. Did it make you feel like crying? When you played with the dolls?
 

She looked at the dolls, lying on the table beside her. No, she said.
 

Didn’t it upset you, thinking about it again?
 

She thought of Mummy’s blood, thickening and drying on her hand. Of lying still, as still as death, trying to count to a hundred and then trying to count to a hundred again and again, her mouth moving fast, the numbers whispered, like a spell to keep the men from coming back again. Of lying there even longer when she had stopped counting, fallen asleep. Woken up and started counting again. Knowing she had wet herself and still not getting up. Feeling colder than cold from the door being open and the winter getting in. Thought of all those things. Thought there was a before that and an after that. One girl had died and another was born. They just looked a bit the same.
 

No, she said.
 

Eventually they told her she was moving and she came here. This house. With Mr and Mrs Wignall. They were old and they were used to having a lot of children there, they said to her when she arrived. She would be no trouble. They were kind, she thought. Or they were trying to be.
 

Mrs Wignall cooked and looked after them. Mr Wignall had to take it easy. His heart, he said. Doctor’s orders. Yet she still heard Mrs Wignall being pretend angry with him sometimes because he kept drinking from a bottle on the sideboard in the back room.
 

And she was happy there. Or as happy as she could be. She stopped asking about her brother. No one told her about him any more. Except to say that he was gone. And there were other children to play with. But she mainly played on her own.
 

The castle. That was what she liked best. Not dolls. She had had enough of dolls.
 

And she sat there now, looking at the soldiers she had put on the battlements. Behind the walls. They could keep anything out. Keep anything safe. That’s all she had to do. Be like the soldiers.
 

Even if it meant killing.