The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (7 page)

M
arina 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.

Because 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.

‘G
et 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.

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.

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.

A
t 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 yourself. 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.