The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito)

by Tania Carver

  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.

  Castles Burning

  She 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.

  PART THREE

  RAINSFORD HOUSE

  9

  Marina wasted no time, straight over to the station on Steelhouse Lane, right into Cotter’s office.

  ‘So where is he?’ Of all the questions rising inside Marina, that was the first one to break. She felt impotent even asking it but knew there was nothing else she could ask.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Cotter. She had stood up from behind her desk on Marina’s entering and seemed reluctant to get behind it once more. She remained standing in the centre of the room alongside Marina. The action seemed to give the whole conversation greater urgency.

  ‘Have you heard from him?’

  Cotter shook her head. ‘You?’

  ‘I tried his phon
e in the cab all the way here. Nothing. Straight to voicemail.’

  Cotter nodded, her face drawn into a grim mask. ‘Same.’

  ‘Can’t you put some kind of GPS trace on him?’

  ‘Not if his phone’s switched off.’

  Marina sighed. She felt suddenly exhausted, wanted to sit down, rest, but resisted the urge. ‘Perhaps he’s…’ she began, then gave up, the words dying on her breath.

  Silence fell.

  ‘I think we have to assume the worst, Alison.’ Marina’s voice sounded small and broken. Acknowledging those words she felt a dark dread move into her heart. But the words had to be said. The situation to be faced.

  Cotter nodded. Her voice was resigned. ‘If it were anyone else in any other situation I’d say wait. But not this. Not with what we know. Or rather don’t know.’

  ‘So who…’

  ‘Sperring and Khan are busy on another case.’

  ‘Right.’

  Cotter walked to the door, put her head round it, called to the person she wanted.

  Marina felt a sense of relief as DC Imani Oliver entered. They had worked together before. Had a good rapport. She trusted her.

  ‘Thanks for stepping in, Imani,’ said Cotter. ‘Something’s come up.’

  Imani looked between Marina and Cotter, frowned, a question forming on her lips.

  ‘I’ll fill you in,’ said Cotter.

  She did so.

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ said Cotter once she’d finished. ‘Coordinate.’

  Marina wanted to shout out that she didn’t want to sit down, that she wanted something done immediately, but she swallowed down what would have been grossly unprofessional behaviour and took a seat.

  Cotter had a small table and four chairs in her office for meetings. She moved over to it, followed by Marina and Imani.

  ‘Right,’ Cotter said, once they were settled, ‘plan of action. Imani, I want you to get over to Marina’s house straight away. Take a couple of uniforms with you. Go door to door. I want to know if Phil was seen this morning, getting into a car or otherwise. I want to know if anyone else was there with him.’

  ‘Maybe he drove to Colchester himself,’ said Imani.

  ‘Not likely,’ said Cotter. ‘He knew someone was coming for him.’ She turned to Marina. ‘Was his Audi parked on the street?’

  Marina felt that impatience rise within her again. ‘Yes, but —’

  Back to Imani. ‘Check that it’s still there.’

  Imani made a note.

  ‘And then what?’ asked Marina, barely suppressing her distress.

  Cotter turned to her, about to answer. Marina continued.

  ‘This is all… pointless. We know he’s gone. You should get a description issued, get out on the roads, check CCTV, just…’ she sighed, ‘… be doing something…’

  ‘We are doing something,’ said Cotter. ‘This is where we start, what we do. We work methodically. You know that.’

  Marina said nothing.

  ‘I know how you must feel. And I want him back as quickly as possible too. But let’s not abandon all sense of procedure just because it’s one of our own. That should be all the more reason to follow it. Speed, not haste.’

  Marina slowly nodded. She knew Cotter was right. That what she was implementing was the way forward. She just wanted confirmation that Phil was safe. And she knew she wouldn’t get it.

  ‘Perhaps there’s something you could do, Marina?’ asked Imani.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, if this is OK with the boss…’ She looked over at Cotter who nodded. ‘If this is who we think it is, checking out Fiona Welch’s background. Going over the case notes from the woman who claimed to be her. See if there are any similarities, things we might’ve missed. Corresponding behaviours. Anything that might give us a clue, a break. Look at it from a psychologist’s point of view not a police officer’s.’

  Marina nodded. ‘OK.’ She knew it was work that needed to be done and she was the best person for it, but she felt it was being given to her just to keep her busy.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Cotter. ‘But I only want you doing this if you feel up to it. I realise it’s uncomfortably close to home but I don’t want that clouding your judgement. Can you do it?’

  Marina, her face impassive, unreadable, said, ‘I can do it.’

  ‘Good.’ Cotter looked at Imani. ‘Right. Get to work. Let’s find him.’

  10

  Phil opened his eyes. Blinked. Again. Looked round. He was home.

  Confused, he tried sitting up. Couldn’t, something was stopping him. He fell down again, on his back. He was warm but couldn’t move. He tested his limbs once more: restrained, wrists and ankles. And he was naked too. A duvet covered him, pillows behind his head. He looked down the length of his body. The print on the duvet was the one he had at home.

  He looked round the room once more. His room. His bedroom. The one he shared with Marina in Moseley village. And it was dark, the curtains closed. The only light coming from the bedside light on his bedside table. He blinked once more, confused. Checked himself over again.

  He hurt. Down one side. His right. Why did he…

  Then he remembered: he had been in the car. Passenger. With Beresford. On his way to…

  Beresford.

  The taser. Was that what it had been? Or some kind of stun gun? Something like that. Speeding up, going faster, couldn’t get out, his questions were… Then the look on Beresford’s face – an apology? Was that right? Then… Nothing.

  Then now.

  He looked round the room once more. His room. But…

  How was here? How was he back in his bedroom? And where was everyone else? No Marina, no Josephina… And how did it get so dark so suddenly? He thought. No. He must have been out of it for some time. Long enough for day to become night. He had been found, brought home. That was it. But even thinking that didn’t feel right. Didn’t bring him any comfort. Too many unanswered questions. And then there were the restraints.

  No. He looked round the room again, closer this time. Something was wrong. Something was off. Yes, it was his room and it was dark, but that wasn’t what was wrong with it. Looking hard, scrutinising the place, he tried to focus, make out what was there. Work out what was wrong.

  But he couldn’t see it properly. He kept blinking, wondering why the walls, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, why none of it would come into focus properly. He looked again at the wall opposite, the wardrobe. Blinked. Screwed his eyes tight, opened them wide. What…

  Then he knew. He had it. The mirror on the wardrobe cast no reflection. He couldn’t look into it. There was no depth. It was flat. Not just the mirror, the wardrobe, the walls, but everything. The wallpaper the same as the wardrobe, as the window. Flat. His bedroom, yes, but in only two dimensions. Nothing stuck out. Apart from the bedside tables, the bedside lights, nothing was real. But it looked real…

  He got it. Photorealistic. Like his bedroom had been photographed and blown up to life-size. Like a theatre set or movie backdrop. So…

  He realised what he had just thought.

  His bedroom had been photographed.

  Someone had been in his bedroom with a camera, taking their time, studying. In his bedroom. Not to mention the time taken to set this all up, the expense. Someone had been in his room.

  He shivered. Now he knew who was behind this. No more guessing.

  Her.

  He pulled at his restraints once more. Frantically this time. Had to get away from here. Wherever here was.

  As he struggled he felt his chest tightening. No… no… not now… Harder, harder, stopping him from taking in a whole lungful of air, removing the strength to expel it. Restricting him even worse than his restraints… No… His body shaking, chest palpitating…

  He lay back on the bed again, unable to move.

  A panic attack. Hadn’t had one for ages. Now of all times, it chooses a reappearance.

  He tried to trick his body into br
eathing again. Pretended to not care, not to feel it, hoped his hammering heart rate would drop, allow air inside him once more.

  It worked. Slowly, he began to breathe freely again.

  And then the door opened.

  He froze, stared at it.

  A figure stepped through the doorway. Medium height, dark hair. A very familiar silhouette.

  Marina.

  Phil felt relief at first but that soon gave way to puzzlement.

  The figure stepped completely into the room, crossed to him in the bed. Looked down on him, smiling.

  ‘Hello, Phil. Remember me?’

  He stared at her. The hair was perfect, the clothes just right. But the face…

  Not Marina. But he knew who it was.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice drying up, fading. He needed more breath. Didn’t have it. ‘I remember…’

  She sat on the edge of the bed. Still smiling. Unspeaking.

  He stared at her, scrutinised her. She was different to how he had last seen her. Not just the hair and the clothes but the body shape. Like she had remade herself in Marina’s image. Or a grotesque parody of Marina.

  She kept staring at him. Eventually the smile faded to be replaced by a puzzled expression. ‘I thought you remembered me, Phil.’

  ‘I do,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘So why don’t you say my name?’

  ‘Because I don’t know your name.’

  She leaned closer to him, mouth right next to his ear. She spoke in a whisper. He could feel the warm air on his neck. ‘Oh yes you do…’

  Phil felt something in his chest dislodge, turn over. He knew she was waiting for him to ask the question. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. And he didn’t want to hear her response.

  She waited. Realising he wasn’t going to ask, she leant in even further, her mouth right on his ear.

  ‘You know who I am. I’m your wife. Marina…’

  Phil felt his body stiffen in revulsion.

  ‘And you’re mine, Phil.’