by Tania Carver
‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Before. In the office.’
‘Yeah?’ Imani had no idea what he was on about.
‘“Get your coat, you’ve pulled.” I just wanted you to know that I’m married. That I… I don’t do things like that.’
‘Fine,’ said Imani, not knowing whether to actually laugh out loud.
‘I’m sure you meant it as a joke, but I just… didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. That’s all.’
‘Fine by me, and yes, it was a joke.’ She pointed to the door, opened it. ‘Shall we?’
He looked at her once more. This time there was fear in his eyes. ‘Can we just stay here a few minutes and go over what we’re going to say? Please. I don’t… I… this is a bad time for his wife. He may have a family. I just want to get this right. I want to make sure they have as little distress as possible.’
He looked really worried. Imani closed the door again.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Let’s get it right.’
20
Marina waited for Caitlin to continue.
‘Fiona was – according to the reports – a bright girl. Exceptionally so, in fact. It was picked up on straight away.’
‘What does that mean?’
Caitlin studied her mug, looked back up again. ‘Even the bright ones don’t always make it. Not from here, or places like it.’ She leaned forward, eyes imploring. ‘This is off the record, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean, we do what we can. And there are success stories. But sometimes intellect isn’t enough. Heart isn’t enough. Drive isn’t enough. For most of the kids who go through care homes just making it to adulthood, getting a regular job, having a planned family is a result in itself.’
Caitlin’s eyes drifted away past Marina. Past the room.
‘And Fiona Welch?’ prompted Marina.
Caitlin blinked, back with her. ‘Exceptional. Like I said. She loved school. Couldn’t wait to get there.’ A small laugh. ‘Something else that marked her out. We did all we could to push her. Encourage her. And it was going well.’
Caitlin stopped. Marina picked up the cue.
‘Until?’
Caitlin’s tone changed. Harder. What warmth there had been when talking about the hope for Fiona Welch now all but gone. ‘There was another girl, apparently.’
Marina nodded. ‘A disruptive influence? Always the way.’
‘Not disruptive, no.’ Caitlin searched for the correct word. ‘More… malign. Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Malign.’
Marina leaned forward. A surge of excitement ran through her. This was it. She was on to something. This was what she had come to this place hoping to hear. She tried not to let her excitement show too much in case it led Caitlin, made her sense the way Marina wanted to hear the story, tailor it that way. Even unconsciously. She had known it happen before – experienced it – and the testimony ended up being worse than useless. ‘Malign? A kind of leader–follower thing? Like one wouldn’t have turned out the way she did if she hadn’t met the other one?’
Caitlin frowned, looked at her mug once more. As she looked up she caught Marina with a grim smile. ‘This is the trouble, isn’t it? The unreliable narrator.’
Marina was slightly taken aback by the words. Not what she had expected to hear. ‘What? I would never have called you that. I’m sorry if I’ve…’
Caitlin shook her head. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it that way. Not you. Or me, for that matter. Well, all of us actually. I was speaking generally. We try and summon up the past, pull out our memories, thinking we’ve got a perfect grasp of the facts as they happened, we’ve remembered things perfectly. Our memories haven’t been coloured by our emotions. But they have. Or we’ve allowed the emotions of others to do the colouring. So everything’s subjective. We’re all unreliable narrators, really. In our own way.’
‘But if you’re… I don’t get it. If you’re worried about telling me something that may turn out to be incorrect, why not just check the files?’
‘I don’t have them. All I have to go on is the rumours and stories that did the rounds at the time of Fiona Welch’s death.’
‘Where are the files, then?’
‘Child Services. At the council offices. I’d have to check with them, see if they’d would allow those files to be released.’
Marina took a deep breath. Saw Phil’s face swim into her vision. Felt a tremble within her as it did so. An urgent reminder of a ticking clock. She damped it down, continued. ‘Could you phone over? See if I could look at these files?’
‘Why is that so important?’
Marina scrutinised the woman opposite her. Wondered how much she could trust her with. Came to a decision. Tell her. That way she might put her in touch with someone who could help or… ‘There’s been a woman impersonating Fiona Welch.’
Caitlin leaned forward, interested now.
‘She… long story short. She’s killed and… and abducted someone.’ Marina paused. She didn’t need to know everything. Just enough to get her onside. ‘And I’m part of the investigation looking for her. Fiona Welch was seen as a way in.’
‘Right.’ Caitlin nodded, taking the information in. ‘Right. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to put in an official request. No way round it, I’m afraid.’
‘But this is —’
‘I’m sure it is. But we can’t just let confidential records out to everyone who asks for them. There are protocols. Even in cases like this. Especially in cases like this.’ She glanced at her watch.
Marina picked up on the signal, sensed she was losing her. She leaned forward, made one last attempt. ‘Is there anything, anything at all you can remember?’
Caitlin sighed. ‘Wish there was. Sorry. As I said, most of this was before my time. My information was second-hand.’
‘Who did you get that from? Could I talk to them?’
Caitlin stiffened. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well… it’s difficult, I’m afraid.’
‘In what way?’
‘He… left under something of a cloud. He was in charge when Fiona Welch and the other girl were here. We’ve been instructed, collectively again, not to have anything to do with him. You’ll have to find some other way to communicate with him.’
Marina started to protest. Caitlin checked her watch again. Stood up. ‘I’m sorry, but…’
Realising she would get no more, Marina took the hint and left.
On the way out, Marina noticed a woman trying to pretend she wasn’t looking at her. Older than Caitlin, she looked like she worked there. Marina didn’t know whether to take any notice of her or not. The woman made her mind up for her.
‘Wait,’ she called, glancing round as Marina reached the door, checking no one else was in earshot.
Marina turned, waited for the woman to catch up with her. ‘Yes?’
‘You been in there with Caitlin? Asking about Fiona Welch? You looking for Michael Prosser?’
‘Who?’
‘Used to run this place.’ She smiled. It was even more weary than Catlin’s. ‘I worked here then, an’ all. Should have been me you talked to.’
‘Why, what would have told me?’
‘Michael Prosser’s address.’
A shudder of excitement ran through Marina. ‘Was he the one running the home when Fiona Welch was here? Caitlin said he left under a cloud.’
Another laugh. ‘Putting it mildly.’
‘And he can help me? Where can I find him?’
‘Here,’ she said, slipping a piece of paper into Marina’s hand. ‘Address.’
‘Thank you.’ Marina frowned. ‘Why are you helping me?’
‘Because I want you to give him a message.’
‘OK. What?’
Another laugh. ‘Tell him Mary hopes you rot in Hell, you fucking paedophile cunt.’
And with that she walked off.
21
‘Mrs Lansdowne? Judith
Lansdowne?’ Imani held up her warrant card, introduced herself. ‘Could we come in, please?’
She watched as the features of the woman in front of them ran through a whole range of emotions. Confusion ramped up to hope, wavered towards doubt, then finally plummeted to despair. All in a few seconds, all before she had spoken. Imani had been unfortunate enough to have witnessed it plenty of times before. In fact she expected it. Would have been surprised if she hadn’t done it.
Judith Lansdowne was large, long dark hair, wearing velour sweatpants and a T-shirt. Her eyes looked tired, her skin sallow. She looked like she had given up hope and was bracing herself for something bad to happen to her long before they had arrived.
‘It’s Jason, isn’t it?’ she said, nodding, confirming her own words.
‘Could we come in, please?’
The woman opened the door fully, allowed them to enter. The house looked fuzzed with dust and dirt, like it hadn’t been cleaned or looked after for quite a while. A smell of frying on top of stale fat came from down the hall. A clatter of music from the TV came from the living room. She went into that room, hurried a teenage girl out. The girl turned and looked at Imani and Matthews as they entered.
‘Go upstairs, Rhiannon.’
The girl looked between all of the adults, reading expressions. Wanting to speak, wanting to stay. Wanting to know what was going on but probably guessing.
‘Just go upstairs, I said.’
The girl reluctantly did so.
Judith Lansdowne picked up the remote, turned off the TV. Threw it on the sofa, turned back to Imani.
‘It would be better if we all sat down,’ said Imani.
They sat. Imani and Matthews on the sofa, Mrs Lansdowne on the chair.
‘What’s happened, then,’ she said, more statement than question. ‘You don’t come round here mob-handed if it’s good news, now, do you?’ Her voice, although sounding naturally quite loud, was beginning to shake. ‘Would just be a phone call, wouldn’t it? Congratulations and all that.’
Imani looked at Matthews who was sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands between his knees, eyes wide. Clearly not going to stop her talking. Down to me then, she thought, going back on what they had agreed in the car.
‘I’m afraid, yes,’ said Imani. ‘It’s your husband. We’ve…’ No easy way. Straightforward was best in the long run. ‘We’ve found a body we believe to be his. We… I’m sorry, Mrs Lansdowne, but you’ll have to come and identify him.’
Judith Lansdowne seemed to deflate at the news. Like all the bones had been suddenly removed from her body and the rest of her just melted into a pool on the armchair. Her head dropped.
They sat in silence while she took the news in.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lansdowne.’ Matthews spoke.
Judith Lansdowne started to nod then, kept nodding, agreeing to something only she could hear, something she had told herself a while ago. Wheezing and sighing as she did so.
They waited for her. Tried to emotionally absent themselves from the room, give her the time and space she needed.
Eventually she looked up, spoke. Her eyes looked wet but no tears had fallen.
‘Where?’ she asked, still wheezing, like the air was having trouble leaving her body.
‘In Colchester. The old Dock Transit building. We think… we’re treating his death as suspicious.’
She looked up then, glance sharpening. ‘What d’you mean, suspicious?’
Imani gave a nod to Matthews. His cue to speak. ‘You might have heard, there’ve been a series of deaths, suspicious deaths, murders, we’re treating them as, in Colchester and the surrounding area. You might have seen it on the news.’
He stopped. Just keep going, thought Imani, silently urging him.
‘I saw… yes,’ Judith Lansdowne said, ‘I saw something about that.’ She thought for a few seconds. ‘He was one of them?’
‘He was.’
‘They said they was… they was all hanged…’
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Lansdowne,’ said Matthews.
And then those tears, long pent-up, came for Judith Lansdowne.
Matthews made them all tea. Seemed glad to have something to do. The teenage girl, Rhiannon, had been listening on the stairs, had heard her mother crying, come to investigate. She now sat with her on the arm of the chair, as they both held each other up.
Imani had told the two of them all they knew about finding her husband, her father. But she still had questions to ask, blanks to fill in. A job to do while wading through another’s grief. The part of the job she truly hated. A lot of coppers tried to get it over with quickly, do the questions by rote or wait until later, just get out and hand it over to Family Liaison. But not Imani. She knew that these minutes were often important. When the next of kin would say something unguarded that could present a lead.
‘We’re actually a little unsure as to when he was…’ She looked at the daughter, found an angry challenge in the girl’s eye. Like she didn’t want to be treated as a child, wasn’t afraid to hear what had to be said. Imani, emboldened by that, continued. ‘When he was killed. We just wondered if you could tell us how long he had been missing.’
Judith looked up. ‘How long?’ She gave a snort. ‘Told you, didn’t I? Went to see you, reported him missing. You didn’t do nothing about it.’
‘When was this, Mrs Lansdowne?’ Imani could sense the anger building up in the woman. First grief, now anger as she digested the news, looked for someone to blame.
‘Nearly three weeks ago. And what did you do about it? Nothing, that’s what.’
‘To be fair,’ said Matthews, chiming in somewhat unexpectedly, ‘when you reported him missing you did tell the desk sergeant at Bishop’s Stortford police station that he had done this before. That your husband had a history of disappearing for a few days then returning with his tail between his legs, some wild stories for his mates and an almighty hangover, isn’t that right?’
Imani said nothing but was secretly impressed. He had been paying attention.
Judith Lansdowne fell silent. Imani saw an opportunity.
‘What did your husband do, Mrs Lansdowne? For work, I mean.’
‘You mentioned in the missing person’s report that he could be away for long periods of time,’ said Matthews.
She nodded, slightly chastised after her outburst, more cooperative. ‘Photographic reproduction. Screen printing, that kind of thing. But large-scale, you know? Conventions, stuff like that.’ She put her head down, stared at the floor.
‘How d’you mean?’
She looked up again. Spoke listlessly. ‘Like if someone wanted some billboards at the O2, something like that. His company would print them, transport them, then rig them up. That kind of thing.’
‘Right. So he was away for long periods of work and also…’
Judith Lansdowne hesitated, looked at her daughter but something in the girl’s expression said she knew what her mother was going to say next.
‘He…’ She sighed. ‘Rhiannon knows this. No secrets now. Things weren’t right between us. Between Jason and me. Hadn’t been for a long time.’
‘In what way?’ asked Imani. ‘Money worries or…’
‘He wouldn’t come near me, wouldn’t…’ She snapped the words out then fell silent, sighed. ‘God knows what he got up to when he was away. That’s why I wasn’t… He always sent money, made sure we were taken care of. And we didn’t get it. That’s when I thought something was wrong. When I reported him missing.’
‘So,’ said Matthews, ‘you’ve no idea where he could have been, what he could have been doing that led him to that warehouse?’
‘No idea at all.’ She sighed, looked suddenly tired as she spoke.
Imani looked at her, really looked at her. Seeing her for the first time. Not someone who was a potential source of leads or an unpleasant duty to perform but a woman who was heading towards middle age, losing her looks, gaining weight, stuck at home raising a child, depe
ndant on the money of a man who roamed all over the place. And now he was dead and Imani understood what the tears had been for earlier.
Not for his death.
But mourning for a husband she had lost a long time ago.
22
It was late, it was dark and Marina knew she shouldn’t have been there. But she couldn’t help it.
The address the woman Mary had given her was for a block of flats in what Marina judged to be the less exclusive part of town. Well-maintained thirties and forties semis had given way to more recent buildings. Low, red brick, two and three storey, arranged in L-shaped courtyards like prison wings. Cracked concrete pavements and selective street lighting. Maze-like roads that seemed to never come out at the same destination twice, all choked full of parked cars making navigation if not near impossible then certainly difficult. The kind of place that seemed designed to discourage outsiders.
Marina tried hard not to feel discouraged.
She had checked Michael Prosser out as soon as she got back to her car. A simple Google search was all it took. There was plenty there. He had been in charge of the Rainsford House children’s home during the time Fiona Welch had been there. The Dark Ages, Caitlin had called it. It wasn’t hard to see why. He had started by turning a blind eye when the girls – and some of the boys – in his care became victims of child sexual exploitation. This progressed to actually procuring and enabling this to happen. Even picking to order.
Eventually he had been reported, there was a trial, a custodial sentence and he had been released. Living quietly at an undisclosed location, as one report had it. However the location wasn’t that undisclosed. He was found and became the victim of a particularly vicious attack. And that was the last she had on him.
The more she had read, the more she had become disgusted with him. She could see why Mary wanted her to deliver the message. She even wondered whether she had been behind the attack.
Putting that all to the back of her mind, she parked her Prius as near to the flat her satnav had sent her to as she could, locked it, checked again that she’d locked it. Then walked towards the flat.
