by Tania Carver
The noise in the room hushed as Beresford took to the floor.
‘Good morning, everyone, let’s get down to it.’
He had the room’s attention. Imani looked at him, puzzled. His eyes looked sore. Red-rimmed, puffed up. Every time he blinked he winced slightly. Movement seemed to be causing him discomfort too. He smiled, apparently reading her mind.
‘Sorry for my appearance,’ he said, ‘had an argument with a can of wasp spray last night. You think this is bad, you should see the wasp.’
Polite laughter from the room. Imani smiled to show she was joining in even though the line sounded like it had been prepared.
‘Moving on,’ Beresford said, then pointed to Imani. ‘What did you and Matthews get from the victim’s next of kin yesterday?’
Imani glanced at Matthews who looked back at her, gesturing that she should speak. Imani appreciated the courtesy. She stood up, referred to her notebook.
‘We visited Jason Lansdowne’s wife, the widow of the second body to be discovered. Gave her the news. Naturally she took it badly. She told us he was away a lot, didn’t think too much of his absence at first.’
‘He worked for a company that did large-scale screen printing for events,’ said Matthews. She couldn’t immediately decide if he was backing her up or anxious not to give her all the limelight. ‘Went away a lot for work.’
‘And was also,’ said Imani, feeling suddenly competitive, ‘from what we could gather, a bit of a lad. Had other women. He didn’t seem to treat his wife with much respect.’
Beresford nodded. ‘So not much there, really.’ He smiled, gave a brief nod. ‘Thank you, DS Oliver.’
Imani was taken aback. She hadn’t finished. ‘Sorry, sir, but there’s quite a bit we can do on the back of that.’
Beresford folded his arms. ‘Such as?’
‘Well, talking to his co-workers. Seeing if they knew any of these women he was supposed to have been seeing. Names, a description, even. Getting a list of places he’d visited recently for his work. Then seeing if anyone saw him near the building he was found hanging in.’ She stopped talking, aware that the whole room was staring at her. Apart from Matthews who had found something on his desk absolutely fascinating. ‘Well, that’s what I would do.’
Beresford gave a smile as false as a Strictly Come Dancing tan. ‘Thank you, DS Oliver, for your contribution. We’re very grateful.’ He turned away from her. ‘Right. Moving on…’
The briefing continued. The longer it went on, the more Imani’s sense of unease built. Beresford, she noticed, seemed to be talking a lot but, when she broke down what he was saying into what had been done and what the plan was to take the investigation forward, not actually achieving much.
The meeting broke up. She looked at Matthews. ‘So, what do we do today?’
Matthews shrugged, kept looking at his desk. ‘Get on with things. Keep doing what we were working on.’
Imani looked round, made sure they weren’t being overheard, leaned in closer to him. ‘What d’you think of Beresford?’ Her voice hushed, her face showing a slight grin in case anyone watching thought they were just sharing a joke. ‘I mean really.’
Matthews looked up, a wary, startled look in his eyes. ‘What d’you mean? He’s the CIO for this case.’
‘Yeah I know that, but he doesn’t seem to be actually doing anything.’
Matthews didn’t reply. Imani felt that she had to continue.
‘I gave him all those potential leads to follow up, all the things we discovered yesterday, and he didn’t seem interested.’
‘Well, we can follow them up.’
‘Yes we can, Simon, and we will. But don’t you think it’s usual in a case – any case, not just this one – for the CIO to be eager to follow up any lead that comes in? How else are the team supposed to make progress?’
Matthews looked away from her once more. When he spoke, his voice was a mumble. ‘I’m sure the boss knows best.’
Imani stood directly in front of him. Determined to make eye contact. ‘Are you? Really?’
He looked round, nervous, as if everyone in the room was listening to them. No one, as far as Imani could tell, actually was. Most people seemed to be getting on with work.
‘I mean,’ she went on, ‘I read the report yesterday. Where was the PM on the three bodies? Held up, Beresford said. Why? Has anybody checked for them?’
‘DS Beresford. Says there’s still a hold-up.’
‘The same with forensics. I mean, how long does it take for a report to arrive here? Are they sent by carrier pigeon? And what was all that about with his eyes? Wasp spray?’
Matthews said nothing.
Imani made her tone less harsh. ‘Sorry. Getting a bit carried away. I don’t mean to sound like I’ve come from the big city and we’re used to having everything done for us. I just… well I hate to say this, but he seems to be a bit incompetent, that’s all.’ She shrugged. ‘Sorry. I know he’s your CIO and everything. Your work colleague and all that.’
Matthews looked round the room once more then back down to his desk. He seemed to be battling something internally, fighting to come to some kind of conclusion. Eventually he looked up. Eyes locked with Imani’s.
‘Let’s go outside. Let’s get a coffee.’
27
Marina and Anni had talked the night before. And talked and talked and talked. Eventually they had fallen asleep, Marina exhausted by the events of the previous twenty-four hours.
She opened her eyes, shook her head, realised where she was: Anni’s spare room in her flat in Colchester. She immediately threw the duvet back and got up, pulling on yesterday’s clothes before leaving the room.
She looked down at them, at the dirt and tears in her skirt, and remembered. The attack. Shuddered.
That had been the first thing she had said to Anni, stunned as she had been to see her there in Chelmsford.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Followed you,’ Anni had said.
Marina had thought for a few seconds, taken aback by the answer. ‘You didn’t know where I was.’
Anni had shrugged. ‘Easy enough to find out. Knew you wanted help, followed your trail. Used to be a detective, remember?’
They had hugged then, Marina expressing her relief. She had kept hugging her friend as she thought about everything that had happened to her recently and began to break down.
‘Hey, hey,’ Anni had said. ‘None of that here. Let’s get away first.’
They had looked round for Marina’s assailant but there was no trace of him.
‘Still,’ said Anni, ‘he’s going to have hell seeing tomorrow. That’s something.’
‘You should have run after him. Not stopped for me.’
Anni put her hands on her hips, spoke in a mock-hurt voice. ‘That’s the thanks I get for saving the damsel in distress.’
Marina managed a laugh. ‘Oh shut up.’
They had then driven back to Anni’s apartment in Colchester. Talking all the while.
‘Sorry,’ Anni had said once they were under way on the A12.
‘What for?’
‘You came to me for help. I didn’t give it. I should have.’ Eyes on the road, straight ahead, the whole time.
‘No, it was wrong of me to ask. To just phone up and expect you to be there. Drop everything for me. Wrong. And selfish. Especially after everything you’ve been through.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘So shut up, then.’
More silence, more miles. Eventually Anni spoke once more.
‘Doesn’t matter, you know.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘How long we’ve been apart. How long it’s been since we’ve spoken. None of that counts. Not really. Friends – good friends, proper friends – can just pick up where they left off. Or should be able to. No matter how long it’s been or what they’ve been through since. So, you know. I’m here now.’
<
br /> Marina nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Anni tried a smile again. Marina knew it was covering real emotion. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Needed to get out of the house.’
From beyond the bedroom door, Marina could smell coffee. She ventured out in search of it.
Anni was in the kitchen area. Her flat was open plan, all straight lines, highly lit and modernist furniture. The direct opposite to Marina’s place which was all curves, deep colours and old. Vintage, as she liked to call it. Hippy shit, as Anni often described it.
‘You’re awake,’ said Anni. ‘Thought I’d let you sleep for a bit.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly half ten.’
‘Jesus, we’d better get going. Why’d you let me sleep that long?’
‘Because you were exhausted and you needed to rest. You’d be no good today without the sleep you’ve just had.’
Marina sat down on the sofa. Despite having angles that could have been measured with a set square, it was surprisingly comfortable. ‘You not at work today?’
‘The gym can do without me for a while. The unfit of the parish will just have to exercise on their own.’
Marina smiled, took the coffee Anni offered her. ‘Thank you,’ she said again.
‘You don’t have to keep thanking me.’
‘I meant for the coffee.’
‘Whatever.’
Marina took out her phone, checked for messages. Still holding the forlorn hope that Phil might have been released, come home. Called her. Nothing from him. But a few missed calls from Cotter. She played the several voicemails the woman had left. They all ran along the same lines. She was angry with Marina for just taking off like that and not telling her where she was going. If she had any solid leads she should have shared them with the team not gone out as a maverick on her own. She wasn’t helping anyone like that, least of all Phil. And then a later one, more conciliatory in tone. Just call me. Please.
Anni looked at her. ‘Cotter?’
‘Yep. Wants me to call her.’
‘You should.’
Marina looked at her phone. ‘Maybe later.’
She had told Anni everything she had discovered the night before. About Fiona Welch’s children’s home, the other girl, Michael Prosser.
‘You think that was him that attacked you?’ asked Anni.
‘I thought so at first, but I don’t now. The person who grabbed me didn’t smell like Prosser. And after being alone with him in that flat, I should know what he smells like. And it’s not something you forget in a hurry. And then there’s the pepper spray. He only has one eye. Doubt he’d have been able to run off like that.’
‘Then who?’
‘No idea. The only thing I can think of is that I was on to something and someone wanted me stopped.’
Anni nodded.
Marina drained her coffee mug, stood up. ‘So what are we going to do today?’
Anni just looked at her. ‘Get you in the shower, for a start. Then get you something to wear. Then you’re going to phone your daughter and Cotter. Then we’re going to do a bit of hunting round ourselves.’
‘Couldn’t we just —’
‘No. In that order. You look like the wild woman of Wongo.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Just get a shower.’
Marina stared at her old friend. It felt like no matter what she said, who she talked to, there was only one word in her mind, one picture in her head: Phil. Find Phil. An overriding imperative.
‘Look,’ said Anni, as if reading her mind, ‘I know you want to get going. But believe me, it’ll be better if we do things my way.’
‘Where are we going? To see Franks?’
‘Franks was good to me, didn’t want me to leave. But was very understanding when I did. I like to think I could rely on him. And I’m sure he’s running this investigation. But I don’t think I can just walk up to him and tell him to give me what he’s got, I’m running my own investigation with you.’
‘No, you’re right. Any other friends on the team?’
‘Virtually all new. No. You get your shower, I’ll make a few calls. I know a couple of people who might be able to help us.’
Marina just stood there.
‘Well, off you go. Day’s a-wasting.’
‘Hey, Anni.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Thank you. I really… really…’
Anni kept her face down, attention on her coffee, expression unreadable.
‘Go and get your shower.’
28
Michael Prosser had seen it all, watching from his window.
That nosy psychologist bitch, the one who’d pretended to be nice because she wanted something but had ended up screaming at him when he wouldn’t play along with her, insulting him, vile fucking bile, her. He had seen what happened to her. In the alleyway.
His first thought had been to call the police. His immediate, gut response. In fact his body had started to do just that, stomach lurching at witnessing the sudden attack, an involuntary reach for his phone. But he had stopped himself. Or something had stopped him. Instead he had just stood at his window, watching. He saw the man pull a knife on her. Hold it to her throat. He didn’t hear what he said but he was sure it was something unpleasant. Good, he had thought, his cracked lips curling into a smile. What that bitch deserves.
He’d felt something run through him at that point, like a rusty sword piercing points within that he hadn’t experienced feelings from for ages. Years, even. And he had discovered his hand reaching for the phone once more.
But again he had stopped himself. No. Don’t do it. The reason had changed. In such a small space of time, the reason had changed. He wouldn’t make a call. Not because of who that bitch was and how she had talked to him. But for another reason altogether. Fear. Of what, he didn’t know. Or wasn’t sure. But fear was enough. His last few dealings with the police hadn’t been positive. There was no reason to expect this one to be. They would ask what he was doing at his window, why he was watching that woman, what she meant to him. And then he would have to tell them that she had been here, talking to him, asking him questions. And they would want to know what the questions were about. And he would lie. About everything, all of that. And then they would do a bit of digging and find out about him. And what he had done. And what had happened to him. And then they might forget about the person he had seen and turn their investigation on him. And he couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t have that. So he left the phone where it was.
And left whatever it was he was feeling alone inside him.
Yet still he had watched. And then something had happened that he wasn’t expecting.
A tiny ninja girl, her clothing as dark as her skin, had rushed forward, attacking the attacker. Spraying him with something, making him scream and stagger off. And he had smiled once more. But this time there was no cruelty to it. Just a sense of justice being done. And a fluttering of something else inside him. An emotion he hadn’t experienced for a long time. So long he couldn’t name it, didn’t dare put a name to it.
And he watched them walk away, arm in arm, while the attacker fled.
But that had been enough.
After that he had tried to go back to his life once more, or what passed for his life. But he couldn’t relax, couldn’t settle. The whole evening had upset him. In more ways than he wanted to think about.
It wasn’t just that woman’s visit. Or what – or rather who – she was asking about. It was more than that. Because he had seen the attacker. And he knew who he was. Oh yes. Someone like that wasn’t easily forgotten. Who they were and what they were capable of. And because of that, he knew why the attacker wanted to silence that psychologist woman.
He had kept away from the window after that. The whole thing had set him thinking.
If he had attacked that woman then he knew she had been to see him. And if he knew that, then he must have been watching his flat. And if he had been watch
ing his flat and hadn’t got what he wanted from the woman, then he knew who would be next for a visit.
Michael bloody Prosser, that’s who.
And if that was the case then things must be serious.
Deathly serious.
So Michael Prosser sat in his flat, emotions tumbling about inside him. He had tried to keep them quiet with whisky but it was just some cheap supermarket knock-off brand that burned rather than tasted. But even that was better than thinking, than feeling.
His hand went absently to the side of his face, to the angry red craters that were once his skin. A reminder. And a warning.
He could remember the name of the other emotion. The one he didn’t want to acknowledge. Guilt.
But right now, the only emotion he would allow himself was the one he could not only name but readily embrace.
Fear.
29
‘Well, I have to say, Simon – can I call you Simon?’
Matthews nodded.
‘Simon, that this isn’t the kind of place I expected you to bring me.’ Imani smiled. ‘Or any copper, for that matter.’
Matthews looked slightly uncomfortable, mumbled something about clichés. Imani looked round once more.
The Daisy Cup Flower Café on St Isaac’s Walk in Colchester seemed to have a permanent smile, bright, cheerful and welcoming, if a café could be said to do that. A flower shop on one side, the café had blond wooden flooring, a fake turf counter and wall, mismatched but colourful armchairs and painted wooden furniture. Old forklift truck pallets had been painted white and turned into sofas stretching along one wall. It looked inviting and relaxing, off-beat and slightly bohemian for Colchester. And all the more incongruous because of the two police officers sitting in two mauve armchairs at a low table away from everyone else. They had walked there in silence, Imani’s anticipation increasing to know just what Matthews had to say that was so important. Wondering if it would match her developing suspicions.
