The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito)

by Tania Carver

  She got off the bed, crossed to her bag.

  What you doing? he said. Making me wait?

  It’ll be worth it, she promised.

  She found the pin. Counted the vertebrae. Slid it in.

  Ow… have you… I can’t… I can’t move… Rising panic in his voice. What’s happened? What have you done?

  She stared at him, amazed that it had actually worked first time. All those hours of practice had paid off. Staring dumbfounded at him, smiling all the while.

  What’s happened? Why can’t I feel… Oh my God, I can’t move…

  He was becoming hysterical. She couldn’t let that happen. She knelt down beside him.

  I want you to do something for me, she said to him, mouth close to his ear. I want you to give me your money.

  What?

  Give me your money, and I’ll let you go.

  He started shouting then, calling her names that she had allowed him to call her earlier but in a completely different context. She smiled.

  I’d hurry up if I were you. It’s reversible at the moment but it won’t be soon.

  Eventually her words penetrated and he calmed down. Getting out his iPad, putting in his passwords, transferring money from his bank account to hers was simple after that.

  She stood up. Realised she was still wearing the strap-on, took it off. Looked down at him.

  Right, she said, I’ll take that out now.

  She did so. But she was too late. The paralysis had spread. He had choked to death.

  Back to her own room, checked out the next morning. No breakfast.

  As she walked away from the Holiday Inn, a strange kind of calm came over her. She had been wearing a mask last night, along with everyone else. She had booked into the hotel under a different name. She had paid in cash. She had left her DNA in the hotel room but so what? She wasn’t on file anywhere. The only thing that could be traced to her was through her bank account. She closed it that day, emptying all the funds, including his. It wasn’t in her name to begin with.

  His. She smiled.

  She walked off, feeling like the next part of her life had just started.

  43

  The morning briefing. On the rare times he was part of a large-scale investigation like this, Matthews usually looked forward to them. Made him feel part of the team, an important component. But not today. He just felt terrible.

  Beresford stood at the front of the room. But Matthews sensed a change in him. Usually he would be joking with the lads – or occasionally but very rarely the girls, but never in the same way as with the lads – but not today. He just stood apart from everyone else as they all filed in, looking at the floor. Shaking his head as if having a conversation either with himself or someone only he could hear.

  Chatter and banter filled the room, the smell of takeaway coffee, paninis and pastries filled the air. Matthews studied Beresford. His eyes were red but not like they were the previous day. This just looked like lack of sleep. His usually immaculate dress sense – or if not immaculate, always neatly turned out to an almost military degree – was absent too. It looked like he had slept in the clothes he was wearing. Matthews looked round. No one else seemed to have noticed it. And there was something else too. Imani was absent.

  Matthews had gone home the previous evening unable to relax. His wife had thought it was because of the case he was working on, had run him a bath and handed him a cup of tea. And he was grateful for that. But he couldn’t tell her the real truth. He felt guilty. And, if he was being honest with himself, ashamed. Of what he had told Beresford. For what he had allowed Beresford to do to him.

  He had given Imani his word. She had told him that she would be looking into Beresford because she found his behaviour suspect. Deep down, Matthews agreed with her. This was no way to run an investigation. If he had been in charge he would have done it differently. But he had rationalised it, thought that was just him being him, getting ideas above his rank and pay grade. It was only when Imani shared those suspicions that he felt justified in thinking such things. So what had he done? How had he repaid her? At the first opportunity he had covered for himself. Retreated behind Beresford’s thinly veiled threats. Allowed himself to be intimidated. And given her up.

  He had tried to rationalise it, claim to himself that he had done the right thing, that he was only looking after himself, that Beresford had been right in what he had said. But as soon as he had spoken, he knew he had said the wrong thing. And the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that he was right.

  And now Imani was absent. What was he to make of that?

  He looked up at Beresford again. The man looked like he was unravelling. He started to speak.

  ‘OK, thanks everyone for your, your attention.’ Beresford glanced round the room. He didn’t make eye contact, didn’t seem to know why he was there. He closed his eyes and seemed to give himself a shake. Opened them again. Ready to go.

  ‘Right. We’ve, er… where are we today? How far have we got?’

  He pointed at people, seemingly at random, asking for updates. There didn’t seem to have been any. The same as yesterday, and the day before. No further information. No momentum. Beresford nodded at this news, as if everyone was giving the right answers to his questions.

  Matthews waited patiently for Beresford to ask him for an update. Because he had made progress. Potentially, he had discovered other victims of the same killer. Or at least similar methods of death. Matthews was a cautious man. He wouldn’t allow his imagination to run away with him.

  Matthews had spent the rest of the previous day scanning the central police computer, looking for similarities in unsolved deaths. He didn’t think he would make much progress since it was such a rarefied method of death but he had surprised himself. In addition to the three he had found when Beresford decided to have his little chat, he had subsequently discovered another two and potentially three more. He had then contacted local police forces, tried to speak to someone involved with the cases. From there he had attempted to build up a picture of the activity and a timeline.

  The murders had all happened over a five- or six-year period. And, try as he might, he couldn’t discern a pattern to them. They seemed to be random. And they were unevenly spaced out too. Two months between one, three years between another. Or at least that was what he had found. Maybe there were more, still waiting to be discovered.

  Matthews, despite being a cautious man, desperately wanted to use the phrase ‘serial killer’ but knew he didn’t dare. From what he knew – admittedly gleaned from films and the odd crime novel – serial killers worked in patterns. They had specific ways of committing their crimes, took trophies and always left some kind of signature. Besides the method of death, there didn’t seem to be anything like that here. But the descriptions were the same. The victim had been seen talking to a woman in the bar the night before. Eyewitnesses could never agree on what she looked like. And then the victim, usually a middle-aged male, would be found dead. The same method of killing: a small hole several vertebrae down. Just the right place to paralyse. But small enough to be overlooked by a coroner not suspecting foul play. It was only later – if further investigation took place and it wasn’t accepted as a heart attack – that financial irregularities were noticed. A large sum of money missing from his account. The trail would eventually dry up, the case would be left open. And that was that.

  Until now. Until Matthews came calling, trying to link them all together.

  And still he sat in the briefing, waiting for Beresford to call him to speak. And every time someone finished one of their pointless summings up, he would look anywhere but at Matthews.

  Eventually the briefing broke up. Matthews felt that he hadn’t been assigned a task. He waited until the floor had cleared, went up to see Beresford who was now sitting at his desk, looking at his screen, but not seeing it. From close up he smelt bad. Like something within him had started to go rotten.

  ‘Sir?’


  Beresford didn’t look up. Matthews waited.

  ‘Sir,’ he said again, louder this time.

  Beresford had no choice but to look at him. And Matthews found himself staring at a different man. The cocky, self-described alpha was missing. In his place was a tortured, even scared individual. He looked like the kind of devout Catholic monk that Matthews had seen in films who was terrified of God and wouldn’t stop self-harming as a result.

  ‘What d’you want?’ Beresford sighed the words out.

  ‘I… well I was wondering what you wanted me to do today, sir.’

  Beresford shook his head, a teacher who couldn’t be bothered to talk to an unfavourite pupil. ‘Whatever you were doing yesterday. Keep… keep doing that.’

  ‘That’s the thing, sir. I’ve been putting together potential victims that match the post-mortem on the three initial victims. I’ve found five more that match and another three that may do. God knows how many others there are.’

  Beresford said nothing. Acted like he either hadn’t heard him or didn’t want to hear him.

  Matthews felt compelled to continue. ‘Surely we should be doing something about it? I mean, and I hate to use this phrase, but maybe we’re looking at a serial killer.’

  Again, nothing from Beresford.

  ‘Well, surely that changes the whole complexion of the case, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t we be getting more people to work on it?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Sir, why didn’t you ask me to give my findings in the briefing? I’m the only one who’s made progress. Surely that should be shared with the team?’

  Beresford eventually looked up. Stared at Matthews for a few seconds then looked away, seemingly unhappy with what he could see.

  ‘Just keep doing what you’re doing, Matthews.’

  ‘But sir, I —’

  ‘Just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s all.’ Almost growling the words this time.

  Matthews felt anger rising within him. And superior officer or no superior officer, he wasn’t prepared to take this any longer.

  ‘Where’s Imani?’ His voice was louder, angrier than he had wanted it to be. The odd head looked up from their work towards him.

  Beresford tried to pretend he hadn’t heard.

  ‘I said where’s Imani?’ His heart was pounding. He had never spoken to a senior officer this way. Had never dared.

  ‘Gone,’ said Beresford, eventually.

  ‘Gone where? Back to Birmingham?’

  ‘Yeah. There. Wherever.’ He looked up again. And this time there was something close to murder in his eyes. ‘Now get back to work.’

  Matthews walked back to his own desk.

  Work was now the last thing on his mind.

  44

  Anni watched Marina sleep.

  Exhausted from the night before, she had curled up and gone straight to sleep on the sofa as soon as she got back to Anni’s flat. Anni had covered her with a duvet and let her sleep. Now, mug of coffee in hand, she sat and watched her. Watched over her, it felt like. Tried to make sure she didn’t get into any more difficult situations. But, given both their track records, that was something of an impossibility.

  Anni had eventually freed herself from Malcolm and his insistent questions and found there was a voicemail from Marina on her phone. She had listened. Heard what Marina said about Michael Prosser. Told her she’d left the same message with Imani too. Nothing yet from Imani.

  Anni had jumped straight into her car after hearing that. She had planned to hit the gym for an hour or so, keep up the good work, but there was no way she could do that now, not after what had happened to Marina the last time she had been to Michael Prosser’s. She must really want whatever information he has, she thought. Must want it desperately to go through that again.

  Straight down the A12 to Chelmsford, trying to stay the right side of the speed limit as she went, not always doing so. This is when I miss being on the force, she thought.

  Parked outside his flat, ran straight down the alley from the previous night, up the stairs, banging on the door. She waited, body tensed, coiled, breathing controlled, ready to leap into action again.

  The door was opened. Michael Prosser stood there, his ruined face catching the weak light from the hallway.

  ‘Oh. You must be Anni. Or Imani?’

  ‘Anni.’

  ‘Right. Come in.’

  He stood aside to let her enter. She did so, noticing some kind of dressing on the side of his head as she did so.

  She walked into the living room. Marina was sitting on the sofa, mug of tea in her hand.

  ‘Hi, Anni,’ she said, looking up. ‘Kettle’s just boiled if you want one.’

  ‘I’m… I’m all right, thanks…’

  This wasn’t the scene she had been expecting.

  Prosser came in, took his seat in the armchair, picked up his own mug of tea. Anni, looking between the pair of them, trying to hide her bewilderment, sat down next to Marina. She tried to give Marina a glance that said, Give it up, what’s happened?

  Marina took the cue, spoke in front of Prosser. ‘Michael needed a bit of an adjustment in attitude if we were to have a conversation.’

  Anni looked once more to the dressing on his head, saw the heavy metal torch sitting on top of Marina’s bag. Understood.

  Prosser sat with eyes downcast. ‘I get… sometimes I, I forget how to talk to people. I’ve got a lot of…’ He put his tea down, clenched and unclenched his fists.

  ‘I know,’ said Marina. ‘Now let’s move on.’

  Anni recognised Marina’s professional voice when she heard it.

  Prosser nodded, seeming almost bashful.

  Anni looked at the arm of Prosser’s chair. A cheque lay there. She couldn’t see the amount but she recognised Marina’s signature. She knew what Marina was doing, why she was behaving the way she was towards Prosser. She had made an investment. She was being careful not to damage it.

  ‘So,’ Marina went on, ‘you were telling me about the children’s home.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Prosser. ‘Well, you know about… what they said about me. All of that.’

  Marina nodded, said nothing. Very professional, thought Anni. Very controlled.

  ‘It was the girl,’ she continued. ‘You mentioned her. She’s the one we’re interested in.’

  ‘Right, yes.’ He nodded. And in his ruined face, Anni saw that his mind had slipped back. Or he was thinking something he didn’t want to share with them. That was fine with Anni; if it wasn’t pertinent to the investigation, the less Michael Prosser shared with her the better.

  ‘There was Fiona Welch. And this other girl. Thick as thieves they were.’ He almost laughed. ‘Pretty apt description.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Marina.

  ‘Because that’s what they were. They managed to get the vulnerable girls as they came in, befriend them, then pimp them out to the local gangs.’

  ‘And why didn’t you stop this?’ Anni couldn’t help it. Her voice rose as she spoke. She was aware of Marina flashing her a warning glance. She didn’t look at her.

  ‘What could I do?’ Prosser shrugged. ‘This was happening outside of the home, away from my jurisdiction. I had… there was nothing I could do.’

  ‘So you turned a blind eye. Let these two girls abuse other girls when you had a duty of care to them.’

  Marina turned to her. ‘This isn’t helping us, Anni.’ She turned back to Prosser. ‘Sorry, Michael. Please, continue.’

  Anni knew what Marina had done, made an ally of Prosser, made an enemy of Anni. Good tactic, encouraged him to talk more to her. Confide. But she didn’t like being on the receiving end. However, she kept her mouth shut, let him tell his story in his own way.

  ‘Well, so these two girls. Ran the place, they did. Everyone was frightened of them. Everyone.’

  ‘This other girl. What was her name?’

  ‘Carol Woods.’

  Marina and Anni shared another glance. Now they had it,
something concrete. A name. They could work on it, make a breakthrough. Prosser’s next words brought them down to earth.

  ‘At least that was the name she was going by.’

  Marina frowned. ‘What d’you mean, Michael?’

  ‘Well, when she came to the home, that was the name we were presented with. And she answered to it. Or she did after a while. Like she was getting used to it. Other kids thought she was deaf at first. But after a while they all called her it.’

  Anni leaned forward. ‘So what was her real name?’

  Prosser made a helpless gesture. ‘Dunno. We were never given it.’

  ‘Is that usual behaviour?’ asked Marina.

  ‘Depends. Sometimes when kids are put into care they’re given new identities. Like if they’ve been abused, so their abuser can’t get a hold of them. Or they’re sent to a different part of the country.’

  ‘But you’re always told about that? Given their backstory?’

  ‘Usually, yeah. But not always.’

  ‘Doesn’t that stop you giving them help they need?’

  ‘Yeah. Although with some of them, it’s best not to know. In the child’s best interests that as few people know about their background as possible. Gives them a chance to get over it.’

  ‘And this was one of those cases.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s the theory, anyway.’

  Another glance between Marina and Anni. Anni saw the sense of hopelessness in Marina’s eyes. Like this big, concrete lead she had been counting on and paid for had suddenly turned to sand before her eyes.

  ‘So you don’t really know who she was,’ said Marina, unable to hide the defeat in her voice.

  Prosser nodded. ‘And even if that was her name, I doubt she’s going by it now.’

  ‘You sound like you’ve seen her,’ said Anni.

  Prosser kept his head down. ‘No. Not since… no.’ His voice dropped.