The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito)

by Tania Carver

  Beresford tried to look disinterested. Failed. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘I will,’ said Marina, not acknowledging that it was the first time he had actually engaged with her. ‘Murder. That’s what I wouldn’t do. Murder. Oh, I wanted to. I really did. You see, I came face to face with the person who’d stolen my daughter and I was very, very close to killing her. God, I wanted to. I don’t mind admitting it. But you can understand that, can’t you?’

  Beresford just stared at her.

  ‘It wasn’t a rhetorical question, you can answer.’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was like a croak.

  ‘Yes of course you can. We all could. Even Simon here, I’m sure of it.’ She leaned forward again, eyes locked on to his. ‘But what I never thought about, never even considered, was killing anyone who got in my way. And there were plenty of people trying to get in my way, believe me. Or ask DCI Franks, he’ll tell you. He was one of them. But I would never – ever – think of murdering, of killing them. And you know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No.’ She gave a humourless laugh, sat back. ‘No. You really don’t know, do you?’ She sat back, hoped he understood what he had just admitted to.

  Obsession

  Phil Brennan. Oh, Phil Brennan. But how to make him notice her, that was the question. But not just notice her. That would never be enough. He had to believe her, in what she had to tell him. Everything she had to tell him. Totally believe her. And go along with her. Really, he just had to fall in love with her. And then live happily ever after with her.

  Eternally happy ever after.

  She had giggled at the thought of it. Like trying to attract the attention of a boy at school, she thought. Not that she had ever done that. Well, not in that way, anyway.

  So what was that way? Or this way? Phil Brennan was her brother. But the way she thought about him was… more than a brother. Much more. Much, much more. He was becoming everything to her. Her obsession, her career. Her life. The feelings she was experiencing for him, they went much deeper than just brother and sister.

  She tried to think it through, explain it to herself. While glorying in that sweet feeling at the same time.

  Here was the man she had been separated from for most of her life. She had gone through her whole life not knowing who she was, who she really was, and suspecting that another part of her was out there. Another piece to make her complete. And she hadn’t been able to function as a single individual with that in the background all of this time. She had always felt lacking as a person. Hollow. Unconvincing. And now she had found him. That missing piece of herself.

  It had to be him. Of course it did. How else could she have been led to him? First Sean then Phil. And then discovering Phil’s family background. It had all fallen into place then. And she had become obsessed with him then. Knew they had to be together. In every way possible. On every level. It was inevitable.

  She desired him, yearned for him. Lay on her own at night, imagining his body entwined round hers. Total. Complete. Soul deep.

  La petite mort.

  Le grande mort.

  She knew that some people wouldn’t understand. Obviously. A love, an obsession, like theirs wasn’t the kind ordinary people could understand or were designed to understand. They were different, special. And the love she felt for him went beyond some stupid bourgeoise morality. All she had to do was show him, let him experience it for himself, and he too would experience that same love for her.

  All she had to do was get to him.

  She had to find a way. And she did. Again, it was so obvious that it must have been meant to be. Fiona Welch’s work. Where else should she start except with her old friend, her old lover?

  So she studied Fiona’s work, her techniques, her ideas, immersed herself in them. And that’s when the plan came to her. Again, like a gift, almost fully formed. Become Fiona. Assume her persona, her identity. Carry on her work. Finish what she started. Improve on it, even. Yes. That would get his attention. There was no way he would ignore her then.

  But she couldn’t just rush into it. This would take planning, scheming, plotting. It would take time. And money. Which was fortunate, because she had plenty of both things. Especially time. For this to work as well as it should, as it had to, she had all the time in the world.

  Finding victims was easy. Almost too easy. They were just about lining up for her, no shortage of willing participants.

  She had once witnessed a hypnotist at work. Close-up, backstage. One of her dates had worked in a theatre, so she had gone with him, interested in keeping him alive long enough to find out what went on there. And she had enjoyed herself. Sadly, he hadn’t made it to the second act. But watching the hypnotist had been fascinating.

  He had chosen his subjects carefully. They were all to be in the audience that night and all came to see him of their own volition. The interesting thing, she had decided, was not the ones he had chosen but the ones he had rejected. And the way he had rejected them, the reasons why. She tried to see it through his eyes. He had spotted something in the rejects that would cause a barrier to being hypnotised. Some lack of susceptibility. And it wasn’t something that was apparent in physical form, either. Physically powerful people were accepted while smaller ones were turned away.

  What he looked for was some kind of commonality, some kind of willingness to be hypnotised, a susceptibility. How he saw that, she didn’t know. But she vowed to find out.

  And she did. In fact, she had known it all along. And used it herself. It was how she chose her victims. How she managed to work out – usually in an instant – which male would make the best subject. And she had always chosen well so far. She had never made a mistake.

  That went even more so for these victims.

  She couldn’t remember their names. She never could. Eye colour, yes. Smell even, yes. Names, no. They weren’t important. Just like hers wasn’t. As long as she spotted that susceptibility. As long as she could manipulate them. And she definitely knew men, and certainly knew how to manipulate them. More than that: how to make them love, honour and most importantly, obey her. How to make them kill for her. And not regret it. And still love her and want her all the more.

  She followed Fiona’s notes to the letter. And it worked. The three she chose were all willing to be led. And they all killed for her. Without regret, without qualm. But first they did something that she knew would get Phil’s attention. They remade their girlfriends in Marina Esposito’s image.

  She couldn’t have sent out a more obvious, unambiguous signal if she tried.

  Eventually the men were arrested. And the trail led back to her. Or Fiona, as she was calling herself by this point. And doing a good job of it. Living like Fiona, dressing like her. She had adopted her speech mannerisms, her walk, everything. She was Fiona. She almost believed it herself, she was so convincing. And if she was being honest, if she hadn’t done all this with the sole intention of getting noticed by Phil, she might have continued as Fiona. Become an enigma from beyond the grave.

  But no. She had work to do.

  They arrested her but found they couldn’t charge her with murder because she hadn’t actually killed anyone. And she was also claiming to be someone who was dead. So they freely admitted that they didn’t know what to do with her. In desperation, they sent her off to a secure hospital in Suffolk.

  And that was when the fun really started.

  54

  Anni watched Malcolm work. He was sitting on the folding chair at the table, the laptop open in front of him, papers spread out all around him.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll know it when I see it…’ Not even looking up, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  Anni kept watching him. Studying him. Poring over papers, following what was on screen with his finger, lips moving at the same time.

  That man had sex with the person who killed my partner. The thought came, unbidden, into A
nni’s head.

  Not just had sex with, but was in a relationship with, for God’s sake. Cared for her. Wanted her, desired her. Thought about her, probably bought gifts for her. Looked forward to spending time together. Planned a future with her. Loved her, even. Yes, definitely loved her.

  And now here was Anni, working alongside that murderer’s ex-lover. And doing so in that murderer’s apartment. How does that make me feel? she thought. She didn’t know. Uneasy, yes. Definitely. Anything else? Yes, loads of things, loads of emotions. But not any of them easily quantifiable or identifiable. At least not that she wanted to explore at the moment. But there was one overriding emotion she was experiencing. Anger. She could feel it building up within her once more.

  The man whose lover killed my partner is in this room right next to me…

  That anger wasn’t going to diminish any time soon. That anger was going to need an outlet.

  ‘Found something,’ said Malcolm, looking up.

  Anni, pleased to have something to take her mind off her increasingly dark thoughts, crossed the room to see, stood over his shoulder looking down.

  ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to a stack of A4 sheets. ‘It’s a letting agreement. She’s rented another property. A house, by the looks of it. I’ve checked on the map. It’s down off the Avenue of Remembrance. Some new-builds there, a whole estate. By the leisure centre.’

  Anni said nothing. Just stood behind Malcolm, looking alternatively between the papers he was holding and the back of his neck. That thin strip of skin between untidy hair and overdue-for-a-wash shirt. Naked. Vulnerable.

  ‘And there’s this,’ he said, pointing to the screen. ‘Another let, it looks like. A unit on an industrial estate, from what I can gather. Somewhere out by Elmstead Market, on the way to Clacton.’

  He looked up, did a double-take at the expression on her face.

  ‘You OK?’

  Anni blinked, snapped herself back into the room. ‘What?’

  ‘I said are you OK? You were looking funny.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, a little too quickly. She looked down at the papers he held in his hand. ‘Let’s try the house first.’

  She swept out of the apartment, like she couldn’t bear to be in it for a second longer.

  Malcolm, folding the papers and bringing the laptop, followed her. Frowning.

  And suddenly wary of her.

  55

  Marina was still interviewing Beresford, Matthews watching. She was still smiling at him. Beresford, not knowing why, was looking uneasy.

  ‘Have you worked out what you just admitted to me yet?’

  ‘I didn’t admit anything.’ Beresford frowned. His voice was angry.

  ‘Think about what I asked you. Think about your reply.’

  He said nothing. Just stared at her. It seemed like he had the feeling he had been bested in some way but hadn’t yet worked out how. So he covered it up with anger and irritation.

  ‘You killed anyone who got in your way, didn’t you?’

  Beresford gave a small shrug of acknowledgement.

  ‘And you know what?’

  ‘What?’ His voice dead on the surface, trying to hide a genuine interest. Issued more like a challenge than a question.

  ‘You enjoyed it.’

  He gave a snort, shook his head, rolled his eyes. The whole repertoire. ‘You haven’t a clue,’ he said, voice curled into a snarl. ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Really?’

  Marina sat back, regarded him some more. Unblinking. Seemingly making up her mind about something before speaking. Reading him.

  ‘Have you ever apprehended a rapist?’

  He stared at her, warily.

  ‘It’s not a trick question, it’s just a question. Have you ever apprehended a rapist?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What about a man who beats up women? Targets women, hurts them. Abuses them. Just for the hell of it. Ever arrested anyone like that?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  ‘What about a child rapist? Someone who preys on children, vulnerable little children, who can’t fight back. Who forces them to —’

  ‘What you on about now?’

  ‘Just asking. It’s just a question. Have you ever arrested a child rapist?’

  ‘What d’you want to know for?’

  ‘I just want to know, that’s all.’

  ‘So you can make some decision about me, is that it? Then come up with some bullshit theory.’ Another snort.

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

  ‘Yes. Course I have.’

  ‘Good,’ said Marina nodding. ‘Right.’ She sat back, her academic, genuinely curious voice in place. ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  ‘What, you’re a fucking psychiatrist now?’

  ‘Psychologist. How did that make you feel? When you brought them in, booked them? How? Like you’d done some good? Got some scum off the streets?’

  ‘Yeah, course I did.’

  ‘And when you arrested them, these pathetic individuals, these child rapists, when you’d actually seen what they’d done, did you want to hurt them?’

  Beresford thought for a moment, then leaned forward. Eyes locked with Marina’s. ‘Yeah,’ he said slowly, relishing the word and the emotions it evoked, ‘I did. I really did.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. Who wouldn’t? I’m sure I would.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Beresford said, warming to his theme. ‘Especially when they started crying. Because where they were going, prison, they’d get it easy. Put on the vulnerable prisoners’ wing, kept apart from everybody else, protected. Because that’s what we do. Worry about their human rights. Protect scum like that.’

  ‘So before they got there…’

  ‘Yeah. Before they got there I wanted a session with them. Anyone would.’

  ‘What stopped you, then?’

  Beresford froze, didn’t answer.

  ‘Fear of getting caught, was it?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Were you worried that if you did it and word got out and there was a court case then you’d lose your career, was that it? Lose your job, your respect, your pension, even. Your family, perhaps. And all for some piece of shit like that, is that it?’

  ‘Something like that, yeah.’

  ‘So what if you didn’t have that fear? What if you could do it and not get caught, what then? Would you hurt them? Teach them a lesson?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Beresford said, smiling and nodding. ‘Yeah. Course I would.’

  ‘You’d hurt them.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’d kill them, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you’d feel like a hero for doing it, wouldn’t you?’

  Beresford smiled, like he was imagining the adulation that would go with it. ‘Yeah, I would. Because that’s what I’d be.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t.’ Marina’s voice suddenly icy. ‘What you’d be is a killer. A murderer. That’s all.’

  Beresford blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘A garage mechanic. You killed him. An ex-social worker. You killed him.’

  ‘Yeah, but they were —’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. A serving police officer. You killed her. A fellow officer.’ She sat back, regarding him like he was something she had to scrape off her shoe. ‘You’re a killer. A murderer. That’s all. You’ve made excuses, you’ve lied to yourself about what you’ve done and why you’ve done it but you’re just a killer. Just another criminal who deserves to be sitting on that side of the table.’

  ‘I was —’

  ‘No, you weren’t protecting your wife and son. You were using them as an excuse. And you were killing because you thought that excuse protected you. Because you thought you could get away with it. That’s all you are.’

  Something broke behind Beresford’s eyes. ‘I’m not… I’m not…’

  There was a knock at the door. A uniform entered, said there was a visitor for Marina.

 
; She stood up, irritated to be interrupted but knowing that it must be for a good reason.

  ‘Well,’ she said to Beresford, ‘I’ll leave you that little thought to be going on with.’

  She left the room.

  Silence fell.

  Eventually Matthews unfolded his arms, leaned forward. He smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

  ‘Now that she’s gone,’ he said, ‘now we’re alone at last, there’s a few things I want to say to you…’

  Ready For the Rest of Her Life

  So simple. So, so simple.

  Most people would have thought that being caught for a crime and enduring the subsequent incarceration would be the end of the story. But she wasn’t most people.

  Yes, she wasn’t in prison. That was a plus. She was in a secure hospital. And that was fine. That was also part of the plan. Her well-paid solicitor had arranged that. No. This wasn’t the end of the story. It was just the beginning of the next chapter.

  As she had expected, her crimes attracted attention from Essex Police’s MIS. Namely Anni Hepburn and Mickey Philips. This was part of the team who had taken down the real Fiona Welch. When she saw them walking towards her for the first time she was so excited she could have asked for their autographs.

  But no Phil. At least not yet. She would just have to try harder.

  She cast around for a way of attracting more attention and found it quite easily. Murder. Inmate on inmate, with the strong suspicion that she was behind it. Which she was. The killer she chose was so simple and susceptible that it was almost laughably easy.

  But it worked. It attracted more attention. This time it was Marina Esposito.

  It wasn’t Phil, no, but she tried to look at the positives. It afforded her a chance to study the woman who called herself his wife close up. And that she did. All the time the woman was talking to her she was watching, trying to work out what – if anything – had attracted Phil to her. She couldn’t find anything. Marina Esposito had nothing that she didn’t have. She had smiled inwardly on discovering that. She had no competition.