The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito)

by Tania Carver

  She could sense the next phase approaching. And it did. An escort back to Colchester to be formally questioned about the murder in the hospital. And the driver? Mickey Philips.

  Perfect. So perfect.

  He wouldn’t fall for her charms. She knew that straight away. He was too much in love with Anni Hepburn for that. But there were other ways. She wasn’t just some one-trick pony. There was a more direct approach she could take. Much more visceral. One that Mickey definitely wouldn’t survive.

  And he didn’t.

  She had always been good with her teeth.

  And then she was free. And if that didn’t attract the attention of Phil Brennan she didn’t know what would.

  But she had attracted his attention. Especially after what she did next.

  It was a risk and at the time she was in two minds about doing it. The cautious, pragmatic part of her, the part that had ensured her continual survival and expanding bank balance, said don’t do it. The other part of her, the yearning, desperate and, if she was honest, romantic part of her, wanted to do it. Had to do it. So that side won out.

  And in hindsight it turned out to be the best thing she could have done.

  She invited herself in to Phil’s house when he and Marina were out. She just wanted to be near to him, see what he saw, feel what he felt. Be close to him. For hours she was alone there, soaking up the atmosphere, touching things that belonged to him, smelling his clothing. She drank a bottle of beer from the fridge. His beer, it must be. Just to savour the taste, experience what he experienced when the cold liquid ran down his throat. She didn’t like beer, never drank it. But this tasted like the most beautiful thing in the world.

  She found a book of old photos from his childhood, was thrilled to go through them. And that’s when an idea formed.

  His childhood. That’s what she had to do. Recreate his life in reverse. Take him from where he was now with Marina through to his adoptive mother Eileen, back to his childhood with her. And from there, spend their eternity together.

  Perfect. That’s what she would do.

  She took the photos. And took some more, of the house where he lived. Every room. She noted down where the crockery had been bought, what brand of beer he liked to drink. Checked the dishes for what they had eaten. Built up as full a picture of Phil’s life as possible.

  Because that was the life she was going to dismantle. Piece by piece. And then rebuild in her own image.

  But she couldn’t let it go at that. She had to do one more thing.

  She got undressed. And got into bed, waiting for him.

  Eventually he returned, entered the bedroom. He saw her there, thought she was Marina. She didn’t attempt to change his mind. Until he realised she wasn’t.

  Their first time together didn’t go quite the way she had expected. She left him lying at the top of the stairs temporarily paralysed. Taking a selection of Marina’s clothing, she left the house. And, as far as he was concerned, disappeared.

  It had been worth it, though. Just those precious few minutes in bed with him, skin on skin, had given her the impetus she needed to carry on. The belief that everything was going to work out fine and they were going to be together. She couldn’t wait.

  She didn’t disappear, of course. She kept very close to Phil. And when he and Marina separated she came close to stepping back in. Consoling him, making him forget his wife and daughter, starting a new life with her. But she restrained herself. Concentrated on the long-term plan instead. It was better that way.

  She planned everything meticulously. She had to. She would get only one shot at this and it had to work. It would work.

  First, she needed a base. There was an out-of-the-way farm renting out old outbuildings just outside Elmstead Market. She visited it. Found it perfect for her needs. The area around was flat, no one could arrive unannounced. The building itself was old, brick-built with a corrugated iron roof. No one was the slightest bit interested in why she wanted the building. She just knew she would be left alone here. Perfect.

  Once inside, she had rooms built, like a stage or film set. The photos she had taken of Phil’s house and his childhood home with Eileen were blown up and pasted on them. She sourced matching items from online for any three-dimensional objects that would be needed. And she stocked up on Phil’s favourite beer. She couldn’t forget that.

  She noticed that the guy who sorted out the photographic enlargements looked a lot like Phil. And he also made it clear to her that he was available, should she be interested. She smiled. That was his fate sealed. All she needed was two others and the next phase of the plan could go ahead.

  They weren’t hard to find. And, as before, they were willing volunteers.

  Three lookalikes. Three locations. Three murders.

  She killed them the same way she had all those men in those hotel rooms. Then she arranged for the bodies to be hanged and left in locations that would definitely get Phil’s attention.

  But she couldn’t hang the bodies herself. She was many things, but she just wasn’t physically strong enough. So she enlisted help. Dave Beresford was an old friend of hers from way back in Rainsford Children’s Home. He had risen to the rank of detective sergeant. Ironically, if Phil had not moved to Birmingham, they would have been working together. He would help her.

  Except he said no. At first. She worked on him, fucked him, tried to manipulate him. He still said no. She was confused: this wasn’t like her. She must be slipping. But she had told him too much now, she had to have him. Sensing he was wavering and that he would do it if the incentive was strong enough, she took his wife and son. Told him that he would only see them alive again if he did what she wanted. And got himself in charge of the investigation. Gave her the time she needed to do what she had to do. Seeing no alternative, he agreed.

  As she had remarked before, she wasn’t just a one-trick pony.

  So it was all in place. She just needed one more touch. The tarot cards. At first she thought that was too much, gilding the whole thing slightly. But she decided to allow herself a theatrical flourish, not to mention slight misdirection. And it added an element of fun. What was wrong with that?

  So it was ready to go. Phil was about to have his old life stripped away and replaced by his new one with her, the real true love of his life. Perfect. Nothing could go wrong. She wouldn’t allow it to.

  She almost spoiled it by going on Malcolm’s tour that night. Poor Malcolm. Dear, sweet Malcolm and his love of crime scenes. Literally, as she had discovered. One slight misstep. She just had to see the reaction to finding the body, right where Fiona had died. She couldn’t help it. Yes it was risky but she had to do it. And it worked out fine. He didn’t recognise her. Didn’t even look at her. And even if he had spotted her, what could he do? Nothing. He didn’t know she was behind this. And he didn’t know anything about her. There was nothing to worry about.

  And now it was time to go and see Phil.

  She rose from her seat. She had removed every bit of make-up from her face. Her hair was now its natural colour. She was naked. She was herself. Her real self. She looked in the full-length mirror. She didn’t recognise herself. Didn’t recognise the face looking back at her. Or the body she saw before her.

  She didn’t even know her own name. Her real one. She was wiped clean. A blank slate. She had no identity.

  She picked up two small objects from beside her make-up kit and turned away from the mirror.

  Ready to spend all of eternity with her brother.

  Her love.

  56

  The house was a new-build, as Malcolm had said. Part of a development called Meander Mews. All different sizes and shapes, designed to give the impression of individuality, but all the same shapes repeating every so often. Some looked Georgian, some more rustic. The one they were interested in was beige brick. Small, insignificant. Not nearly as ostentatious as most of the houses on the street, and very easy to overlook. Just the kind of place you’d want, thought An
ni, if you were planning something illegal and you didn’t want to attract attention to yourself.

  Again, the curtains were closed.

  Anni had driven there and parked directly outside it. The street was quiet, almost like a toytown village. They got out of the car.

  ‘You got a key for this one, then?’ she asked Malcolm.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  He looked warily at her. Uneasy around her since they had left the flat. Good, she thought. So he should be. Considering what he’s done. Then, looking at his confused face she relented slightly. He didn’t know he was having sex with a murderer, she thought. Give him the benefit of the doubt. But just as that was sinking in, another thought struck her: would it have made any difference if he had known? Or would that have made it even more exciting for him?

  She cleared those thoughts from her head, concentrated once again on the job in hand.

  ‘Right,’ she said, looking up and down the street and taking a leather roll from her inside jacket pocket.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Malcolm.

  ‘Lockpicks. Tools of the trade.’

  Malcolm looked alarmed. ‘But… that’s illegal. Breaking and entering.’

  ‘I know,’ said Anni, standing up against the front door, trying to finesse the lock to open, ‘but I thought you liked crime? Got a thrill from it, a buzz, all that.’ She hadn’t meant her words to come out as harsh-sounding as they did. Too late to take them back now.

  Malcolm just looked confused, hurt even. ‘Well, yes, but…’

  ‘There you go then.’ Anni stepped back. The door opened. ‘After you.

  He entered with Anni following.

  The first thing that hit them was the smell. And Anni knew exactly what that kind of smell meant.

  ‘Jesus, what’s that?’ asked Malcolm, stuffing his sleeve against his face.

  ‘Upstairs,’ said Anni, trying not to gag.

  The air was rich with decay. Putrefying meat that had been left to rot in an enclosed, unventilated space for too long. The buzzing of flies, the air thick with them.

  She moved upstairs, a reluctant Malcolm following. They swung open the main bedroom door. And there, on the floor, were the decaying bodies of a woman and a small boy.

  ‘Oh God… Oh God…’

  Malcolm turned and ran back downstairs.

  ‘Malcolm, wait…’

  Anni turned and followed him.

  He raced into the deserted street and fell to his knees, vomiting into the gutter. ‘Oh God… Oh God…’ Gasping between heaves until there was nothing left inside him, just dry heaves after that. ‘I just… oh God, that… that sight, that… that smell…’

  Anni stood behind him. ‘Congratulations. Your first actual murder scene.’

  He slumped back on the pavement, started to cry.

  ‘Not like it is in the movies, is it?’

  ‘Oh Christ… it’s… it’s awful… it’s… oh my God…’ He kept crying.

  ‘Welcome to real life.’

  Her back to the house, she took out her phone. Called Marina.

  57

  ‘Just you and me now,’ said Matthews. ‘Sir.’ He frowned. ‘Should I still call you sir?’

  Beresford stared at him. A slight smile began to gather at the corners of his mouth. Matthews knew what he was thinking. Marina was gone. Little Simon Matthews was left. Little, easily manipulated Simon Matthews.

  ‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’ Matthews said before Beresford could reply.

  He settled back, folded his arms. Studied Beresford.

  Beresford spoke. ‘All bollocks, this, isn’t it? Eh? All bollocks.’

  Matthews kept staring at him, unsmiling, not speaking.

  ‘All bollocks.’

  Still no reply from Matthews.

  ‘You don’t believe all her shit, do you? All that psychological shit?’ He laughed. ‘She’s a right one when she gets going, though, isn’t she? I bet her old man was glad to get away from her, eh?’

  Nothing. Beresford began to look slightly worried. He still continued.

  ‘Still, bet she bangs like a shithouse door in bed, though.’

  Beresford laughed. Matthews didn’t join in. Silence fell once more.

  ‘You know,’ Matthews said, eventually, ‘I used to look up to you.’ His voice quiet. No drama, no histrionics. Just a small sadness, regret.

  ‘Yeah? Well, thanks. You’re a damned good copper, mate. Damned good.’

  Matthews continued as if Beresford hadn’t spoken. ‘Really look up to you, you know? Admire you. I really did.’ His voice quiet, compelling. ‘Oh, I know you never noticed me in the office. Did you?’

  Beresford made to answer, Matthews just talked over him.

  ‘I just kept my head down, got on with my work. I wasn’t one of your gang, didn’t go drinking with the boys after work, didn’t follow the rugby, none of that. I knew that. Not that type. Not me. Too quiet. Like I said, kept my head down, did my work, put my hours in. But I’m good at my job. I’ve always been good at my job. Bloody good. And that got me noticed. That got me promoted.’

  Beresford nodded. ‘Right, yeah. I see your point. OK. Well, don’t worry, when we get out of this, I’ll take you down the boozer. We’ll sort it out. Don’t have to feel left out, now do you? It’ll be all right. You’ll see.’

  Matthews shook his head. ‘No, no, you see, you don’t understand. You don’t get what I’m saying to you. Marina’s right. You don’t listen, do you?’

  Beresford jumped at the mention of her name, like he’d been slapped.

  ‘What I’m saying is, you used to be my hero. And now look at you.’ He gestured dismissively at Beresford. ‘Sitting there, the wrong side of the table. How the mighty have fallen, eh?’

  Beresford tried to keep his face impassive, but it seemed to be a losing struggle.

  ‘What’ll the rest of the office say about you now, eh? Your old mates, the lads you used to go drinking with, talk about the rugby with, what d’you think they’ll be saying about you? What kind of names d’you think they’ll be calling you?’

  It seemed to be the first thing that had been said to have directly penetrated Beresford’s understanding.

  ‘I’m sure you can guess, anyway. Not that they’ll say them to your face. Because where you’re going, you won’t see them again.’

  ‘No. No, no, no, you’re wrong…’

  ‘I’m not wrong. You’re just like all the other bits of self-deluded scum we get in here. Got excuses for why they raped, or murdered. Just like you. Not wanting to face the truth about who they are and what they’ve done. Just like you. Well, you’re going to get a long time to think about it. The rest of your life, I reckon.’

  Beresford’s head dropped. He shook it slowly from side to side.

  ‘Oh, and another thing,’ said Matthews as if it had just occurred to him. ‘You know all those nonces and child rapists who get put away? The ones who you think it have it so bloody easy? Them? Well, you’re going to get a chance to find out, aren’t you? Because that’s where they put the coppers, isn’t it? The vulnerable prisoners’ wing. There they’ll be, all the kiddie-fiddlers and nonces, the child-killers and fuck-ups, and there’ll you be. Slap bang in the middle of them.’ He sat back, frowned as if another question had just occurred to him. ‘I wonder if you’ll think they have it so easy then? Maybe you can drop us a line, all the boys in the office, all your old mates. Maybe you could let us know.’

  Beresford looked completely broken.

  58

  Marina walked into Franks’ office, expecting to find Anni, perhaps. But there was only Franks.

  Marina frowned. Then started to get angry. ‘Why have you pulled me out of there? I was making progress, I had him about to —’

  ‘Please,’ said Franks holding up his hands in mock surrender, ‘before you start just listen. You’re making progress. Good progress. And I want you to keep going.’

  The compliment moved Marina to silence. F
ranks continued.

  ‘I’ve had an email. From Caitlin Hennessey. Rainsford Children’s Home?’

  ‘Right. What —’

  ‘If I can get a word in, I’ll tell you.’ He handed her a printout. ‘This is the full report on Carol Woods. You can read it later at your leisure but I’ve read it and I’ll just go over the bullet points with you. Time is of the essence, and all that. And I want you back in there.’

  ‘Right.’ Marina glanced at the papers, Franks read from his copy.

  ‘Originally from the north of England, Yorkshire. Leeds, I think. Her father was a police detective. High-ranking, important. He pulled in a well-known gangster. Built up an airtight case against him. Naturally, this gangster didn’t like that. So he put out a contract on Carol’s father. And the rest of her family. They all had to go into hiding. They thought they were safe.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But this gangster had deep pockets and people everywhere. The family were at a safe house. They were given up. Associates of this gangster tracked them down, killed the mother and father and the two police officers guarding them. The two children, a boy and a girl, were allowed to live. These two children were split up. Given false names, put into care. For their own sakes and for those around them, they never saw each other again. They came with as little information as possible to avoid any further repercussions. Carol, as she was now called, was sent to Rainsford.’

  ‘What about the boy?’ asked Marina.

  ‘Doesn’t say. Doubt we’ll ever find him now.’

  ‘And no one told her who she really was?’ asked Marina, incredulously. ‘Not even when she came of age? No one told her why she was there, who she was? Surely there was no threat to her by that time.’

  Franks looked at the paper once more as if it contained all the answers to Marina’s questions. ‘Doesn’t say.’ He shrugged. ‘Suppose we just have to assume that she slipped through the cracks in the system. Wouldn’t be the first. Doubt she’ll be the last, either.’