The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (19 page)

I
mani followed the satnav. Couldn’t help hearing Anni Hepburn’s words ringing round her head again as she drove.

‘You sure he’s OK, young Matthews?’

‘Yeah,’ she had replied. ‘Why shouldn’t he be?’

Anni gave her a look. ‘You mentioned Beresford. Looking into him, seeing if he checks out. Might that not be a conflict of interest? Might he not want to give his boss a heads-up?’

‘It’s a legitimate line of enquiry.’

‘No doubt, but it’s still his boss.’

‘We had words before coming here. He’s OK, he’s onside.’

Anni didn’t look convinced. ‘Let’s hope so.’

And that had been that. The three women had left Nick Lines to his work, gone their separate ways. Promising to keep in touch, keep each other informed, liaise later. And now she was driving around Colchester, looking for Prentice’s Garage.

So far, all she had done was battle a one-way system that could rival Birmingham’s for fiendishness. Even the satnav appeared to be giving up. She had passed the same section of Roman wall three times before she found the turn-off she needed. She spun off the roundabout an exit before the one she had taken the last two times and headed up towards the New Town area. She didn’t know why they called it that. It seemed to be composed of red-brick terraces, all auditioning for
Coronation Street
. She followed the satnav further, heading down streets undesigned for vehicles, lined on both sides with cars and vans, negotiating blind junctions and tiny looping crescents. None of the houses looked uniform either. Some had been extended and refitted with varying degrees of pride and expense, some left to rot, some turned to the ubiquitous student accommodation. And then she found what she was looking for.

Prentice’s Garage was easy to miss. Between two rows of houses was an open doorway that went up two storeys. Inside it was the Tardis: long and narrow but with space for ramps and lifts, with three cars currently being worked on. She pulled up on the opposite side of the road, locked her car, went over.

‘Hi,’ she said to a trim, grey-haired, bespectacled man wearing a set of grey overalls. ‘Mr Prentice?’

‘Yes?’

Apart from the grease and the work clothes, she thought, he had the thoughtful bearing of an accountant.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Oliver,’ she said, flourishing her warrant card. ‘Could I have a word, please?’

Immediately he became suspicious. Those shrewd eyes narrowing behind the glasses. ‘What about?’

‘Oh, nothing to worry about. You’re not in any trouble, nothing like that. Just wanted to ask about a car you’ve had in.’

Now he looked more irritated than suspicious. ‘A car?’

‘Yes.’ She looked round. Saw an office up a flight of wooden steps in the rafters of the building. ‘Should we go up there or are you happy here?’

Give him the option, she thought. Put him at his ease with the illusion of choice.

‘Here’s fine,’ he said. ‘Unless I need to look something up.’

‘It was a car earlier this week. Yesterday, perhaps. A Vauxhall Insignia. Belonging to DS David Beresford.’

‘Dave Beresford?’ Prentice asked surprised. ‘He’s one of your lot.’

‘He is indeed. I just need to check whether his car developed a fault and you brought it in this week.’

Another suspicious look. ‘Why don’t you ask him? You work with him, don’t you?’ Then another look appeared on his face. Fear. ‘Can I see your warrant card again, please?’

She showed him it.

‘West Midlands. You’re not from round here.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m working on an investigation in conjunction with Essex Police here in Colchester. It involves the disappearance of one of our senior officers. So could you tell me whether you’ve had DS Beresford’s car in here this week and what, if anything, was wrong with it?’

Prentice seemed to be the kind of person who didn’t act, think, or speak rashly. He mulled over his reply before answering her. ‘Before I say anything else, I just want to say that Dave Beresford is a good customer of mine. He’s brought me in other custom too, word of mouth. I had a little spot of bother a few years ago – nothing serious – and he helped me out with it. So I count him a good friend. If he’s in trouble I think I have the right to know.’

It was Imani’s turn to mull over her reply before speaking. Deciding whether to tell him everything or just as much as he needed to know in order for her to get an answer. Get creative, she thought.

‘His car may have been involved in a kidnapping. That’s not to say that DS Beresford had anything to do with it in any way. I just need to know whether his car was in this garage for any reason this week. Can you tell me that, please?’

He kept his steady gaze on her, didn’t answer. Imani tried to work out what his little spot of bother could have been. Her first thought, given his neat appearance, was accounting trouble of some kind. Financial mismanagement of some sort. But not necessarily. His neat appearance, even in a set of overalls, could have meant anything. Alcohol, gambling problems? Not her place to ask. Just curious. Something big enough to get the police involved though. But something big enough in order to lie to cover up for a detective you owed a favour to? She didn’t know. She sensed she was about to find out.

‘I’ve already had a call about this. One of your lot. Young lad, it sounded like.’

‘That’s right, I’m working with him.’

‘So,’ Prentice said, measuring the words once more, ‘if I were to call DS Beresford would he be happy for me to release this information? Again?’

She was starting to tire of this man. Time for her to remind him of her job description. ‘I don’t know, Mr Prentice. I do know that if needs be I could get a warrant to have your books turned over to us and go through them. Obviously I don’t want to do that. It’s a lot of fuss. And as I said, this is a kidnapping I’m investigating. And I’m sure you realise that in cases such as these time is of the essence.’ All said while smiling and seeming reasonable. Imani thought that was some achievement.

‘Fine. Right. I see.’ Prentice nodded. He sighed.

Get on with it, she thought. Even Sophie in
Sophie’s Choice
didn’t take this long to make her mind up.

‘No,’ he said eventually.

‘No what?’

‘No. Dave Beresford’s car hasn’t been in my garage this week. Haven’t had it in since I did his MOT last March. I’ve seen him socially, of course, since then. But not as a customer.’

‘So did he contact you to say his car’s been here when it hasn’t? Was that why you said earlier that was?’

Prentice looked like it was a difficult question to answer.

‘I’d… I’d rather not say. Not without proper representation.’ He looked straight at her, fear once again furrowing his features. ‘Will I need representation?’

‘I doubt it, Mr Prentice. As long as you’ve told me the truth.’

He nodded, more vigorously than the admission needed. ‘I have. He’s a friend, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Debts have to be considered repaid sometimes.’

She nodded, told him she understood and returned to her car.

Not knowing if that feeling inside her was elation or dread.

‘W
ell, this is an unexpected surprise,’ said Malcolm Turvey. ‘But a good one, though,’ he added hastily, should there be any doubt.

Anni Hepburn smiled at the man. It was clear he didn’t get many visitors, especially female ones. His house was in New Town – part of the same warren of streets Imani was currently negotiating – and it wasn’t one of the added on or added to ones in the street. It had the look of a house that was cleaned and painted only when absolutely necessary, did its primary job without any adornment. Not because the owner couldn’t manage the upkeep – although the two dead hanging baskets, one at either side of the front door, said there may be some truth in that – but because he had other, more important things on his mind. It was a house belonging to someone who believed the life of the mind was more important than the physical one. And that, clearly, excused a lot.

Anni kept smiling, hoping to be asked in, dreading a little what state she would find the inside of the house in.

Malcolm seemed to be having similar thoughts. ‘Was there… can I do something for you?’ Looking round as he said it. Hoping the neighbours saw this pretty young black girl on his doorstep while simultaneously hoping they didn’t think she was there to arrest him.

‘Need your help, Malcolm. Can we talk inside?’

‘Yes. Obviously. Certainly. Of course.’ He stepped out of the way, showed her inside. ‘Come in, please.’

She did so. He closed the door behind her.

The house was small, the front door opening on to the living room. The first thing she noticed was the gloom. The curtains were drawn, keeping what daylight was left firmly out. From the dust grooves on them it looked like it had been a while since they had been opened. And the furniture didn’t suggest a normal living room either. Bookcases in the alcoves were overflowing with texts. Two old metal filing cabinets stood against one wall where a shabby old sofa was pushed up against them. A TV, the front greasy with fingerprints, was pushed up against the curtains and a desk and wooden dining chair with a frayed, dirty cushion on it was in front of the blocked up fireplace. On the desk was a computer. Black and complicated-looking. If this is the living room, thought Anni, she would hate to see what the bedroom was like.

She shuddered. Hoped Malcolm didn’t catch it.

‘Tea?’ he asked. ‘Or coffee?’

‘Whatever’s easiest.’

He stood there looking puzzled.

‘Tea,’ she said, making his mind up for him. She smiled as she said it.

He went off to the kitchen to make it. Once the kettle was filled and on he re-entered the room.

‘Sorry. It’s probably not what you’d think of as homely,’ he told her.

‘That’s fine.’ She perched on the edge of the sofa. She looked at the filing cabinets. ‘Your work?’

‘Ah,’ he said, face lighting up. ‘Yes. Real work, I mean. Well, what I think of as work. You know. Not the library work. Not like I used to do. Real work.’

‘Which is? The crimes?’

‘Absolutely.’ He sat on the wooden chair, swung his body towards her.

He really didn’t look healthy, she thought. Unkempt grey hair, a red face that could have been from alcohol, bad diet or a combination of both, a spreading paunch and wearing a sweater and khakis, both of which had dodged the washing machine for a few weeks longer than they should have done.

‘My work,’ he said again. ‘A complete catalogue of all the major crimes in the area. All of this century and the majority of the last one too. Everything from discovery and investigation through to prosecution – or not in a few unfortunate cases – and imprisonment. I’ve even tried to find out what happened to the perpetrators on release. Fascinating. It really is. I always say,’ he continued, getting really into his story now, ‘I always say you can take the cultural and moral temperature of a society not just by the crimes it commits, collectively, but just as importantly in how we deal with and punish those crimes.’

‘Absolutely right. The one I —’

‘That’s the kettle.’

She waited while he pottered in the kitchen, returning with two mugs that despite a vigorous washing couldn’t disguise the immovable tannic scale on the insides, an open plastic bottle of milk and a teapot decorated with a picture of Prince Charles and Lady Diana.

‘Here you go,’ he said, pouring.

Anni did her best to look enthusiastic about it, took a sip, declared it too hot, left it on the floor beside her foot.

‘So what can I do for you?’

He seemed almost too eager, she thought. But continued.

‘Fiona Welch. The fake one.’

‘I thought so,’ he said nodding. ‘I thought so.’

‘Her victims. I’m sure you’ve got all the details.’

He jumped up, almost upsetting his tea in the process, and crossed to the computer, moved his mouse to turn it on. ‘Got them right here. Modern stuff is all on computer now,’ he said, a note of sadness in his voice. ‘Much prefer the filing cabinet.’

‘Can’t beat the old ways,’ said Anni, suspecting she was expected to say something.

‘Quite. What did you want to know?’

‘Everything, really. Who they were, how they met her, all of that.’

He turned to her, frowning. ‘Don’t you have all this stuff?’

‘Well, I did, but then I left the force. They didn’t let me keep it.’

‘No,’ he said, turning back to the screen, ‘suppose not.’ He scrolled through information. ‘Here we go,’ he said eventually. He turned to her once more. ‘You’re not drinking your tea.’

‘Too hot still. What you got?’

‘Right.’ He read from the screen. ‘First victim, Michael Duncan. University student, worked nights behind a bar.’

‘Which one?’

‘The Castle. Down the High Street. Beside the Castle, strangely enough.’ He read on. ‘Had a girlfriend but started to try and change her. Got her to grow her hair long, dye it dark brown. Black. Bought her dresses from Monsoon.’

‘On a barman’s wages?’

‘And a student as well, don’t forget. No, I think it was discovered later that the woman claiming to be Fiona Welch bought them for her.’

‘Weird.’

‘Yeah. That’s just the start. Apparently he wanted her to start calling herself Marina.’

‘Oh, I think I remember this now.’ She nodded. Getting more than just a memory of the case. Remembering Mickey too. The last case they had worked together before his death. Before she had killed him.

She tried to hold it in check, concentrate on the facts. Remember her training.

‘And then he killed her. Once she’d done all that for him.’

‘How?’

‘Strangled.’

‘Right. And the next one?’

‘Same. Everything the same. Glyn McDonald. Student, had a girlfriend that he tried to change, call Marina. Worked in a different bar, though. Still in the city. The Purple Dog. Know that one?’

‘Yeah. So how did she meet them? Through the bars?’

‘Difficult to say. They were all studying something different. The third one, Tom Houston, fitted the bill exactly. But he didn’t work in a bar. He worked in a coffee shop.’

‘But still in the service industry. So she could have met them all as a customer.’

‘The bars and the café were all quizzed at the time. None of them could remember seeing her. At least, not the woman who was then taken into custody calling herself Fiona Welch. But she may have changed her appearance by then.’

‘And all of these three confessed to the murders, if I remember.’

‘Absolutely. Not just confessed, they were proud of it. Happy to confess. Said they’d done it for her. All three of them.’

‘She was easy to track down, wasn’t she?’

‘Like she was waiting to be caught. Or at least catch the eye of someone.’ Malcolm became bashful. ‘Marina Esposito. That’s who. And you brought her in.’

‘We did. We had to. She was waiting for us. We didn’t know what to do with her so she was put in the special unit.’ Anni sighed. ‘And then everything turned to shit.’

Malcolm just nodded.

Anni looked up, determined not to give in. At least, not in front of Malcolm. But another part of her thought she should. Let it go. Let him witness the anger, the pain, the grief, at first-hand through her. Let him see that crime had consequences, that it wasn’t something that could be carefully filed away, just a story to extrapolate morality from. Let him see the real cost of it.

But she didn’t. She held it in. Professional once more.

‘So where are they now, these three men?’

‘In the system. Doing time. I don’t think any of them will be out any time soon. None of them have shown remorse. The only remorse they seemed to have shown was in not seeing this woman again.’

‘That’s some hold she had on them.’

Malcolm agreed.

‘Have you any photos of them?’

‘Of course.’ A few more mouse clicks, then the sound of the printer. He gathered up the images, handed them to her. ‘In order. Michael Duncan. Glyn McDonald. Tom Houston. There you go.’

Anni studied the images. They weren’t what she had been expecting. She was expecting a likeness of Phil Brennan. But yes, she could see there was something about them that did resemble him in a kind of generic way, they did all share similar qualities. They all looked alike. They all look like someone, she thought, just not Phil.

She stood up. ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks, Malcolm. Really appreciated it.’

Malcolm blushed once more. ‘Oh. Thank you. Anything, anything I can do to help. Any time.’

Smile in place, she made her way to the door.

‘Oh,’ he said as she stepped foot outside, ‘you haven’t finished your tea.’

‘Next time,’ she said and hurried back to the car.

As she went she remembered something she hadn’t asked Malcolm: What had he been keeping from them when they spoke to him in the tea room?