The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (24 page)

A
nni 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.

Marina was silent, nothing more to ask. Anni looked at her, aware of the weight she had been carrying for the last few days. It seemed to be pressing her down so much now that she seemed unable to move from underneath it.

‘So,’ said Anni, leaning forward once more, ‘if you don’t know her real name, d’you know anyone who would?’

Prosser looked up. ‘Well, I suppose Caitlin might.’

‘Caitlin?’ said Marina, springing back to life. ‘The woman I spoke to? The one who gave me your name?’

‘Yeah, that’s her.’

‘And she would know her name? Her real name? Would she have photos of her? Or know of her whereabouts?’

‘I don’t know, but she’s worth a try. She’s got access to those files.’

‘Come on,’ said Anni, standing up. ‘Too late to do anything tonight. That’s for the morning.’

And now Anni sat there, watching Marina sleep.

She was sure Marina wouldn’t have wanted her to, would have insisted that she get up, start looking for this woman. But Anni was content to let her sleep on. It was the right decision. Because one way or another, Marina was going to need all her strength for whatever lay ahead.

I
f the tabloids had got hold of what she was doing, they would have called it a killing spree. Or worse. Her gender would have been invoked in as titillating a way as possible, there would have been a scramble to get photos of her, or background on her, and there would be lurid reconstructions of her seductions and murder methods. Because sex sells. And sex and death sells best of all.
 

But the tabloids would never get hold of what she was doing. She knew that. Never in a million years. Because she genuinely believed she wasn’t like anyone else and she wasn’t going to be caught. Serial killers got caught because they got careless. Because they thought they were all geniuses and couldn’t resist letting their pursuers know that. Then they became sloppy, like they wanted to be caught. Then they were, eventually, stopped. One way or another. It was a cycle. She knew all about it. Had read up on the subject. And she knew that wasn’t her or what she was doing. She had as much in common with them as she had with suicide bombers.
 

This was how she made a living. Nothing more, nothing less. And when she had enough to live on she would stop. Simple as that. Doing what she did was just like going to work every day. Well, not every day for her. Because she was so good at her job she didn’t need to work every day.
 

She had honed her skills down to a fine art. But that didn’t mean she had become complacent. Complacency was the enemy of creativity, she had once read. And she liked to think that, if nothing else, she was creative.
 

On the surface it seemed simple. Go to a hotel, wait, find her target. Take him back to his room, seduce him, paralyse him, clean out his bank account. Or at least skim an amount that was in itself sizeable but wouldn’t be traced. Like an ISA or two. Something like that. She didn’t get greedy. She worked within her system, her rules.
 

But beyond that surface simplicity was more complexity. She planned, watched. Targeted from a distance. Then when she was ready and only then, she would make her move. Conventions were best. Or business gatherings. She had become very proficient at spotting which of the herd was the most vulnerable. Or at least the most susceptible. Years of training had developed that skill. But that wasn’t enough. She would then study her prey, his mannerisms, his likes, dislikes. His interactions with women, especially. Most important of all. And then she would see who he responded to, who he didn’t and she would build her character, her look, accordingly.
 

This would all be done in the space of a day or so. If there wasn’t anyone there who she thought her approach would work on, she left it alone. Went somewhere else, tried someone else. There was, she had discovered, no shortage of middle-aged married men ready to take a young woman to bed if they could get away with it.
 

When she had her target in sight, she would think best how to approach him. It wasn’t always as easy as sitting on a bar stool waiting. She had to be cleverer than that. She did what needed to be done. She improvised sometimes. Other times she stuck to a rigid script of her own devising. But always with her focus on the eventual prize.
 

She went to great pains not to be noticed while she prepared, to be as anonymous as possible. She was good at that. What the Native Americans called hiding in plain sight. She had read about that too. And then she moved in on her prey. Separated him from the rest of his pack, moved in for the kill. Literally. Upstairs to his room, the promise of sex luring him on.
 

Then the fatal, simple wound. Then she would tell him that he was paralysed and the only way he could get out of it was to give her a substantial sum of money. They always did. And they always died. Then she would pack up her iPad, wipe down any surface for prints, check she had made as little contact with the deceased as possible, and move on. Back to her own room, ditch the guise she had been in, sleep and leave the next day.
 

She would have the best night’s sleep after doing that.
 

And that was that. Her glory years, she called them.
 

Was she lonely? Did she wish for comfort, companionship? Sometimes. Maybe. But the more she did this, the more she found herself pulling away from any other kind of contact with people. She was an attractive woman, and picked up admirers along her path. Men and women. But she rebuffed them all. Because, she rationalised, nothing would give her the thrill she got from her work.
 

Because it was a thrill. Yes it was a job, but what kind of life did a person have if they didn’t enjoy their work? It was a cumulative thrill. Watching their excitement as they realised this woman was interested in them, the realisation that they were going to have sex with her and, most important of all, get away with it. Then back to the room, the nervous hesitation, or some speech about how they loved their wife but
…
She would listen patiently. Then the gasp when she undressed. She loved that part. It was her second favourite bit. She felt a huge surge of power through her body as the men gazed on her nakedness. Drank her in with their eyes. Stared in awe. She felt so alive in those moments. Like her body was composed purely of electricity. Immortal, beautiful, shining electricity.
 

And then came the killing. Her favourite part. Not because she wanted them dead particularly, but because it was an extension of that power, that electricity. She had the power of life and death over these men. And they knew it. What could be better than that?
 

And then that slow, lingering part when they would die. She would watch them, eyes wide and staring, as the life drained from them. They couldn’t talk by this time, so complete was their paralysis, so she couldn’t ask them questions. But she wanted to. What did they see? What were they feeling? What was there? It fascinated her. If she allowed it, it could consume her.
 

And then death. And it never ceased to be an amazing moment. One second there would be life. The next, nothing. Just dead meat. Incredible. And that just made her wonder all the more. Where had that energy gone? What was there to see? She was envious of them, in a way. They were having an experience that she couldn’t share in. At least not yet.
 

So that was that. Her easy life. She had a home, a place she had bought, but she very rarely visited. And when she did she felt restless, wanting to be out on the road again. Home was where she went when there was nowhere else to go.
 

Yet she knew this couldn’t last. For many reasons. She would get older, perhaps lose her looks, become less attractive to men. Or she might get bored. And if she got bored, she might become complacent. And she knew all about guarding against that. So no. It couldn’t last. Best to make as much as she could right now. Go out on a high, while she was still enjoying it. And then let the future take care of itself.
 

That was the plan. And then she came back to Essex.
 

Was it out of sentimentality? She didn’t know. Was it fate? Perhaps. Whatever the reason, she found herself back in Colchester, just up the road from her old home, if she could call it that. She didn’t know how she felt. She had been expecting some kind of rush of emotions but she hadn’t felt it. Instead it was like walking familiar paths but in an unfamiliar way. Like she was visiting places an old friend had told her about.
 

And then she turned on the TV. Saw the news.
 

Fiona Welch was dead.
 

And she genuinely didn’t know what to think, how to feel. Stunned? Shocked? Yes, probably. But that was nothing compared to the news that followed. Because she saw the detective who was at the heart of the case, the one who had caught her.
 

Sean. Back from the dead.