The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (28 page)

‘N
o. Definitely not. No.’ DCI Gary Franks was not a man used to having his authority questioned. Especially not by a woman.

Marina held her ground, glared at him. All those old wounds were opening up between them. Reminders of skirmishes past. Matthews, watching, sensed that neither would give in.

After discovering Imani’s body and recovering enough to be useful, he had called Franks, told him what had happened. Franks initially didn’t believe that Beresford could be involved, but Matthews, coolly and calmly, opened up enough doubt in his mind for him to take action. Beresford had his phone with him. He could be tracked by that. Franks said to leave it to him, he’d get it sorted.

Matthews had then phoned the number that Imani had left him for Anni. No reply. He tried Marina. She was on her way to Chelmsford to talk to someone. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her on the phone what had happened, only saying that he had to see her urgently when she returned.

And he had waited. The CSIs had arrived and began their work. Uniforms were cordoning off the street, beginning their door-to-door enquiries. Everything was under way for a murder investigation. Then Franks called him, told him to get back to Queensway as soon as possible.

He did so, found Franks and Marina together, Beresford in an interview room, and another body on their hands. He was speechless, surprised at how quickly things had changed.

And now, in his office, the door firmly shut but not enough to block the sound of raised voices, Franks was holding court.

‘But Gary —’ began Marina. Her sadness and grief at the death of Imani had given way to a righteous anger and she wanted to direct that anger at Beresford.

‘No. I said no. And it’s stupid even to ask.’

‘Why?’

He looked at her as if she’d just asked the most ignorant question ever. ‘What? You honestly need me to spell it out to you?’

‘No of course not. But try to look at this from more than just your point of view.’ She clearly wanted to add ‘for a change’ but stopped herself.

‘Someone else’s point of view? OK, then. How about the CPS, how about their point of view? If I let you wander in there and —’

‘I wouldn’t be wandering in. Don’t be so demeaning.’

‘If I let you go in there’ – he stressed the word ‘go’ – ‘and conduct the interview with Beresford, a good defence barrister, or even an indifferent one, would have your testimony torn apart in minutes. Seconds, even.’

Marina just stared at him, trying to come up with an argument but knowing that, as he saw it, he was right.

As he saw it.

‘Look,’ said Franks, continuing, ‘you know what protocol demands in these kinds of situations. Someone unconnected with the case comes in and handles the interview. Especially when it’s one of our own.’

‘Exactly, and where are you going to get them from? Just about the whole of this station’s working on this case. And everyone here, and a few other stations too, know Beresford. Who d’you suppose you could get to do the interview?’

‘Yes, I agree it’s difficult. We’ll have to —’

‘Exactly,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘So let me do it.’

‘No. Definitely not.’ Pointing at her now. ‘You’re too involved. It’s your husband who’s gone missing, remember. Who we’re trying to find.’

‘You think I’ve forgotten that? Seriously? Really?’ She leaned forward until he could look nowhere but into her eyes. ‘You’re right. It’s my husband she’s taken. My husband who’s gone missing. And that bastard in there can tell me where he is.’

Franks shook his head. Took a walk round his office to get away from her penetrating gaze. ‘You see, there you go again. Calling him a bastard. You think that’s going to make for a good interview? That level of emotionalism?’

‘Of course not, that’s for here, in this room. In that room I’m a professional. And you know that.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Franks, ‘you are a professional. And very good at what you do. There, I’ve said it. A compliment.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But you’re also wilful and strong-headed. And you put your needs for information first instead of the whole investigation.’

‘What?’ Marina couldn’t believe what he had just said. ‘My husband
is
the investigation…’

Franks shook his head once more. Took a deep breath, exhaled. Gave himself time to come up with counter-arguments against her words.

‘You’re not even staff,’ he said eventually. ‘You don’t work here any more. You’re just a civilian now.’

‘Yeah, I am. But how many times have I been in that room, as a civilian? How many times have I questioned suspects and got a result? How many?’

Franks had no answer for that. Not without undermining his own argument.

‘Thought not. But, Gary, this is what I’m good at. No, what I excel at. It’s what I’m trained for. When I walk in that room I don’t let my feelings get in the way. Ever. I’m there to do a job. And I’m bloody good at it.’

Franks said nothing.

Marina, sensing, or rather hoping, he was relenting, continued. ‘Please. Just let me try. What have you got to lose? The custody clock’s ticking and there’s no one else here who can do it.’

Franks thought. It seemed like the room was holding its breath.

‘I don’t like the way you do things. You’re anti-authority. Anti-discipline.’

Marina gave a small laugh. ‘Of course I am. But I get results. Don’t I?’

Franks sighed, rubbed his huge, paw-like hands over his face. ‘All right, you’ve got first crack.’

Marina breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. Thank you, Gary.’

‘But I should —’

‘Sir.’ It was Matthews. The first time he had spoken for ages.

They both turned to him in surprise, almost forgetting he was there in their verbal sparring.

‘Could I go with her, please, sir?’

Franks frowned, looked incredulous. ‘Not you as well, Simon…’

‘Please, sir.’

‘Look, DC Matthews, I appreciate the offer. But as I was just about to say, as senior officer it should be me who accompanies Dr Esposito into the interview room.’

‘Yes, sir, I know, but…’ He paused, gathered his thoughts, continued. ‘As Marina says, this is an unorthodox case. An unorthodox situation. And DS Beresford lied to me. He made me complicit in the disappearance and murder of a fellow officer. I can’t let that stand, sir. I want a crack at him.’

Franks stared at his DC. He was usually a reliable officer. Thorough. Neat. Everything by the book, paperwork always handed in on time and to a high standard. But Franks had never seen this fire in his eyes before. This passion.

‘Sir.’

Franks sighed. ‘I must need my bloody head examining.’ He pointed to the door. ‘Go on, get in there, the pair of you. Before I change my mind.’

F
or Anni it felt like déjà vu.

Down on the River Colne by the old Dock Transit building and the lightship. The first time she had met Mickey Philips. Watching him throw up as he found a mutilated body. Bless him, she thought. Then tried to take the smile off her face as quickly as possible. Not the time or the place.

The flat they were looking for was in a contemporary block on the waterfront. Directly opposite the building where Fiona Welch died. Just beside the lightship where one of her victims was found. Appropriate, she thought.

‘So this is it?’ she asked Malcolm as they entered the building, waited for the lift.

He nodded. ‘The last known place that Diane Monroe lived at.’

They alighted on the fourth floor. Anni looked out of the window. ‘Perfect view,’ she said. ‘If you like looking at old crime scenes.’

Malcolm didn’t reply.

‘D’you know whether she’s still here?’

‘No idea,’ said Malcolm, producing a key, ‘but we’ll soon find out.’

He moved to the door, put the key in the lock. It fitted.

‘Did she give you that?’

‘Sort of,’ he said, glancing up to give Anni a furtive look, then back to the lock again.

‘Wait, so you copied her flat key without her knowing?’

He looked up. ‘I realise how that sounds, but it wasn’t like that.’

Anni raised an eyebrow.

‘Honestly.’

‘So?’

‘She… took some of my files. To read, she said. Study. And I trusted her at the time because I…’

‘Because you weren’t thinking with your brain?’

He nodded, reddening once more. ‘Something like that.’

Anni looked at him. She was struck, not for the first time, as to just what a creepy individual Malcolm actually was. She sometimes forgot that when she and him were talking, but something like this just reminded her. He was trying not to look at her, though, clearly embarrassed about his admission. Creepy, yet somehow likeable, she thought.

He opened the door, swung it wide.

‘After you,’ he said.

Anni looked into the darkened hallway. Suddenly felt nervous.

She stepped over the threshold.

T
he interview room door opened and in stepped Marina and Matthews. They both pulled up chairs, sat at the opposite side of the table to Beresford. He didn’t look up. Sat with the chair pushed away from the table, his long body stretched out, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded. He looked like he had been asleep. He barely acknowledged them as they entered.

‘Where to start?’ said Marina.

No response from Beresford.

‘For the record,’ she said, continuing, ‘this is just a preliminary interview. And you’ve decided that for now you don’t want a solicitor present, or your Police Federation rep. Is that correct?’

Beresford nodded, but only barely.

‘Right then,’ Marina said, voice bright and businesslike. ‘Here.’ She reached into her bag, brought out a file. Removed from the file a photo. Slapped it on the table in front of Beresford. He flinched, blinking, tried to pretend he hadn’t.

‘Michael Prosser. Dead.’

She took out another photo, slapped that one down.

‘Imani Oliver. One of ours. Stuffed under a staircase at a garage.’

Another photo, another slap. Another flinch from Beresford.

‘Roger Prentice. Garage owner. Anyone we’ve missed?’

Beresford stared at her. Eyes hard, defiant. He smiled. ‘I’ve played this game longer than you, darling. Gonna take a lot more than that to get something out of me.’

Marina said nothing. Just continued to stare at him.

Matthews leaned forward, about to speak. Marina touched her foot to his. The message clear: don’t. Leave this to me. He sat back again.

Marina kept staring, Beresford kept smirking.

‘You were crying when you killed Michael Prosser. Remember? Crying while you strangled him. Did that make you sad? Did you not want to do it? Or did you think no one would be there to witness it? You crying like a baby.’

Beresford’s face showed rising anger. Then, not without a struggle, he managed to control himself. Sat back again, tried to look as relaxed as possible.

‘You’ll have to do better than that. Like I said, I’ve done this before. I know all the tricks in the book. I invented some of them. You’re really gonna have to surprise me if you want me to say anything.’

Marina gave a brief smile. ‘We’ll see.’

‘We will.’

‘You see, I only want the answer to one question. That’s all, just one question. You know what that question is?’

Beresford shrugged.

‘I want to know where my husband is. That’s all. I don’t want to know about all the people you killed, or how many, any of that. Oh, I daresay it’ll come up in the conversation, it’s going to be unavoidable. But I just want the answer to that one question. Where is my husband? That’s all. And before I leave this room, I will have it.’

Beresford laughed. ‘Give it your best shot, sweetheart.’

‘Oh, I will.’

She tried to look confident. She only hoped she could feel as confident as she looked.

A
nni entered the apartment, Malcolm following behind.

They moved slowly, cautiously down the hallway, unsure what – if anything – was waiting to jump out at them. Anni listened as she went. No sound coming from in front of her. Either someone was doing an expert job of hiding, or the flat was empty. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions just yet.

She reached the living room. The blinds were drawn. Weak light penetrated the slats, giving the room its only illumination. Anni looked round. It was open plan, with room for a dining table and a breakfast bar come kitchen along the rear wall. There was only a cheap fold-up wooden chair and a table in the centre of the room. Apart from that, there was no other furniture.

‘Spartan,’ she said. ‘Very minimalist.’

The table had empty food wrappings on it. Microwave meal dishes. Lasagne, bolognese. Dirty forks still in them. One for Forensics, she thought.

‘Try not to touch anything,’ she told Malcolm.

‘I won’t. I’m wise to that.’

‘Good.’ Another look round. ‘Did she ever invite you here? For dinner or anything else?’

‘No. Never.’

‘I can see why.’

She made a quick inventory of the other rooms. Checking for activity, double-checking behind all open doors, fearful of a nasty surprise jumping out at them. Nothing. There was no one there but the two of them. She allowed herself to relax slightly then.

Anni had to admit, it felt good to be doing this again. She had missed police work. Not the form-filling and report-writing, none of that. But this. The detecting, finding things out. This was when she used to come alive. She could feel it happening again.

I just wish Mickey was here to share it.

She shook her head, banished that thought as far away as she could. She had work to do.

The bedroom was as empty as the living room. A mattress on the floor, sheets and pillows, a duvet. All plain, no colour. A cheap white self-assembly wardrobe. She looked inside. Full of clothes. Different colours, different styles. Nothing similar. Like they were all disguises for different personalities. She found make-up as well, wigs.

It felt hollow, empty. Like the person who slept there, ate there, had no personality of their own, thought Anni. They had to put these clothes on for them to be someone, just to leave the flat.

‘Marina should see this. She could get a PhD out of this place.’

Malcolm called through from the living room. ‘I think I’ve found something.’

Anni went to join him. He was standing behind the breakfast bar, a laptop on it, a sheaf of papers in his hands.

‘A clue?’ he said.

‘Very probably. Let’s hope so.’ She looked at all the papers, the laptop. ‘You any good with this kind of thing?’

Malcolm smiled. ‘My department, I think.’

He opened the laptop, got to work.