The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (9 page)

‘D
o we start off in here or get out and go looking?’

Imani was still in the Queensway station with Beresford. They had left Franks’ office and entered the incident room. The case was on the way to a high classification so there were plenty of officers working on it with the promise of more coming in. At the moment Beresford was in charge of the case. And Imani wanted to know what they had so far.

‘Start here,’ said Beresford. ‘Have a look at what we’ve got so far, get yourself up to speed.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Shouldn’t take you too long.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘We don’t have a lot,’ said Beresford, leaning over his desk, grabbing a pile of files. ‘That’s most of the paperwork. Some is still on computer.’ He gestured to his desk. ‘Be my guest.’

She sat down. Her presence in the room had drawn attention. It seemed that Beresford didn’t intend to make a formal introduction so she would have to do so as she went on. She also noticed something else: she was the only black person in the room. A couple of brown faces but no black ones. Sometimes she forgot how non-diverse other parts of the country were.

She opened the first file he had given her, read. Crime scene report with photos. She scanned the photos, seeing a body hanging in a wooded area. Read the forensic report, the CSI report. Looked up.

‘Nothing there,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Beresford. ‘Nothing that could identify him. Some tattoos, and that’s what we’re going on. But we can’t match him to anyone else in the system. No mispers match, nothing.’

‘What about DNA? A PM?’

Another grim smile. ‘Still waiting on the results.’

Imani frowned. ‘But it’s been…’

‘Yeah, I know. Should have been almost instant. But the lab we use have got a backlog. Apparently there’s been so many unsafe convictions recently involving evidence supplied by this lab that they’ve got to be thorough now. Double-check everything.’

‘Use another lab.’

Beresford shrugged. ‘Politics, best practice…’

‘Right. And the PM?’

‘Same thing. Backlog.’

‘So in the meantime, nothing.’

‘Yep. No name, no match. No DNA, no match. Nothing beyond what he looks like.’

‘And presumably you’ve done media appeals?’

Another nod. ‘Nothing as yet.’

She looked down at the report again, read. ‘The tarot card. Anything on that?’

‘Deck of Thoth, apparently. Aleister Crowley’s. The Great Beast, and all that. Pretty common in those circles, available from all good hippy-shit stores. The pen that was used, a Sharpie. Again, not uncommon. We’re getting tests run on them, but the results won’t be any time soon.’

‘And the location?’

‘Wrabness. Where DI Brennan was involved with a very high-profile case. Better known now for some art thing put there by that gay artist.’

Imani frowned.

‘The one in a dress.’

‘Grayson Perry?’

‘That’s him.’ A smirk. ‘Her. Whatever.’

‘I don’t think he’s gay.’

Another shrug. Beresford clearly didn’t care one way or the other.

‘Right.’ She looked at the next file. ‘And this one?’

‘More of the same, really. Body found in the cellar of an old house at the bottom of East Hill in town, just by the river. Exactly the same thing, and another location where DI Brennan was involved in a major investigation. You’re welcome to look. Feel free.’

She did so. And found the same paucity of information as in the previous file. ‘And no DNA,’ she said.

‘Same reasons.’

‘Is it worth me looking at the third file now?’

‘You’re welcome to. But…’

‘I get it.’

She put the file back on the desk, looked round the room. Eyes flickered up, caught hers, then down again. One held her gaze for slightly longer than the rest. A young male detective. Must fancy me, she thought. Then castigated herself for being so arrogant. No, she thought. Don’t even think that. Remembered what happened last time you allowed yourself to get involved with someone on the same case. Look what happened to him then. She went back to the report, scanned it, glanced up again. He was no longer looking at her. At least not obviously.

‘All these people,’ she said.

‘Yeah?’

‘In the room, on this case. All these people. And not one single, solid lead?’

Beresford flushed slightly. A look of anger swept across his eyes. He clearly didn’t like having his professional integrity brought into question.

‘So what? Some cases are like that. You should know, you’ve probably worked on plenty.’

‘Yes I have.’

‘Well, then. You know what it’s like. All you need is that one spark to ignite it, that one thread to pull and the whole thing starts to unravel. It’ll come.’

‘Have we got time for that, though? Phil Brennan was abducted this morning. By someone answering your description driving a car exactly like yours. You were here, you say. Fine. But I think we need to cultivate a sense of urgency, wouldn’t you say? Step things up a bit?’

That anger was back again. ‘What d’you mean, “You say”?’

Imani sighed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be confrontational. I just want to get things moving a bit faster, that’s all.’

Beresford nodded.

But before he could reply, a voice called from somewhere in the room.

‘Boss?’

They turned. It was the detective who had been staring at Imani moments earlier. He became aware that all eyes on the room were on him now.

‘I’ve got something,’ he said. ‘Think we’ve got a name.’

Beresford turned to Imani before crossing the room. ‘That quick enough for you?’

He went over to the other detective.

Imani was about to follow. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had glimpsed – just glimpsed – something in Beresford’s eyes on the announcement. Anger? Fear? Which one?

She followed him across the room.

P
ork and chorizo goulash. Just as she had said. And it was good, too. He wondered where she got the recipe from – or rather how she had obtained it – because it tasted the same as if he had made it.

She sat opposite him, staring at him, watching him eat. Still dressed in a facsimile of Marina’s clothes. Her face eager, expectant. Waiting to be praised for the good she had done, seemingly needing that acknowledgement.

He had found himself in a wheelchair, coming round after the tasering. He was sitting in a copy of his dining room but again the lights were low, even lower than he had them at home and that was so low that Marina always complained. In the darkness he could make out the walls, the door. Everything looked flat, lifeless. Near to his house, but not quite.

The table that he sat at was different too. It was a copy of the real one but not right. The one in their house in Mosley came from a store that had gone under in the credit crunch and no one had stepped in to take their place. No one made furniture or furnishings like that shop any more. A good copy, then, but not perfect. A detail that jarred.

But the cutlery, the plates were all the same. They might have been his.

There was one other thing in the room. A doll. The same shape and size as his daughter. Dressed like his daughter. Sitting at the other end of the table, half in shadow. A dish of food in front of it.

A mad woman’s idea of a complete family.

He thought it best not to mention it.

‘Well?’ she said eventually, eyes gesturing towards the food. ‘D’you like it?’

‘Yeah, it’s good.’

A satisfied, even smug, smile appeared on her face. For only a few seconds, then it was replaced by doubt.

‘Good? That’s it, is it? Just good?’

‘Yeah, good. It’s pork and chorizo goulash, what more would you like me to say?’

‘Is it the best one you’ve ever had? Better than Marina’s?’

He put his fork down, stared at her. ‘I thought you were Marina.’

Anger flashed in her eyes. Anger and an unhinged malice. ‘Don’t get clever, you know what I mean. She’s gone. Old and worn out.’ A smile. Still with the same unbalance in the eyes. ‘I’m here now. And I’m her. But I’m so much more than her. So I’ll ask you again.’ She picked up a knife as she spoke, began idly toying with it, caressing it. ‘Is mine better?’

‘Yes,’ said Phil, becoming afraid of arguing, ‘yes it is.’

She sat back, beaming once more.

‘Though to be fair, she never cooked it. It was always me. My dish.’

Her eyes stared at him once more. Unblinking, unmoving. Unreadable. But not good. He knew that.

Eventually she regained her composure. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘from now on it’ll be me cooking it.’

He said nothing. She smiled once more, head to one side.

‘I want to make you happy, Phil. I want to give you everything you love.’

‘Right.’

‘I understand you, Phil. Like no one else on this Earth. I understand you.’

Phil said nothing. Just ate in silence.

He had one hand free. The other was strapped to the arm of the wheelchair. As were his legs. It must have been quite a struggle to get him into it from the bed, he thought. And then to get him into this room. Did she have help to negotiate the stairs? Were there any stairs? Was there a lift? Too many questions.

And then there was what she had said to him, whispered, in the bedroom. Those two words had stunned him. While he ate he had thought about them, tried to rationalise her knowledge. Anyone could have discovered that, he tried to convince himself. Anyone. That wasn’t so special. But there was something in the way she had said it, the look in her eyes. Like she knew what she was talking about. Like she had been there… And that was something that terrified him. He had to get away from her as soon as possible. He definitely wasn’t safe.

But he didn’t think he would get answers by being confrontational. Despite the creeping fear he was experiencing, he knew the best thing to do would be to tamp down his rising hysteria, go along with her, find out what she wanted. Then hopefully identify her weak points and exploit them.

And hope – somehow – that in the meantime Cotter and her team were looking for him and would find him. Before it was too late.

He finished the goulash, put down his fork. She was still sitting there, staring at him, face expectant. She needed something from him.

‘Great,’ he said. He tried to remain calm, despite the pounding in his chest. But it seemed he had said the right thing.

‘Now,’ she said, getting up, ‘don’t worry about the dishes, leave all that to me.’ She looked down at him. ‘Am I going to have to taser you again to get you back to bed?’

‘Do I have to go back to bed? I’ve just eaten.’

She frowned, thinking.

‘It’s not what I would do at home.’

She didn’t even say
You are home
, he noticed, so busy was she thinking. She was taking his words as a test, proving to him that she knew his routine.

‘No,’ she said eventually, ‘let’s go into the living room.’

‘Good idea,’ said Phil. Careful not to antagonise her, but also demonstrating to her that she knew what he did with his evenings. He hoped she would find the gesture – at least on the surface – respectful. Then he tried to push the point. He nodded towards the doll at the end of the table.

‘What about her?’

The woman glanced at the doll, back again. The expression on her face was of incomprehension. ‘She’ll stay here. She doesn’t leave the table until she’s finished her dinner. And then she can go to her room.’ She smiled. Back in control. ‘Leaving us alone.’

‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘So into the front room we go.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you can tell me more about this darkness you think I have inside me.’

She froze. Turned to him. Her eyes as icy as her voice when she spoke. ‘I’ll decide when we talk about that. I’ll decide when you’re ready.’

‘Same with those little pills.’

‘Exactly.’

Phil managed what he hoped was a shrug, which was a struggle when all he was feeling was increasing despair. He had been counting on getting her to open up, find out more about her. He would have to be patient. Hope that she didn’t get tired or bored and do something deranged in the meantime. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, trying to make his voice light. ‘Let’s go.’

‘I’ll have to blindfold you first, though.’

She didn’t wait for him to speak, just pulled a blindfold from somewhere on her person and tied it tight round his eyes.

‘There.’ He heard her voice beside his ear. She smelled like Marina. Or rather almost like Marina. But not quite. A flawed copy. ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ She giggled. He said nothing. Gave no indication that he had heard her or would respond.

He felt her pull him away from the table, manoeuvre him across the floor. He tried to work out where the door would be, if he was heading towards that. He was. Then, with a slight bump, he was pushed over the threshold. Immediately the air changed. Became colder, dank almost.

Then the air changed again and he was turned to a stop.

‘There now.’

His blindfold was removed and he found himself in a facsimile of his living room.

She spread her arms out, smiled once more. ‘You like?’

‘It’s…’ He looked around. Again it was too dark, again flat and two dimensional. ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Homely.’

‘Oh it is, my love, it is. And you’ll be very happy here. In your new life. Your
old life
and with me again.’

Phil said nothing. She walked over to the wall where he had his hi-fi equipment. Music filled the air. She turned to him once more, almost jumping up and down with joy.

‘Like it? It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?’

It was. Band of Horses. Their second album. ‘Yeah,’ he said, still feigning enthusiasm, ‘great.’

‘And I’ve got you this.’ She passed him a bottle of beer. ‘Your favourite as well. Isn’t it?’

‘Well, it used to be.’

She had been quivering with emotion, at getting things right. Now she stopped dead. Like a marionette left hanging without a master. Phil said nothing more, knew he had made a mistake. He waited.

The room held its breath, Band of Horses singing about funerals and monsters.

‘What?’ she said. Her voice was flat, the word intoned. Not a question, a warning.

‘I just… I don’t drink that any more. Lager. I’ve gone onto craft beer now. That’s all.’

Nothing. Just those unblinking eyes.

Phil was beginning to feel fearful. ‘You weren’t to know. Don’t worry.’

‘I wasn’t to know.’ The same dead monotone. ‘I wasn’t to know…’

She began advancing towards him.

Phil looked round, realised there was nowhere he could escape to. He was still bound to the chair, only one arm free.

‘
I wasn’t to know
…’ Low and chilling.

‘It’s… no. Don’t… it’s no big deal…’

She stopped directly in front of him, stared down. Breathing like she was trying to keep something under control. Phil felt fear. Real fear. He couldn’t move, couldn’t escape.

‘What about the darkness in me?’ he said, desperately. ‘I need to know about that… You can’t… I need to know… Please… the words you said to me, I have to know about that. About how you know about that.’

She ignored him. ‘Anything else?’

‘What?’ Phil was genuinely puzzled.

‘Anything else you think I’ve got wrong?’ The words dripped with disdain.

Emboldened now by a sudden hopelessness, by the thought that he had nothing to lose he said, ‘That table.’

‘What?’ Hissed at him.

‘The dining room table. Close, but…’

She swooped down on him then, plucked the beer bottle from his hand, raised it above his head.

‘Just… no, wait…’

He tried to lift his arm to protect himself. It didn’t work.

The bottle came down, glancing across his head. The pain was immediate and immense. He tried to cry out, to reason with her, but she was beyond that.

‘Can you… wait, I’m —’

Down again. Beer frothing and raining everywhere. Glass connecting with skull. More, even deeper, pain.

‘Please, I —’

She swung the bottle again. This time he tried to react, to move. Using his free arm he propelled the wheelchair forward with as much speed as he could manage, aiming for her legs.

He made a sloppy connection, but it was enough. He unbalanced her and she dropped the bottle, losing her footing and stumbling backwards.

She righted herself, stared at him. Didn’t speak.

Phil held his breath and, through the pain, waited to see what she would do next. Fearful of what she would do next.

He didn’t have to wait long. She came forward, grabbed his free arm and secured it to the arm of the wheelchair with the same thick leather straps his other arm was held by.

‘No, wait…’

She ignored him. Stood back, stared at him.

‘Goodnight.’

She turned, left the room. Flicked the light switch off.

Phil was left alone in the darkness, only the throbbing, debilitating pain in his head for company.