The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (12 page)

‘M
rs Lansdowne? Judith Lansdowne?’ Imani held up her warrant card, introduced herself. ‘Could we come in, please?’

She watched as the features of the woman in front of them ran through a whole range of emotions. Confusion ramped up to hope, wavered towards doubt, then finally plummeted to despair. All in a few seconds, all before she had spoken. Imani had been unfortunate enough to have witnessed it plenty of times before. In fact she expected it. Would have been surprised if she hadn’t done it.

Judith Lansdowne was large, long dark hair, wearing velour sweatpants and a T-shirt. Her eyes looked tired, her skin sallow. She looked like she had given up hope and was bracing herself for something bad to happen to her long before they had arrived.

‘It’s Jason, isn’t it?’ she said, nodding, confirming her own words.

‘Could we come in, please?’

The woman opened the door fully, allowed them to enter. The house looked fuzzed with dust and dirt, like it hadn’t been cleaned or looked after for quite a while. A smell of frying on top of stale fat came from down the hall. A clatter of music from the TV came from the living room. She went into that room, hurried a teenage girl out. The girl turned and looked at Imani and Matthews as they entered.

‘Go upstairs, Rhiannon.’

The girl looked between all of the adults, reading expressions. Wanting to speak, wanting to stay. Wanting to know what was going on but probably guessing.

‘Just go upstairs, I said.’

The girl reluctantly did so.

Judith Lansdowne picked up the remote, turned off the TV. Threw it on the sofa, turned back to Imani.

‘It would be better if we all sat down,’ said Imani.

They sat. Imani and Matthews on the sofa, Mrs Lansdowne on the chair.

‘What’s happened, then,’ she said, more statement than question. ‘You don’t come round here mob-handed if it’s good news, now, do you?’ Her voice, although sounding naturally quite loud, was beginning to shake. ‘Would just be a phone call, wouldn’t it? Congratulations and all that.’

Imani looked at Matthews who was sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands between his knees, eyes wide. Clearly not going to stop her talking. Down to me then, she thought, going back on what they had agreed in the car.

‘I’m afraid, yes,’ said Imani. ‘It’s your husband. We’ve…’ No easy way. Straightforward was best in the long run. ‘We’ve found a body we believe to be his. We… I’m sorry, Mrs Lansdowne, but you’ll have to come and identify him.’

Judith Lansdowne seemed to deflate at the news. Like all the bones had been suddenly removed from her body and the rest of her just melted into a pool on the armchair. Her head dropped.

They sat in silence while she took the news in.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lansdowne.’ Matthews spoke.

Judith Lansdowne started to nod then, kept nodding, agreeing to something only she could hear, something she had told herself a while ago. Wheezing and sighing as she did so.

They waited for her. Tried to emotionally absent themselves from the room, give her the time and space she needed.

Eventually she looked up, spoke. Her eyes looked wet but no tears had fallen.

‘Where?’ she asked, still wheezing, like the air was having trouble leaving her body.

‘In Colchester. The old Dock Transit building. We think… we’re treating his death as suspicious.’

She looked up then, glance sharpening. ‘What d’you mean, suspicious?’

Imani gave a nod to Matthews. His cue to speak. ‘You might have heard, there’ve been a series of deaths, suspicious deaths, murders, we’re treating them as, in Colchester and the surrounding area. You might have seen it on the news.’

He stopped. Just keep going, thought Imani, silently urging him.

‘I saw… yes,’ Judith Lansdowne said, ‘I saw something about that.’ She thought for a few seconds. ‘He was one of them?’

‘He was.’

‘They said they was… they was all hanged…’

‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Lansdowne,’ said Matthews.

And then those tears, long pent-up, came for Judith Lansdowne.

Matthews made them all tea. Seemed glad to have something to do. The teenage girl, Rhiannon, had been listening on the stairs, had heard her mother crying, come to investigate. She now sat with her on the arm of the chair, as they both held each other up.

Imani had told the two of them all they knew about finding her husband, her father. But she still had questions to ask, blanks to fill in. A job to do while wading through another’s grief. The part of the job she truly hated. A lot of coppers tried to get it over with quickly, do the questions by rote or wait until later, just get out and hand it over to Family Liaison. But not Imani. She knew that these minutes were often important. When the next of kin would say something unguarded that could present a lead.

‘We’re actually a little unsure as to when he was…’ She looked at the daughter, found an angry challenge in the girl’s eye. Like she didn’t want to be treated as a child, wasn’t afraid to hear what had to be said. Imani, emboldened by that, continued. ‘When he was killed. We just wondered if you could tell us how long he had been missing.’

Judith looked up. ‘How long?’ She gave a snort. ‘Told you, didn’t I? Went to see you, reported him missing. You didn’t do nothing about it.’

‘When was this, Mrs Lansdowne?’ Imani could sense the anger building up in the woman. First grief, now anger as she digested the news, looked for someone to blame.

‘Nearly three weeks ago. And what did you do about it? Nothing, that’s what.’

‘To be fair,’ said Matthews, chiming in somewhat unexpectedly, ‘when you reported him missing you did tell the desk sergeant at Bishop’s Stortford police station that he had done this before. That your husband had a history of disappearing for a few days then returning with his tail between his legs, some wild stories for his mates and an almighty hangover, isn’t that right?’

Imani said nothing but was secretly impressed. He had been paying attention.

Judith Lansdowne fell silent. Imani saw an opportunity.

‘What did your husband do, Mrs Lansdowne? For work, I mean.’

‘You mentioned in the missing person’s report that he could be away for long periods of time,’ said Matthews.

She nodded, slightly chastised after her outburst, more cooperative. ‘Photographic reproduction. Screen printing, that kind of thing. But large-scale, you know? Conventions, stuff like that.’ She put her head down, stared at the floor.

‘How d’you mean?’

She looked up again. Spoke listlessly. ‘Like if someone wanted some billboards at the O2, something like that. His company would print them, transport them, then rig them up. That kind of thing.’

‘Right. So he was away for long periods of work and also…’

Judith Lansdowne hesitated, looked at her daughter but something in the girl’s expression said she knew what her mother was going to say next.

‘He…’ She sighed. ‘Rhiannon knows this. No secrets now. Things weren’t right between us. Between Jason and me. Hadn’t been for a long time.’

‘In what way?’ asked Imani. ‘Money worries or…’

‘He wouldn’t come near me, wouldn’t…’ She snapped the words out then fell silent, sighed. ‘God knows what he got up to when he was away. That’s why I wasn’t… He always sent money, made sure we were taken care of. And we didn’t get it. That’s when I thought something was wrong. When I reported him missing.’

‘So,’ said Matthews, ‘you’ve no idea where he could have been, what he could have been doing that led him to that warehouse?’

‘No idea at all.’ She sighed, looked suddenly tired as she spoke.

Imani looked at her, really looked at her. Seeing her for the first time. Not someone who was a potential source of leads or an unpleasant duty to perform but a woman who was heading towards middle age, losing her looks, gaining weight, stuck at home raising a child, dependant on the money of a man who roamed all over the place. And now he was dead and Imani understood what the tears had been for earlier.

Not for his death.

But mourning for a husband she had lost a long time ago.

I
t was late, it was dark and Marina knew she shouldn’t have been there. But she couldn’t help it.

The address the woman Mary had given her was for a block of flats in what Marina judged to be the less exclusive part of town. Well-maintained thirties and forties semis had given way to more recent buildings. Low, red brick, two and three storey, arranged in L-shaped courtyards like prison wings. Cracked concrete pavements and selective street lighting. Maze-like roads that seemed to never come out at the same destination twice, all choked full of parked cars making navigation if not near impossible then certainly difficult. The kind of place that seemed designed to discourage outsiders.

Marina tried hard not to feel discouraged.

She had checked Michael Prosser out as soon as she got back to her car. A simple Google search was all it took. There was plenty there. He had been in charge of the Rainsford House children’s home during the time Fiona Welch had been there. The Dark Ages, Caitlin had called it. It wasn’t hard to see why. He had started by turning a blind eye when the girls – and some of the boys – in his care became victims of child sexual exploitation. This progressed to actually procuring and enabling this to happen. Even picking to order.

Eventually he had been reported, there was a trial, a custodial sentence and he had been released. Living quietly at an undisclosed location, as one report had it. However the location wasn’t that undisclosed. He was found and became the victim of a particularly vicious attack. And that was the last she had on him.

The more she had read, the more she had become disgusted with him. She could see why Mary wanted her to deliver the message. She even wondered whether she had been behind the attack.

Putting that all to the back of her mind, she parked her Prius as near to the flat her satnav had sent her to as she could, locked it, checked again that she’d locked it. Then walked towards the flat.

A narrow alleyway confronted her. The streetlight was out. Trying once again not to ask herself what she was doing there she walked on. Something crunched underfoot – broken glass, broken pavement, she didn’t know – and the sound echoed round the walls like sonar announcing her location.

She came through the alleyway, found herself in a courtyard. The weak yellow streetlight showed up a square of patchy grass decorated with old fast food wrappers, crumpled tabloid pages and selected discarded household appliances. She thought she had stumbled onto the set of
The Wire
.

Except this was no set. This was real.

She walked round the perimeter of the square, heading towards the flat she wanted. She saw no one but felt eyes on her constantly.

She reached the outer door, opened it. A timed light came on inside as she did so. A black rubberised floor covering felt sticky beneath the soles of her boots. It shone dully and deeply and would have looked more at home in a fetish club. The hallway had a textured ceiling with fake miniature stalactites dripping down. The walls were a colour that she could only describe as ‘functional’.

She walked up the stairway to the first floor, found the flat she was looking for. Checked her watch. Probably too late to be calling but also late enough for him to be at home. She knew immediately which door was his. It had been vandalised with graffiti and painted over. And it had been reinforced after what looked like signs of forced entry. She found a buzzer. Rang it.

No reply.

She tried again.

She could hear a TV from inside. Eventually there was a shuffling sound as someone made their way to the door. She waited.

‘Who’s it?’

‘It’s… my name is Marina Esposito. I’m… Caitlin Hennessey sent me.’ She thought that name rather than Mary’s would help her get in.

‘Why?’ No curiosity, more of a statement.

‘She… I’m working with the police. Could I… could we talk please?’

‘What have I got to talk about?’

‘If you open the door I’ll tell you.’

Nothing.

‘Please, Mr Prosser.’ As she spoke she found it hard to keep the tiredness from her voice. ‘I’ve come a long way, I’ve had a hell of a day and I’m very tired. And I need your help. Please just answer my questions and I’ll leave you alone.’

Silence. Eventually she heard the door being unlocked, chains being removed and it opened.

‘Five minutes,’ he said.

She summoned up a smile. ‘Thank you.’ And entered.

She walked down a hallway to a living room. There was a bookcase full of books but they looked old and unread for a long time. Some DVDs rested beside them. A TV, big but aged, occupied one corner. Old, sagging furniture sat around like tired squatters. An off-brand laptop was open on the floor, screen grey with dust and greasy finger smudges. The lighting was low, a couple of ancient occasional table lamps, nothing else.

‘Sit down, then.’

She turned, getting her first real look at Michael Prosser. He was a big man, like he had been fit once but had run to fat. His stained sweatpants and old jumper needed a wash or perhaps burning and replacing. But it was his face she was drawn to. She knew she shouldn’t stare but also that she couldn’t help it.

Where his left eye should have been there was just a rough pink crater that resembled a lunar surface more than skin. The terrain spread towards his hairline, down to his jaw. She tried to look away but he had caught her.

‘Acid,’ he said, sitting down. ‘You’ve probably read about it. Not everyone gets public sympathy and a rebuilding job. Not everyone can be a pretty fucking model.’

‘What happened?’

‘Someone threw acid at me,’ he said, his voice aiming for matter-of-fact but unable to hide the bitterness beneath, ‘fuck d’you think?’

He snapped the TV off. The room fell to silence. Prosser looked at her. She couldn’t read him.

‘What d’you want, then?’

‘I’m part of a murder investigation and I’d just like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right with you.’

‘You’re not a copper. Don’t look like one. Or act like one.’

‘I’m not. I’m attached to the investigation. I’m a psychologist.’

He smiled. His face split, cracking unpleasantly. ‘Another one. Just what we need. Seen enough of them in my time. So what’s this investigation, then?’

‘Fiona Welch.’

Prosser froze. Marina was sure she saw fear in his one eye.

‘What about her?’ His voice low.

‘Someone’s been pretending to be her. Calling herself by that name. This person has killed… well, we don’t know how many people she’s killed. And now she’s abducted someone. We have to find her.’

‘Abducted?’ He snorted. ‘You’ll never see them again.’

Marina’s heart skipped. Both from his admission and what he had actually said. She was onto something. But she needed to move quickly. ‘So you know who she is, then?’

Prosser’s mouth clamped shut. ‘Didn’t say that.’

‘But can you —’

‘You’re not a copper, you said?’

‘No. I’m not.’

‘So I don’t have to say anything to you. Legally.’

‘No, you don’t. But —’

‘Then fuck off.’

Marina stared at him. ‘Mr Prosser, please.’

‘I said fuck off. Get out. Now.’

Marina took a deep breath, another. This was a chance. A real chance to get a solid lead on Phil’s whereabouts. He needed to be handled with finesse. Coaxed into giving out the information. She tried a more personal approach.

‘Mr Prosser, please. The person who’s been abducted is my husband. A police officer. This woman has threatened my family before and thinks she has some kind of hold over him.’ She leaned forward, her body language begging. ‘Please. We need to find her. We need to stop her. And I need to find him.’

Prosser stared at her without speaking. Marina waited, holding her breath. Eventually he smiled.

‘No.’

Marina stared at him, opened her mouth to make another entreaty. He got there first.

‘Your old man’s a copper, yeah? Hope he gets what’s fucking coming to him.’ A malicious glee dancing behind his one eye.

Marina felt anger rising within. Couldn’t stop herself from speaking. ‘Is this because you lost your job? What you were doing in the children’s home, how you were running it?’

He stood up, moved towards her, his face now red with anger.

She continued. ‘Or rather what you were running it as.’

He stopped, stared at her. ‘You cunt.’ The words spat at her.

Anger spiralled out of control now. ‘You can’t blame anyone for that acid attack, can you? Apart from yourself.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘I’m sure the people here love having a nonce for a neighbour.’

He was on her then. She tried to get up but his hands found her. She could smell him, the sourness of his body, his clothes. She nearly gagged. She struggled, tried to get away, but he had her.

‘I don’t know who fucking sent you or why but you’re out, now.’

Saying that, he grabbed her hair with one hand, her shoulders with the other and marched her down the hall towards the door. Her feet fumbled and dragged, she caught one ankle with the other, nearly went over. Would have done if he hadn’t been holding her upright. She tried to speak, explain. No words would come out.

He opened the door, threw her outside. She lost her footing, stumbled, fell down on the landing.

The door slammed behind her. She lay there unmoving. And hating herself for what she had done. Embarrassed for the outburst.

Stupid, stupid, stupid… Should have waited, should have seen him in the morning. Should have… should have…

She felt suddenly exhausted.

She picked herself up. Her ankle was throbbing. She made her way slowly and painfully towards the stairs.