The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (15 page)

M
ichael Prosser had seen it all, watching from his window.

That nosy psychologist bitch, the one who’d pretended to be nice because she wanted something but had ended up screaming at him when he wouldn’t play along with her, insulting him, vile fucking bile, her. He had seen what happened to her. In the alleyway.

His first thought had been to call the police. His immediate, gut response. In fact his body had started to do just that, stomach lurching at witnessing the sudden attack, an involuntary reach for his phone. But he had stopped himself. Or something had stopped him. Instead he had just stood at his window, watching. He saw the man pull a knife on her. Hold it to her throat. He didn’t hear what he said but he was sure it was something unpleasant. Good, he had thought, his cracked lips curling into a smile. What that bitch deserves.

He’d felt something run through him at that point, like a rusty sword piercing points within that he hadn’t experienced feelings from for ages. Years, even. And he had discovered his hand reaching for the phone once more.

But again he had stopped himself. No. Don’t do it. The reason had changed. In such a small space of time, the reason had changed. He wouldn’t make a call. Not because of who that bitch was and how she had talked to him. But for another reason altogether. Fear. Of what, he didn’t know. Or wasn’t sure. But fear was enough. His last few dealings with the police hadn’t been positive. There was no reason to expect this one to be. They would ask what he was doing at his window, why he was watching that woman, what she meant to him. And then he would have to tell them that she had been here, talking to him, asking him questions. And they would want to know what the questions were about. And he would lie. About everything, all of that. And then they would do a bit of digging and find out about him. And what he had done. And what had happened to him. And then they might forget about the person he had seen and turn their investigation on him. And he couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t have that. So he left the phone where it was.

And left whatever it was he was feeling alone inside him.

Yet still he had watched. And then something had happened that he wasn’t expecting.

A tiny ninja girl, her clothing as dark as her skin, had rushed forward, attacking the attacker. Spraying him with something, making him scream and stagger off. And he had smiled once more. But this time there was no cruelty to it. Just a sense of justice being done. And a fluttering of something else inside him. An emotion he hadn’t experienced for a long time. So long he couldn’t name it, didn’t dare put a name to it.

And he watched them walk away, arm in arm, while the attacker fled.

But that had been enough.

After that he had tried to go back to his life once more, or what passed for his life. But he couldn’t relax, couldn’t settle. The whole evening had upset him. In more ways than he wanted to think about.

It wasn’t just that woman’s visit. Or what – or rather who – she was asking about. It was more than that. Because he had seen the attacker. And he knew who he was. Oh yes. Someone like that wasn’t easily forgotten. Who they were and what they were capable of. And because of that, he knew why the attacker wanted to silence that psychologist woman.

He had kept away from the window after that. The whole thing had set him thinking.

If he had attacked that woman then he knew she had been to see him. And if he knew that, then he must have been watching his flat. And if he had been watching his flat and hadn’t got what he wanted from the woman, then he knew who would be next for a visit.

Michael bloody Prosser, that’s who.

And if that was the case then things must be serious.

Deathly serious.

So Michael Prosser sat in his flat, emotions tumbling about inside him. He had tried to keep them quiet with whisky but it was just some cheap supermarket knock-off brand that burned rather than tasted. But even that was better than thinking, than feeling.

His hand went absently to the side of his face, to the angry red craters that were once his skin. A reminder. And a warning.

He could remember the name of the other emotion. The one he didn’t want to acknowledge. Guilt.

But right now, the only emotion he would allow himself was the one he could not only name but readily embrace.

Fear.

‘W
ell, I have to say, Simon – can I call you Simon?’

Matthews nodded.

‘Simon, that this isn’t the kind of place I expected you to bring me.’ Imani smiled. ‘Or any copper, for that matter.’

Matthews looked slightly uncomfortable, mumbled something about clichés. Imani looked round once more.

The Daisy Cup Flower Café on St Isaac’s Walk in Colchester seemed to have a permanent smile, bright, cheerful and welcoming, if a café could be said to do that. A flower shop on one side, the café had blond wooden flooring, a fake turf counter and wall, mismatched but colourful armchairs and painted wooden furniture. Old forklift truck pallets had been painted white and turned into sofas stretching along one wall. It looked inviting and relaxing, off-beat and slightly bohemian for Colchester. And all the more incongruous because of the two police officers sitting in two mauve armchairs at a low table away from everyone else. They had walked there in silence, Imani’s anticipation increasing to know just what Matthews had to say that was so important. Wondering if it would match her developing suspicions.

‘At least I doubt we’ll see anyone else from the station,’ said Imani.

‘That’s the idea.’

Imani sipped her flat white. Just the right ratio of sweet milk to bitter coffee. Good.

‘You come here often?’ She hadn’t meant it as a joke but a serious enquiry.

‘When we’re out shopping on a weekend. Hannah and I often pop in. It’s a nice place.’

Something almost defensive yet apologetic behind his words. Imani didn’t probe further. She felt Matthews was feeling he had opened up enough about himself and his private life for one day.

‘So,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘what did you want to talk to me about?’

He gave a furtive look around as if he was a bad spy in an even worse spy movie. But still he didn’t speak. She suspected she knew what he wanted to say, or rather who he wanted to voice his concerns about, and it didn’t come easily to a man like him. A rank and file follower. Even for the greater good.

She decided to nudge him along. ‘It’s about Beresford, isn’t it?’

He looked at his coffee. Nodded.

‘About the way he’s running this investigation?’

Another nod towards the coffee. A sigh, struggling to allow the words out.

‘Well,’ said Imani, realising she was going to have to start, ‘I don’t think our CIO is running this investigation very effectively. Do you agree?’

‘Yes,’ he said, the word tumbling out like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

‘The way he treated the information you discovered, the work we did yesterday, the way he dismissed what to do next, it’s like he doesn’t want this case to go anywhere. Is he always like this?’

‘No,’ said Matthews, eventually finding his voice, ‘he’s usually good. You know, on the ball, taking decisions, good on intuition too. Knows the right way to take an investigation. Follows up all the leads. But not this time, for some reason. It’s like he’s…’ Another sigh. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like talking about him like this. Feels disloyal. Not only that.’ He leaned forward even further. Drawing attention to himself rather than deflecting it. ‘This goes against everything I believe in, telling you this. My job’s on the line here. I’m up for promotion. Higher grade, bigger pension, everything.’

‘I know what you mean. I’d feel exactly the same if it was my boss. Totally disloyal.’ She locked her eyes with his. ‘But it’s my boss we’re trying to find. And I have to say, I’m not too impressed. Not by you, I mean. Beresford.’

Another nod from Matthews.

‘I mean,’ Imani continued, ‘there’s no PMs for any of the victims yet. What’s the excuse for that?’

‘Backlog, the boss said. You know that. It hasn’t yet been given priority so we can’t expect to get them quickly.’

Imani couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Is he having a laugh? Three murders all with the same name in the pocket and it hasn’t been given priority? And the person whose name they all have has gone missing? And he’s a copper? Nope. Don’t buy it. Not for one second. That would have gone straight to the top of the pile.’

Matthews chose that moment to become defensive. ‘Maybe we don’t have the resources that you have in West Mids. Maybe we have to make do with what we’ve got.’ His voice unexpectedly fiery.

Imani drew back. Knew he was finding this difficult. Decided to continue in a more conciliatory tone. She wanted him onside, after all. ‘Sorry. That’s not what I meant at all and I apologise if it came out that way. All I meant was that Beresford doesn’t seem to be running this investigation in a way that’ll get results. That’s all. Like his eye’s off the ball. Not looking where he’s supposed to be looking.’

He said nothing. She continued.

‘And I think you feel the same way, Simon. You wouldn’t have brought me here for this chat if you didn’t, would you?’

Another sigh. ‘It’s… I don’t like grassing on a senior officer. Especially one I respect and admire and have to work with when you’ve gone back to Birmingham. It’s difficult for me. You have to understand that.’

‘I do, Simon. Really I do. And like I said, I’d feel exactly the same if it was my boss. But I’d also think of myself as a good enough copper to be able to voice those concerns. Especially if the investigation was being put in potential jeopardy. If lives were at stake.’

He nodded once more. Not in defeat, but understanding.

‘So what d’you suggest we do?’ he asked her.

Imani looked round once more. It would be tempting to stay in this café, she thought. Drink another flat white, have some chocolate thing with it. Relax. Put aside all my suspicions and think that everything was going OK. But she couldn’t. She had never run away from a challenge in her life. No matter what the outcome. When she was a kid growing up around Aston, being one of the smartest in the class wasn’t the way to make friends, not the kind of classmates she had. So if she wanted to have friends she had to make sure her body was as sharp as her mind. Because everyone thought the class nerd was an easy target. And she was determined to prove them wrong. And she did. It cost her bruised knuckles, sore ribs and black eyes, but she achieved it. Her father had always told her that if she believed in something then it was worth fighting for, no matter what anyone else said. And she had lived by those words all her life.

She looked at Matthews, saw he was still waiting for answer.

‘What would you do, Simon? If you thought an investigation was being handled wrongly? If you thought that certain procedures hadn’t been followed?’

He shrugged again. ‘Follow them.’

‘Exactly what I would do.’ She stood up, reluctantly relinquishing all thoughts of a second cup of coffee.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Which way to the morgue?’

‘M
alcolm?’

Malcolm Turvey turned when he heard his name, teacup nearly at his lip. He replaced it in its saucer, surprised to hear it being said aloud, more than anything. Especially in the tea room he was in where the clientele were aged and conversation never rose above a murmur.

He saw a small black woman with a shock of spiked blonde hair and a taller woman accompanying her. She was a looker: dark, curly black hair, strong Latin features and a figure that could make anything good. Even the jeans and hoodie she was wearing.

He then felt guilty for thinking that way. That was no way to think about a woman. Had a lifetime of working amongst books and reading the
Guardian
taught him nothing?

The tea room was one of a number on Sir Isaac’s Walk in Colchester, an old building, all visible beams, supports and struts, with old-fashioned crockery and menu to match. The perfect place for beige-jacketed retirees to gather for lunch.

He recognised the black woman immediately. Beckoned them over. Stood up. Remembered his manners.

‘DS Hepburn,’ he said, his voice not as loud as Anni’s had been. ‘Please, come and join me.’

He moved the files, notepads and books he had scattered over the table into one central space and scooped them up, placing them in his oversized messenger bag, dropped it on the floor.

‘Just… just preparing for another walk.’ He smiled. ‘Keeps me off the streets.’

The two women sat down. Looked at him. He noticed Anni staring at him for rather longer than he would have expected. Still got it, he thought. Then realised he should have squeezed that spot on the side of his nose this morning.

‘Well, this is an honour. What can I do for one of our most distinguished ladies in blue?’

‘Ex-lady in blue,’ said Anni, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘Retired now.’

‘Oh.’ He hadn’t been expecting that. Somehow the lustre of being greeted by Anni Hepburn – Ms rather than DS now – was tarnished slightly. A lessening of the thrill he usually felt at meeting her.

Not that he was a police groupie or anything, oh no. He would never admit to that. Or having some unhealthy fascination with crimes, criminals and catchers. No. It wasn’t unhealthy. Far from it. He saw it as making a study of important work. You can tell how civilised a society is by how it treats its criminals, he always said. At least he wasn’t a collector of stuff, like other people he knew. Well, not much stuff. Comparatively.

‘So, erm… to what do I owe the pleasure?’ He tried not to look at the attractive woman too much. Didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, so just had to content himself with casting surreptitious little sideways glances at her.

‘Still work, Malcolm. Still something you might be able to help me with.’

Malcolm tried to stop grinning.
Help. Me.
If he had known this was going to happen to him today he would have worn a clean shirt under his anorak. Or at least a cleaner one.

‘Anything. Anything. I’m at your disposal.’

Anni indicated the other woman. ‘By the way, this is a friend of mine, Marina Esposito.’

Marina nodded in greeting.

Malcolm stopped moving, as if suddenly frozen. Had he heard correctly? ‘Marina Esposito?
The
Marina Esposito?’

‘Erm… yes. I think so.’

He looked at Anni once more. Beaming. ‘Oh thank you. Thank you. For bringing…’ He stuck out his hand, then retracted it, wiping the remains of raspberry jam on the side of his khakis, stuck it out once more. ‘I’m a huge –
huge
– admirer of yours. Please…’

He took her hand, shook it. Kept eye contact all the while. Smiling. Eventually Marina tried to remove her hand from his. He let it go, slightly ashamed at his actions. ‘Sorry. Sorry. I’m just…’ He sighed. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

He noticed Marina share a glance with Anni but couldn’t tell what it meant.

‘So, Malcolm. Help.’

‘Yes. Of course. Anything. How may I assist?’

‘How’s the walk going?’

Malcolm stopped dead in his tracks, mouth hanging open. The walk? That was what they wanted to talk about? ‘Ah. Well. It’s… fine. Actually, yes. After what happened it’s been going great. Twice a week now. Make hay while the sun, and all that.’

‘Good. I want you to tell me – and Marina here – what it was you discovered. Exactly what it was.’

‘Well…’ He settled in, ready to give his spiel.

‘Just the facts, please. Thanks.’ Anni smiled. ‘We’re not punters.’

‘No. Quite. Well. I walked them round the usual haunts, gave them the story, all of that. Then we reached the old Dock Transit building. I’d been on to the company that owns that building, asked them to leave it open. They hadn’t done so, so I had to get one of the punters to pull open a door.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t tell Health and Safety.’

They smiled politely. He continued.

‘We all went inside. The lights weren’t working – again, I’d been assured they’d be left on – so I had to improvise. Lucky I’d brought a torch with me. Then I started my story.’ He paused. ‘And then we found the body.’

‘Hanging?’

He nodded. Swallowed. Excited to be telling them this now. ‘Yes. From the gantry.’

Marina, listening, frowned. ‘That’s a high gantry. Must have been a lot of rope.’

‘Oh yes. Indeed.’ Nodding, eager to tell them everything. Give his own observations, if necessary.

‘Did it look like it had been there a while?’ Anni asked.

He frowned, actually thinking. ‘If you mean were there any marks, signs of the body decomposing, not really. It just looked like a man.’

Anni leaned forward. ‘Did you see anyone? Hear anyone?’

Malcolm shook his head. ‘Like I said, we were just coming in. Just finishing that part of the walk.’

‘You didn’t see any shadows or figures as you were approaching?’ Marina this time.

Malcolm blushed as he looked at her. Marina Esposito, asking him a question… him…

‘Malcolm?’ asked Anni. ‘Think we lost you there.’

‘Yes. Sorry. Right.’

He closed his eyes. Thought back to that night. Tried to go over everything again. The big man and his footballer wife girlfriend. The texting kids. He let his eyes scan the ground once more, tried to see anything… The…

‘Yes.’

He opened his eyes. They were both staring at him. Waiting.

‘I… don’t know.’ He looked away from them both, not able to hold their eye contact.

Marina leaned forward. ‘What d’you mean you don’t know?’

‘Well…’ He couldn’t tell them. Not here, not now. Even if it was Marina Esposito. ‘There might have been a man, hanging around. It was dark. I couldn’t be sure.’

‘A man? Tall? Small? Wide, thin?’

Questions being fired at him, trying to think, trying to do what they had asked of him, trying not to tell them what he was really thinking about… ‘Erm… tall, I think. Big.’

‘Did you tell this to the police?’ asked Marina.

‘Er, no.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I er… I don’t know. Like I said I, I maybe didn’t see him. I don’t know.’

Anni and Marina shared another look. Again he couldn’t read it, but it was different from the first one, he knew that much.

‘So what’s happened since that night, then? The investigation.’

Malcolm just stared at her. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

Anni smiled again. ‘Oh come on, Malcolm. I know what you’re like. You’ll have been all over this investigation like a rash. Exciting enough that this all happened in Colchester, but you finding the body? You won’t have let this one go. So what’s happened?’

Malcolm didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended at Anni’s words. But since she had come to him for information – and brought Marina Esposito with her – he decided to be pleased. Flattered even.

‘Well,’ he said, leaning closer, conspiratorially, ‘nothing.’

Anni frowned. ‘Nothing? What d’you mean?’

‘Just that. Nothing. They’re getting nowhere. No information, nothing to go on, the investigation seems to be grinding to a halt.’

‘Who’s in charge?’

‘DS Beresford.’

Marina looked at her. ‘Know him?’

‘Little bit. Was just coming in as I was going. Full of himself. Self-described alpha. You know the type.’

Marina nodded.

‘And he’s not getting anywhere?’

‘No PMs? Forensics? Nothing like that?’

He closed his eyes again. He really wanted to help, wanted to find the missing clue that would put the whole puzzle together, solve the crime. Him. Malcolm, solving the crime. He’d be a hero. Famous. He —

‘Malcolm?’

He opened his eyes again.

‘Lost you again.’

‘Oh. Sorry. No. No, I can’t think of anything more.’

‘Well, thanks, Malcolm, you’ve been a great help. If you think of anything else…’

‘I’ve got your number.’

Anni nodded, her expression once again unreadable.

The two women stood up to go.

‘Thanks for your time,’ said Anni.

‘Thank you,’ Marina echoed.

‘Oh.’

Malcolm stood too. They both looked at him. Waited.

He looked at Marina, gave what he hoped was his most winning smile.

‘Could I… could I have your autograph, please?’