The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (20 page)

S
ean. That was how she would get at Fiona. Sean. And not like she had done it last time, all love-clumsy and driven by her emotions. No. This time it would be done cold. Planned properly. Like she used to do with the girls. Back before Fiona came along.
 

Fiona. Anger rose at the very mention of her ex-lover’s name. She pushed it down, ignored it. Channelled it. Use it, don’t let it use her.
 

So she concentrated on Sean instead. Sean. Sean. All about Sean. Where he lived, who he lived with. How old he was. Who his friends were. Where he worked. Studied him. Analysed him until she had a full dossier on him.
 

He was nineteen, lived with his divorced father in a small ex-council house just off the Moulsham area of town. He worked for the council as a gardener but was in danger of being laid off due to cuts. Most of his friends were boys he’d been to school with. None of them were academic, all of them had stayed in the area they had been born in. They drank together regularly, usually on a Friday night. Saturday night was for taking out Fiona.
 

So that was Sean. His whole life. All she had to do was find a way to get to him. Do something to him that would make Fiona know what she was up against. Take him away from her. One way or another. Make Fiona fear her. Make Fiona hurt.
 

More planning. More plotting. Google became her best friend.
 

Then, eventually, she hit upon it. A way to get to Sean, back at Fiona.
 

She started to lay tracks. Smiling at Fiona, being nice to her. Showing her she wasn’t upset by her previous behaviour, that she was over her now. So over her. And Fiona responded in kind. By ignoring her.
 

Or so she thought. But, she surmised in hindsight, what Fiona was actually doing was only pretending to ignore her. In reality – always a tricky word to use in relation to Fiona – she was hurt, angry even, that she seemed to have no more control over her. And nothing she could do would change it. Flaunting Sean no longer worked. Public displays of affection were ignored. Bragging was met with a shrug. Even taunting her about not joining her at university was met with indifference. She was sure Fiona was becoming angry at all of this. But she also knew she could never express that. So while Fiona seethed silently, she secretly gloated.
 

Then remembered she had to be calm, controlled. Cold. No gloating. Plenty of time for that later.
 

In the meantime she had to strike at Sean. And it was even easier than she had thought it would be.
 

She became more friendly with the other kids in the home, especially the ones that were due to leave that summer. They started going out together, bars and clubs in the town centre. Sean and Fiona were often there. And Sean was starting to get a taste for drugs. Weed, obviously. Everyone did that. It was nothing. So they decided they needed something a bit stronger, a bit more targeted. Ecstasy was the obvious next step. And the same dealers could supply it. Along with coke, MDMA, whatever they wanted. Perfect, she thought.
 

Sean had a job, Fiona had saved enough money from pimping out the other girls so money wasn’t a problem for either of them. But then she had money too. So she became friendly with the dealer. Asked him to supply her with something that the others didn’t want. Rohypnol. At first the dealer just laughed at her.
 

What d’you want that for?
 

Got something in mind. Something special. She tried smiling when she spoke, the kind of smile that she hoped would turn him on, or at least get him a bit excited, interested. Didn’t really work.
 

I could get done for that, you know. Really land me in trouble. Pills, skunk and weed is one thing. That’s another. If I knew how you were going to use it, supplying that could leave me open to a rape accessory charge.
 

Ah, she said, but you don’t, do you? You don’t know how I’m going to use it. Or who on. Or what for.
 

He studied her. She knew she unnerved him. Good. But she intrigued him as well. Even better. He gave in. Supplied her.
 

Now all she had to do was let him have it, wait for an opportunity to present itself.
 

Which was easier than she had thought it would be.
 

One night at a club, all of them there, Sean laughing and joking with his mates, all of them drinking pints. And she was no longer seen as a threat or even an irritant. Almost too easy.
 

She checked her handbag. Knife. Tape. Pills. All there.
 

Not that she was going to kill him. No. Of course not. That would be stupid. And dangerous too. That could really backfire on her, get her in trouble. What would be the point of that? All people would think was that she actually was jealous of Fiona, jealous enough to kill her boyfriend. And that wasn’t how she wanted people to see her.
 

No. Hurt him. That was all. Scare him. Cut him, maybe. Or threaten to cut him. Get him helpless. Get him alone. Take away his hope. Frighten him away from Fiona. Yeah. That was all she was going to do. That would be enough. And then when Fiona asked her if she had seen Sean, heard from him, she could tell her. I told him to leave. I told him you were better off without him. I told him you wanted me. And then ignore her the way Fiona had done to her.
 

Yeah. That would do it.
 

But things didn’t quite go to plan.
 

Getting him separated from the herd was easy. She just talked to him, laughed with him. Said she was sorry for all that earlier shit with Fiona. Said they were really good together. Sean, simpleton that he was, took her words at face value. Even said yes when she offered to buy him a drink to show there were no hard feelings. That was his mistake. It was an easy matter to slip the Rohypnol into his drink. Hand it to him. Watch him drink it. Perfect. Too easy. Now all she had to do was lead him away from the rest of them, get him past Fiona, wherever she was.
 

And that was when things went badly wrong.
 

Sean started to feel woozy, couldn’t stand up straight. That was what she had been expecting. So far so good. So she tried to lead him away from the crowd, take him somewhere quiet. In the plan she had formulated, that was outside to the taxi rank and away in a cab to the housing estate once again, where she could use the other two implements on him. But she didn’t get that far. Because Sean collapsed before he had left the club.
 

This wasn’t right. She knew that. He wasn’t supposed to have such a violent reaction. And not so quickly, either. But there was nothing she could do. He just passed out right in front of her and everybody witnessed it.
 

The doormen came running over, thinking him drunk. They soon saw that wasn’t the case.
 

What’s he taken? the biggest doorman asked.
 

She played dumb, said she didn’t know. Didn’t think he had taken anything. He was just drinking lager. Bottled, that’s all. Eyes big and wide. Innocent.
 

From the corner of her eye she saw Fiona come running up. She looked concerned. She was stunned: that was the first time she had ever seen her display such deep, unaffected emotion. As she approached she looked down, saw Sean, dropped to his side. Screamed for an ambulance. Then looked up.
 

The innocent mask dropped. A smile took its place. Devious. Challenging. But above all, victorious.
 

And Fiona didn’t like that. Didn’t like that at all.
 

Sean died a couple of days later. An allergic reaction, the official report said, to something he had taken in the club.
 

She was questioned by police, played the wide-eyed innocent again. It worked. They weren’t interested in her. Then they spoke to Fiona. And for once the shock of Sean’s death must have really affected her because she didn’t have time to put her mask back in place. They became interested in Fiona. Very interested. And, after Sean’s death, that was the best thing that could have happened.
 

Eventually Fiona was released without charge. She hadn’t supplied the drugs that killed him. They didn’t know who did. And since he seemed to have taken whatever it was voluntarily, they had nothing else to go on. Death by misadventure. Case closed.
 

It was time for them to leave the home. Fiona was avoiding her. When she did happen to bump into her, she couldn’t keep eye contact. Would look shamefully, fearfully, away.
 

She made a point of speaking to Fiona on the last day. Surprised her in a corridor where she couldn’t escape.
 

Just wanted to say good luck at uni.
 

Fiona mumbled some kind of thanks, tried to get past.
 

Must be hard without Sean in your life. Tragedy, really. Must really, really hurt.
 

No response, just an attempt to move past.
 

Of course, she said, moving in closer, someone must have really hated him to give him that when they knew it would kill him.
 

She didn’t know how the lie would be taken, but Fiona looked up sharply.
 

Buoyed by the response, she continued. If only they knew who had hated him that much. Or who hated his girlfriend enough to do that so she would be alone and hurting.
 

She smiled. And Fiona, staring straight at her, understood. And hurried away.
 

And that was the last she ever saw of Fiona.
 

At least, while she was alive.
 

M
arina had turned a corner of the Art Café opposite the library in Colchester’s Trinity Square into a makeshift office.

She remembered the place from when she had previously lived in the town, taught at the university. Had pleasant memories of it. She would meet other lecturers here on free afternoons, put the world to rights – or at least the department – over coffee and cake. Maybe buy a few handmade greetings cards or perhaps occasionally a piece of jewellery too. But she tried not to let any of those memories take over today.

Now she sat in a corner, table to herself, papers and laptop spread out before her. The coffee and cake was still evident but somehow it didn’t taste as good as it used to. But then, the state she was in, screaming emotion being hopefully channelled into useful professionalism, nothing did.

She had as much information as she could have possibly found about Fiona Welch in front of her. Even remote access to Home Office files not normally open to the public. Anni had showed her how to do it. Said a computer hacker had taught her in exchange for leniency. It was a good trade-off.

Now Marina knew where Fiona Welch had been kept and for how long. As a child at least. She had then gone to Portsmouth University to study psychology. From there a PhD at Essex in Colchester. And from there her death.

She had also looked into her childhood pre-children’s home. It wasn’t good. A typical tale of abuse and family breakdown with the small girl taking the brunt of it. An absent, alcoholic father. A mother who let her various boyfriends take turns on Fiona until Social Services intervened and placed her in care. There, apparently, she came under the influence of another girl. Marina felt that familiar frisson when she knew she was getting somewhere. She knew who this would be. Or thought she did.

She read on, expecting to find out about this other girl, but there was nothing further about her. No name, no place of birth, nothing.

She sat back, frowned at the screen. Why? Why no information? There was plenty on Fiona Welch, plenty on all the other children in care alongside her. But why nothing on this particular girl? That just made her all the more curious. All the more certain that this was the girl – now woman – that she was looking for. All she had to do now was find out more about her. A name would be a good place to start.

But before Marina could do anything about it, her phone rang.

She took it from her bag, stared at it. A number she didn’t recognise. She shuddered at that, her heart and stomach flipping and diving and immediately she was in turmoil. Her first thought: Phil. Or his kidnapper. Phoning to gloat. Or taunt. Second thought: the police. Phoning to say they’d found a body. Neither a good option.

But she had to answer. She had no choice.

She did so. ‘Marina Esposito.’

‘Yeah,’ said a voice, then nothing more. Male, she knew that much. And familiar too. Slightly. But recently.

But not Phil. Not the woman.

‘Hello,’ she said again. Waited.

A sigh that turned into a cough. She waited for the attack to cease. Listened.

‘It’s Michael Prosser.’

Now she recognised it. But it still didn’t answer her questions. Just confused her even more. The last person she had expected to hear from.

‘Hello, Michael,’ she said, hoping her voice remained low and calm, ‘what can I do for you?’

A sound that she presumed was a laugh. ‘Bet you didn’t think you’d hear from me again, did you?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Not after what you called me. Not after how you left.’

She waited. Should she apologise for what she had said? It was the truth, after all. Maybe she should. At least for the way she had said it.

‘Yes,’ she started to say. But she stopped. Unable to bring herself to apologise. ‘So what can I do for you, then, Michael?’

‘Saw what happened to you when you left me.’

Another shudder ran through her.

‘And before you start, it was nothing to do with me. At least, not directly.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You’ve been asking questions. About her.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t insult me by going suddenly thick. You know who. That woman. The one who’s got your old man.’

‘You know her? What’s her name?’

Another noise that she interpreted as a laugh. ‘Steady on. It’s not that simple. Never is, though, is it?’

‘I suppose not,’ she said, humouring him. Keeping him talking. Waiting until he asked her for something in exchange for information.

‘I mean what you said to me the other night. What you called me. Never that simple. Never that clear-cut. Nothing is.’

‘Then if I was wrong, I apologise.’ Trying to keep calm, keep her temper.

‘Oh, thank you very much, your fucking majesty,’ he said, sarcasm dripping through the phone. ‘But that’s not the point. Well, not the only point. If you see what I mean.’

‘Not really, Michael,’ said Marina, trying to hide her exasperation. ‘Perhaps you could explain it to me.’

‘Respect. I’ve been thinking and that’s what I’ve decided I want. Respect.’ A deep breath, ragged and rattling at its nicotine-stained edges. ‘For starters. You see, I wasn’t going to call. Was going to let someone else deal with it. You, probably. Let it all go away. Have nothing to do with it.’

She listened, decided that he wasn’t used to speaking so much to another person. The years of living alone in his self-righteously imposed exile had left him unsocialised, unable to follow his thread of conversation. As long as she made the right kind of encouraging noises, she hoped, he would continue. Maybe even reach his point.

‘So what changed your mind?’

‘I’m not one of the bad guys. I’m not.’

She wondered whether he was speaking to himself now.

‘I saw what happened to you. And I know who it was.’

‘Who?’

‘Not the question. You have to ask why. And what for.’

‘Because I was asking questions about that woman, you said.’

‘Right. Well, now it’s all about respect. I’m not one of the bad guys.’

‘No.’

‘So don’t fucking treat me like one. I’m trying to help here.’

‘And for that I’m very, very grateful. So how can you help me? What can I do?’

‘Come back to see me. At the flat.’

‘You can’t leave it to meet me?’

‘What d’you fucking think?’ Bitterness in his voice now. She didn’t push him on it.

‘So you’ve got something to tell me.’

‘I’ve got everything to tell you.’

‘Couldn’t we just do it over the phone?’

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. Course we couldn’t. You’ve got to come over here and bring something with you. Respect. Like I said.’

‘I’ll certainly come with respect for you, Michael. You have my word.’

‘I want more than that.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Respect doesn’t come cheap.’

She had been expecting that. She just nodded to herself. ‘How much?’

‘I’ll decide by the time you’ve got here. Give me a chance to think. I want my side of the story heard. Properly. And I want some compensation for all the shit I’ve had to put up with.’

‘Fine, I’ll bring my chequebook. What time?’

‘Just get over here.’

The connection was broken. Marina stared at the phone.

Was he for real? Was this the breakthrough she had been waiting for? Or was it some kind of trap, a way of getting revenge on her for the way she had treated him. She didn’t know.

But there was only one way to find out.