The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (21 page)

S
imon Matthews had surprised himself.

He had driven back to Queensway, taken his place at his desk, started work. At first he was angry, full of bitterness and resentment towards Imani Oliver and her friends. Really annoyed at the way he had been sidelined. But, as he worked, he thoug.ht. He hadn’t been sidelined. Not really. He had asked to do this job, volunteered for it. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that no one else had stepped up and asked to do it. Only him. So really, the logical part of his brain said, he had nothing to complain about.

And yet…

It still gnawed at him. The way they had all greeted each other, old friends. Leaving him out. Well, not leaving him out, not as such, just feeling left out because he didn’t have the shared experience they all had. If he was honest, that was what had annoyed him. That they had all been part of something and he hadn’t. And that in turn opened up a whole lot of other thoughts.

Because he hadn’t found his place in the squad. Not yet, not really. He was a fairly recent addition and, although he seemed to be building respect among his peers, he wasn’t yet at the heart of the group. And that hurt him more than he would normally admit, even to himself.

So he had come back to the office, hoping, if he was honest, to impress both groups with his work.

And he was already surprising himself.

He had entered details into the computer, scanned countywide at first. And received two positive results. The first from a Holiday Inn just outside Colchester. Seven years ago. A four-day convention of fireplace retailers. The mind boggled at such boredom, he thought, then remembered he was sitting inputting data at a computer. But at least he seemed to be getting somewhere. Andrew Murray. Forty-eight years old. Married. Apparently last seen talking to a group of people in the bar. He’d had dinner (steak) and plenty to drink (beer, wine, whisky). At first it had looked like a heart attack. But his wife hadn’t believed it. He played tennis, she had said. Golf. Kept himself fit. Was training for a triathlon. Simon Matthews knew a mid-life crisis when he read about one, the intimations of mortality creeping close. But he was glad of it. Because of the wife’s insistence another post-mortem was performed. And that was when the puncture wound to the back of the spine was located. Not only that, but Andrew Murray had withdrawn quite a large sum of money the same night, transferred it into an account bearing his name, then had it emptied and closed that same night.

Then it became a murder inquiry. Everyone that could be contacted from the convention was questioned. All of them said the same. He was seen chatting to a lot of people in the bar the night he died. No one in particular. A couple of people did say he may have been flirting with a younger woman but there didn’t seem to be anything serious going on. Attempts had been made to locate this woman. A dead end. It was assumed she was just another fireplace retailer.

The investigation was still, officially, open. But that was seven years ago. No leads, nothing.

Matthews cross-referenced further. Southend-on-Sea was the next one. Five years ago. No convention this time, just a single man staying at a waterfront hotel. Graeme Parker. Divorced and down in Essex for a few days hoping to see his children before his ex-wife emigrated to Canada and took them with her. Last seen that night in the bar unsuccessfully trying to order hot food after the kitchen had closed. After that he had apparently got into a conversation with another guest, a female one, and they had disappeared off together. The next morning he had been found dead.

Attempts were made to locate the woman he had been talking to but without success. She hadn’t shown up on CCTV and there was no record of anyone answering her description staying there that night. And that was another thing. Her description. No two people could agree on it. She seemed to be young, or fairly young. Pretty or plain. Unmemorably dressed. No one could remember her.

That was enough to order an in-depth post-mortem. And that was when the puncture mark was discovered. Toxicology showed something but it was dispersing fast. Traces of Rohypnol, or a derivative, it looked like. And again, a large sum of money had been transferred. This was again traced but reached a dead end. An account had been opened and closed on the same day. The name and all information given was that of Graeme Parker. The account, like the previous one, had been cleaned out.

Matthews sat back. Barely able to hold his excitement in check. This was what he loved most. Not the physical side, chasing down criminals, getting a few surreptitious fists in before carting them away, the adrenalin rush that comes with it. No. He loved this side. Chasing down information, watching patterns emerge from it, webs of data spun tighter and tighter the closer he got to the centre, helping to trap some villain who had thought themselves too clever, too untouchable to get away with it. This was his adrenalin rush. This was what he had signed up for.

He decided to widen his search, take in a few more counties, keep seven years as a parameter.

And there it was. Another one in Kent. This time —

‘Having fun?’

Matthews jumped, looked up startled. DS Beresford had appeared at the side of him, was looking over his shoulder, checking his screen. He laughed.

‘Feeling guilty, DC Matthews? You nearly jumped out of your skin.’

A few others nearby laughed too. Matthews didn’t know if it was with him or at him. He reddened.

‘Sorry, sir. I was…’

Beresford was peering at the screen. ‘What’s this?’

‘We went to see Nick Lines, sir,’ he said, running on adrenalin and enthusiasm before he could stop himself. ‘He gave us the PMs for the three men who we found killed.’ Matthews stopped speaking, remembered Nick Lines’ words. About giving the information to DS Beresford. And Beresford saying he hadn’t had it. He tried to look at his screen, aware Beresford was looking at him.

‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Beresford asked, a studied attempt at breeziness. ‘Whose idea was that?’

‘DS Oliver, sir.’

Beresford nodded, his expression unreadable.

Matthews felt he should explain some more. ‘You told me I had to extend her every courtesy, sir. I was just doing what you ordered.’

Beresford looked at him. Fixed a smile in place. ‘Very good, DC Matthews.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘And this?’

Matthews explained about the wounds found on the three bodies and how he had decided to look for any historical cases where the same thing had happened.

‘I’ve found three so far. And I’ve only just started.’

‘Good police work, DC Mathews. Excellent.’ Beresford’s smile had atrophied on his face. He looked round the room, checked no one was listening to them and leaned closer.

‘How is our friend from the north?’

Matthews looked confused. ‘Sir?’

‘DS Oliver. North, West Midlands, same difference. How you getting on with her?’

‘Fine, sir.’

Beresford nodded. Brought himself even closer still.

‘Just want to remind you, Simon, that DS Oliver is only here temporarily. She’ll be gone soon. But you’ll still be here. And so will I. Understand me?’

Beresford locked eyes with Matthews. Bored right into him. Matthews blinked, flinched. He knew what his superior officer was intimating. He was reminding him who was boss. But more than that.

‘So with that in mind, she doing anything I should know about?’

‘I’m…’ He pointed to the screen. ‘This, sir. I’m working on it.’

‘Good. Anything else?’

Matthews didn’t reply. He knew what Beresford was asking him to do. Rat out a fellow officer. But Imani had talked with him. Assured him that if she looked into some of the lapses in Beresford’s handling of the investigation, then it wasn’t a question of disloyalty. It was all about getting the job done. Getting the right results. No matter who was in charge.

But…

There was also the question of how excluded he had felt by Imani and her friends. Yes, he had rationalised it away. He also felt excluded here in the office.

But…

‘DC Matthews? Anything you want to share with me?’

Matthews stared at his screen.

‘Because if this officer from another force is coming into my investigation and has something to say about it, I’d like to know. More than that, I’ve got a right to know. Wouldn’t you say so?’

Matthews nodded.

‘So go on then. There’s something you want to share with me, isn’t there? She not happy with the way I’m doing things? Just remember, DC Matthews, like I said she’ll be going home soon. But you’ll be staying here. With me.’

Matthews nodded once more.

‘So?’

Matthews looked round. No one was listening to them or looking at them. Or they were all doing a damned good job of pretending not to.

‘She’s…’ his voice low, unsteady, ‘not happy with the way you’re running things.’

‘I see. Specifics?’

‘She thinks… she suspected you may be withholding things from the investigation. Like the PMs.’

‘Right. Anything else?’

‘I… I don’t know. Sir.’

‘Come on now, DC Matthews…’ Beresford unable to hide the threat in his voice.

‘I don’t know. She… that’s all she told me. There’s others working on this with her. Anni Hepburn who used to be here. And Marina Esposito. Phil Brennan’s wife.’

‘I know who she is. And what do all of them say?’

‘I… I don’t know. I came back here to work on this.’

‘So where is she now?’

‘I don’t know.’

Beresford stared at him.

‘Honestly, sir, I don’t know.’

Beresford laid a huge paw of a hand on Matthews’ shoulder. Squeezed hard. He straightened up. ‘Well done, DC Matthews. You did the right thing. Loyalty is a rare commodity these days. A highly prized one. Even amongst such as ourselves. And you’ve just demonstrated it. Well done, lad.’

Matthews kept nodding until Beresford had walked away.

He tried to go back to work. But couldn’t concentrate on the screen.

P
hil was dreaming. That was the only answer. Had to be.

He had had dreams like this before. But the familiarity of it wasn’t comforting. Part of his mind knew how it would end. But try as he might, there was no way to change it. Like a runaway train stuck on a track, no way to make it go forwards or backwards or even turn off, just stick with it until it crashes or derails.

He was a boy again. A small, young boy. And he was alone. And scared. There were shadows all around him. Dream logic told him that they were both metaphorical and real. And he was supposed to be doing something. Going somewhere. Or getting ready to go somewhere. Hoping the shadows would disperse and allow him to do so. Let that small boy in darkness emerge into the light.

Boy Phil was putting his clothes on. They felt new, unfamiliar to him. Scratchy in a different way to his old clothes. But soft as well, like his old clothes had never been. And well-fitting. His own. Not someone else’s that had been mended, altered and given to him to make do with. His own.

He saw smiles in the darkness, in the shadows. Comforting smiles. Or they should have been: there was something behind them. A tenseness, worry. Fear. Just call it fear. That would cover everything.

The older he got, the more he revisited the dream. The more he revisited it, the clearer things became. Fear. That was what everything was about. Fear. And love.

There were words to go with the smiling faces. But these had been lost down the decades. Now he just watched the lips move, felt the emotion behind them. Two of them. Always two of them. The same two. The same comforting words. Or supposedly comforting.

But something else this time. Some
one
else. Standing behind the two comforting faces. Just out of focus. Small. Female.

Mouthing something, saying two words…

His heart shuddered and he begged himself to wake.

He stayed asleep.

This was it, he dream-thought with the familiar dread that this particular nightmare had taught him to expect over the years. This was what happened to his biological parents. And…

The other person. Just out of focus.

He closed his eyes, hoping to wake up, hoping for the dream to change. Willing, begging himself to wake.

Nothing happened.

The two faces kept smiling. That was how he remembered them. In dreams. And only dreams. His real mother and father. Just before they were killed.

Along with his younger sister.

Noise behind them. Their pursuers had found them. Screams. More screams. More noise. And then…

Here it comes…

The screen went red.

And Phil woke up.

Screaming.

‘What was it, love? A nightmare?’

Stroking his face, cradling his head to her bosom. Eileen. No. Not Eileen. But enough like her to actually want to believe it. Wanting comfort. Needing it. Desperately craving someone to chase the nightmares away. Tell him everything was going to be all right.

Phil nodded.

She hugged him all the harder. He let himself be hugged.

He needed someone to. And she was there. He allowed her lies to be truth. Just for a few seconds. That was what he told himself. Just for a few seconds. A few long seconds.

Some comforting shushes. Rocking gently backwards and forwards. Telling him it was all right. Everything was all right.

He believed it. Just a few seconds. Or minutes. What did it matter?

‘So what was it about, your nightmare?’ Hushed voice, asking so she could give answers not because she wanted details. That made him want to talk.

‘The usual.’

‘What’s the usual?’

‘My recurring one. My… mother and father. My real ones. We’d left the commune but they’d tracked us down. The last few seconds before they find us. Their last smiles.’

She stopped rocking him. He noticed. She kept going.

‘Right. Just your… your mother and father?’

Phil didn’t answer straight away.

‘Phil? Was someone else there?’

How did she know? How could she possibly know?

‘No,’ he said. His voice sounded shaky. A house with no foundations ready to topple in a strong breeze.

‘Who?’ She moved around, seemingly excited. ‘Who else was there?’

Phil kept his eyes tightly closed. The dream played behind his eyelids.

She waited for his reply.

‘My… sister…’

He felt her stiffen. Her hands clutch him all the harder. Nails digging into his bare flesh.

‘Oww…’

She realised what she was doing, became all gentleness again.

‘Your sister?’

He nodded.

‘Do you dream of her often?’

He shook his head. ‘Only this… dream. Not often. Only sometimes. Sometimes, most times, it’s just my mother and father. And their smiles. And their fear.’

‘But this time it was different. Wonder why?’

‘Don’t know.’

She held him tighter once more, resumed rocking him.

‘It’s a good sign, Phil. That you dreamed of her. A really good sign. It means your past life is coming through. You’re starting to remember.’

‘It’s never far from me… never forgotten, the nightmare. This time… she was there.’

‘I think it’s more than that. I think you’ve had some kind of mental breakthrough. And that’s wonderful, Phil. It really is.’

‘Why?’ Genuinely confused. Her words like a calm, murmuring brook.

‘Because you can move on to the next level, that’s why. I told you, didn’t I? The darkness inside you. It has to come out. This is it working itself out.’

‘No… guilt… grief… anger… grief… that’s all…’ Tears on his face. Couldn’t wipe them away.

More shushing, more rocking. Then he felt her arms move.

‘Come on. I know what you need.’

Her fingers, hands moved about and the fabric against his cheek, now wet from his tears, disappeared. His face was resting on bare flesh.

‘This is what you want. This’ll make you feel good…’

Her hands guided his face towards her breast, moved his mouth towards her nipple. Phil made a show of resisting.

More shushing and she stroked his cheek. Her hand stronger this time, holding his head in place. ‘Come on, Phil. This is what you need. I know best. Mother knows best. You’ve had a shock. A bad dream. But you’ve got to get better. And I’m here to help you.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘I mean, if you can’t trust me, who can you trust?’

Phil said nothing. Just moved his mouth over her exposed nipple.

Sucked.