The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (22 page)

I
mani found herself once again in the Daisy Cup Flower Café, alone this time.

She needed somewhere to go, to think, to process what she had discovered about Beresford and how to proceed. This place was as good as any. And she still didn’t know her way around Colchester. So she sat at her table, notes spread out in front of her, getting anxious looks from the staff behind the counter. She was the last person there. They wanted to go home.

She had called Anni, no reply. Likewise with Marina. They all seemed to have missed calls from each other, though. But she had no idea where and when they would meet up and swap information. So meanwhile she sat in the café.

Outside, the day slipped into its crepuscular transition into night. Commuters hurried past on their way home, the shops were closing up. Light, real and artificial, fought vainly against dark. The town seemed tired, ready to retreat for a few hours the ways towns and smaller cities do before the evening brings out a different kind of denizen. Or the same ones, just dressed up differently.

Imani studiously avoided eye contact with the staff. It wasn’t just that she wanted to work and be left alone, she had nowhere to go. Apart from an empty rented room in an unfamiliar town.

She wasn’t one for going out by herself either. She had friends back in Birmingham, a few at least, and she sometimes went out with them. Bars and restaurants. Cinemas, occasionally. Birthdays or been-too-long-let’s-catch-up get-togethers. But all her friends were in relationships now, most of them serious, some married with kids. And there she was, still on her own. And because of that, conversation with the rest of them was becoming strained. Not deliberately, not because they wanted to exclude her or because they didn’t all get on, they did. But they were all talking about different things to her. Different things in common. And always referring to themselves as half of a couple. Not ostentatiously, just through habit. Or as mothers. And she felt like the hold-out, the group spinster.

Any effort to ingratiate herself into those types of conversations just felt stilted and awkward. And it worked both ways. She couldn’t talk to them about her day either. While they were telling each other about the latest cute thing Josh or Hildie had done, or the skiing holiday Damien had booked for them both, or some office scandal involving people she neither knew nor cared about, she could say nothing, contribute nothing. And when they did ask her about her life, her work, there was nothing she could say.

What did I do today? Watched my partner get fatally shot while I was abducted, stripped naked, assaulted and tied to a rusty old bedframe while some psychopath waited to kill me.
Yeah. That would go down well.

Now when they called about a get-together, she was always busy.

Imani watched people walk by. Noticing, as a lot of single people do, how many couples there seem to be in the world. She could work out which stage they were at in their relationships, just by watching them for a minute or so. A skill the police force had taught her, or so she told herself. That couple there, mid-thirties. He worked at something manual, she worked in retail. Been together for years, no longer needed to hold each other’s hands to know the other was beside them. Off to get something for dinner, off home. And that couple there. Older, or at least he is. Wearing clothes too young for him, but holding hands, laughing and smiling. Him nuzzling her neck. Her giggling. Second-time-arounders or mid-life crisis. One of the two. And them. Young, early twenties. Him with a protective arm around her like he’s frightened to let go of her in case she wanders off or has an independent thought. Behaving how the films have told him to behave. The look on her face: tolerant. She’s having independent thoughts all the time.

She sighed. Looked down at her nearly empty mug. She felt lonely. And it was difficult to admit that to herself.

It wasn’t just looking through the window where she saw couples. It was everywhere. Marina and Phil, for instance. She had barely met a couple more in love. But not just that, totally in sync with each other. A perfect couple, she thought, but not in the schmaltzy way that phrase was usually used. Perfect in the way that they had been though all sorts of shit and found a way to still be together. Because they knew they were meant to be together. That was what made them so perfect.

And even Anni with her lost Mickey. She hadn’t known them well but it had still been a massive shock when he died. And she could see she wasn’t over him yet. Didn’t know if she ever would be.

And then there was herself. She got hit on occasionally, she was an attractive woman. But most of the men who did that were colleagues, usually married ones at that. So she didn’t have a very high opinion of dating other coppers. But DS Ari Patel had been different. Not that anything ever happened between them, but she was sure that something would have done. If he hadn’t been killed. And she still wasn’t over that. She knew how Anni must feel. But she still hadn’t come to terms with just how close to death she herself had been. Even with the therapy she had undergone, she doubted she ever would.

Maybe I’ll get a cat, she thought. Something to come home to. Something to look after. No, she then thought. That way definitely lies spinsterdom. If she got one cat she’d want another. And another. And then, without quite realising it, she’d become the kind of mad, lonely cat lady who would die alone and have the police break down her door after several weeks when the neighbours complained about the smell, to find her lying on the kitchen floor with half her face eaten off by the cats. No, she thought. Not for her.

The coffee was gone now. She had to make a move.

All her dad’s fault. That’s what she often told herself. Work hard, yes. Got it. Don’t take shit from anyone. Yep. Done that. Get a good job, take pride in it. Tick, tick. Her job. If she didn’t have that, then she really would have nothing in her life. Make him proud, he had said. And she had done. Or hoped she had. But it makes me lonely, she wanted to say.

She looked up. Saw the waitress’s expression. She had said it. Aloud.

She gathered her papers together, stood up.

And her phone rang.

She didn’t recognise the number but that meant nothing. ‘Detective Sergeant Oliver.’

‘Hello?’ A hesitant voice, but a recently familiar one. She couldn’t yet place it.

‘Yes, how can I help?’

‘It’s Roger Prentice here. From the garage?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Prentice. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s… well it’s…’

She waited, let him get to it. She felt a shudder. The tone of his voice told her this would be important.

‘Yes?’ she said, spurring him on.

‘I need you to come to the garage. Now. Tonight.’ Blurted out.

‘Why, Mr Prentice?’

‘Because I…’ He paused. She thought she had lost him but he returned. ‘I’ve… found something out. About Dave Beresford. And his car. Discovered something.’

‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’

‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘No, I can’t. You won’t believe what I’ve discovered.’

She stifled a smile. Sure he didn’t know he was talking like a cheap clickbait website. ‘Straight away?’

‘Yes. Please. Now.’

He hung up.

She quickly phoned Matthews, to ask him to accompany her. No reply. She pocketed the phone and made for the door.

That shudder she had felt was getting bigger.

M
arina pulled the car up at the same spot she had previously. Looked round, nervous. There was the alleyway. It seemed to have lost a bulb or two in illumination since her last visit, the shadows deeper, wider. Or it was just her imagination?

She closed her eyes, opened them again. Tried to see things in perspective. View the alleyway itself as something no more foreboding than the person she was going to call on. After all, there wouldn’t be someone waiting for her again. Would there?

She looked round, tried to make out another route to Michael Prosser’s flat. Couldn’t see one. No. It would have to be the alleyway.

But this time she would be armed. She checked her bag. Rape alarm. Pepper spray. Would it work a second time? It would have to. And something else. She felt under the seat. Found what she was looking for. A black heavy metal American police torch. Phil had told her to carry one. It couldn’t be regarded as a weapon – not legally, anyway, since it had a practical purpose – but it was heavy enough to do some real damage.

She got out of the car, locked it. Turned towards the alley. Torch in one hand and pepper spray in the other, she set off.

Slowly, cautiously. She made her way down it towards the flat, eyes ever vigilant, alert to the slightest noise.

She made it through unscathed. Let out a breath she wasn’t aware she had been holding. Made her way to Michael Prosser’s flat.

It didn’t look any better the second time. The same walk up, the same filth and graffiti greeting her arrival. Pocketing the pepper spray and putting the torch in her handbag, she knocked on the door.

And waited. Eventually she heard movement from the other side.

‘Who’s it?’

‘Marina Esposito. You called me.’

A hesitation then the door was opened.

‘Come in.’

She did so. Walked down the hall, straight into the living room. She looked round. It was, if anything, even filthier than her last appearance. The air was filled with a sour human odour and the ashtray looked like he had been having a smoking contest against himself and he had won.

‘Sit down,’ he said, entering behind her and closing the door.

Closing the door, she thought. Was that a bad sign?

She sat on the sofa, perching on the edge. He stayed standing. Right in front of the door. His one eye roved the room, settled on anything but her. He looked anxious, like he was building himself up to something.

Something wasn’t right with him, Marina thought. She felt a shudder of dread run through her. Wondered if she could make it to the door before he did.

‘Right, Michael, I’m here.’ Her voice calm, as neutral as she could make it. Let him do the talking. Make the offer.

No reply. He just rocked on his feet, backwards and forwards, humming slightly to himself.

‘Michael? I’m here. What would you like to talk about?’

‘Respect…’ His voice barely above a whisper. A hard, cracked, dry whisper.

‘Respect. OK, then. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot last time. I apologised for that. Let’s put it past us and move on.’

A snort. It could have been a laugh or a cough. ‘Put it past us, move on…’

Rocking more violently now, fists clenching and unclenching.

‘You talk like a… like a… social worker. Probation officer.’

‘Or a psychologist, Michael,’ she said, engaging him, standing her ground, but not doing anything that might enrage him. He seemed volatile enough. ‘And you should know what a social worker talks like. You used to be one.’

Her words prompted him to look at her. His one eye red and angry, staring like an enraged Cyclops. ‘Yeah… look where that got me…’

Don’t antagonise him further, she thought. ‘Michael, please. You called me, asked me to come here. Told me you had some information for me, for a price. That the respect you want costs. Well, I’m here to pay. So let’s start talking or I’ll just have to conclude that you’ve got no information and leave.’

Having found her face he kept staring at her. Breathing heavily, each long ragged inhalation and exhalation sounding like a bull waiting to charge.

Eventually he found his voice.

‘This is unfair. You know that? Unfair.’

She said nothing. Waited for him to continue.

‘What happened to me. All of it. All unfair.’

Again she didn’t reply. She wasn’t sure what to say, how to engage him. She waited to hear more, get a sense of where he was going. Find some words then to defuse him.

‘It was her, not me. Her. I just… I did… I did nothing. Her. All her.’ Looking away from Marina as he spoke. Looking all round the room as if seeing ghosts.

‘All who, Michael?’

He found Marina’s face again. Gave another snort. ‘You just want the name, don’t you? Just give you a name and then you’ll go. Pay me like a whore. And all that bullshit you told me’ll be just that. Bullshit.’

‘Help me here, Michael. Please. Tell me what you’re talking about. Who you’re talking about.’

‘You know who…’ The words roared at her.

Marina jumped, startled. And also scared.

‘No respect… no fucking respect…’

Marina stood up. ‘I’ve had enough of this, Michael.’ Hoped her voice was stronger, less fearful, than she felt. ‘I’m going.’

She made a move towards the door.

And with a speed he didn’t look like he possessed, he was on her.

‘You’re not going fucking anywhere…’

His hands round her throat, squeezing hard.

Marina felt the room going black.

D
aylight was completely gone, darkness in full force when Imani pulled up outside Prentice’s Garage in New Town. The place wasn’t lit, the double doors closed. It confirmed her bad feeling: it didn’t look right.

Still, she got out of the car and made her way over to the doors. Wary, looking round all the while. She reached them, placed her hand on one. It opened. A good sign or a bad one? She didn’t know. Nervous but trying to hide it, remembering her training, she pushed it open and, with a final look up and down the street, entered.

The garage floor was in darkness. She could make out a light in the overhead office, a desk lamp, she thought, given it was small and localised.

‘Mr Prentice?’

No reply.

She looked round, her eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, able to pick out shapes, grey against darker grey. There was a car in front of her on the hydraulic ramp. It seemed to be higher at one side, the other flat on the ground. She moved forwards, stumbled over two wheels which she hadn’t seen.

‘Mr Prentice?’ she called again.

Again, no answer.

Right, she thought, turn around. Walk away. Get backup. Something’s happened here. She didn’t know what, but she knew it wasn’t good.

She stepped backwards and slipped, almost falling over. She reached out, steadied herself against a work bench, took out her iPhone, operated the flashlight. Pointed it downwards.

Her heart skipped a beat. What she assumed was oil, the substance she had slipped in, wasn’t. It was as thick but more congealed, a different colour. Blood.

Right. Definitely get out of there.

She should have done. But she had to have one more look around. Perhaps Prentice had hurt himself, needed her help. Accidents happened.

She swung the flashlight again. And saw what was holding up the car on the hydraulic lift, what was making it appear lopsided. A body was trapped underneath it. She couldn’t make out much but it was wearing the same overalls that Roger Prentice had been wearing.

‘Oh God…’

She stepped backwards, trying to avoid the pooled blood once more, thinking: crime scene. Preserve it. Get out. Call for backup.

‘I’m afraid Mr Prentice won’t be joining us. He had a pressing engagement.’ Then a laugh. Loud. Hard. ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist. I know I shouldn’t make jokes and that but… what can you do?’

She looked to where the source of the voice was coming from, knowing immediately who it was even without seeing the speaker.

‘Beresford.’

‘Yeah.’ He stood at the top of the steps in front of the office, body silhouetted against the dim light, making him seem bigger, more intimidating than he actually was. Or that’s what Imani told herself. Beresford was already big and intimidating.

‘You’re cleverer than I thought, DS Oliver. Or maybe just more suspiciously minded. But you’re also thicker too.’

‘In what way?’

‘You came here, didn’t you?’

Her heart skipped a beat. Part of her couldn’t believe this was happening. The man was a copper. Had he really killed a garage owner?

‘Did you do that?’ she asked, pointing to what was left of Roger Prentice.

‘Yes it was me. No point lying now. He should have kept his mouth shut like I told him to. Should have said what I told him to say.’

‘That your car was in his garage.’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded, the light glinting off his bald head. He made no attempt to come downstairs. ‘Dunno what he was playing at.’

‘So you killed him.’

‘I didn’t mean to. But we got into a conversation. Well, an argument, really. And he said he would do it again if he had to.’

‘You had some kind of hold over him. Helped him out with something?’

‘Yeah. He’s a bit of a lad, is our Roger. Likes them young, shall we say. Got into trouble a few years ago. I made it go away.’

‘He was a paedophile? And you covered for him?’

‘Greater good, and all that. He was a good contact to have. A good informant. Let me know what was going on in his shitty little world. He wasn’t as bad as some of them. Didn’t act on his impulses. But he passed on quite a bit of stuff.’ He looked down at the body. Sighed. ‘Shame, really. Could have used him a bit more. But needs must, and all that.’

Imani stood still, taking everything in. It was like her world had tilted, tectonic plates shifted and the ground wasn’t where it used to be. She tried to rationalise, focus. She turned, looked at the door. It was still slightly ajar. She could make a run for it. Find Matthews, tell him everything. Franks too. Get everyone —

Matthews.

‘He told you, didn’t he?’

‘Who?’

‘Simon Matthews. He told you I was looking into you. Into your car.’

‘He’s a good lad, Simon. Knows which side his bread’s buttered on.’

She looked at the door once more. Edged slightly towards it.

‘Why?’

Beresford laughed. ‘Oh, is this where I tell you my evil plan, is that it?’

‘I don’t know, have you got one?’

Beresford sighed. ‘I’m not the bad guy here. Really, I’m not. I’m a bloody good copper. I’m not bent, I don’t take backhanders. I catch villains. And I’m bloody good at it.’

‘So why have you killed Roger Prentice?’

Another sigh. ‘Too complicated to tell you.’

‘And what about Phil Brennan? You kidnapped him, I take it?’

‘Yeah, I did.’

‘And you’ve been trying to derail the investigation. Your investigation. Why?’

‘Like I said, you wouldn’t understand. Complicated.’

‘Try me.’

‘She’s got my kid. My wife too.’ Traces of fear broke through the bravado.

‘Who? The woman who has Phil?’

‘Yeah. And I’ve got to…’ Another sigh. ‘You do anything to protect your family, don’t you?’

‘But you don’t have to do this,’ said Imani. ‘We’re all on the same side. All the things you’ve discovered in this investigation, if you put it all together we could find her. Stop her. Bring your family back to you.’

A harsh laugh. ‘You think I haven’t considered that? Really? It was the first thing I thought. And the first thing she thought of too. That’s why she said if I brought her in or stopped her I’d never see them again. She’s keeping them somewhere that I can’t get to. And if we brought her in she’d let them die.’

‘She might be bluffing.’

‘You got kids? Anyone?’ Voice raised, shouting now.

‘No, no I haven’t.’

‘Then you don’t understand. You’d never say that if you had.’

‘Look,’ said Imani, turning away from the front door, making her way up the steps towards Beresford. ‘Just stop it. Now. We can find Phil, bring her in. We’ll get your wife and kid back. All of us. Together. Because we’re a team. That’s how we work, that’s what we do.’

Another laugh, even harsher this time.

She moved further up the steps until she was right beside him. He was sweating, great droplets running down his shining head. His eyes looked like they’d been caught in headlights and he didn’t know which way to run. He was twitching, desperate-looking.

‘Come on,’ she said, reaching out to him. ‘We can sort this out. We can —’

The breath was knocked from her. Beresford picked her up, threw her over the stairs.

She didn’t have time to think. Didn’t have time to react.

All she had time to do, as her body hit the hard concrete floor, her head connecting with the corner of a metal workbench as it went down, nearly severing it, breaking her neck in the process, was die.