The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (23 page)

A
fter Sean, killing came quite easy. Not that she did it straight away. Not at first.
 

She didn’t go to university. Decided she didn’t want to be with Fiona – couldn’t be with Fiona. That was gone, broken. And with that, when she thought about it, there wasn’t really anywhere else that she wanted to go. Or anything to study. So she left the children’s home. Just walked out one day, never looked back.
 

She stayed in Chelmsford at first. Not because she had any particular fondness or attachment to the place, but because she still knew a few people. The gangs she handed the girls to from the home. She told one of the boys, Leon, that she wanted somewhere to stay. He found her a room in a shared house at the cheaper end of town. She knew it. She’d taken girls there for parties. It wasn’t what she had in mind to live in.
 

It was OK at first, she thought. She quite enjoyed the parties, the access to pills and cocaine, booze and weed. And if she wanted to lose herself in sex there was always someone available: male, female, whatever. But it began to get her down quite quickly. Years of living in the home, sharing everything – especially space – made her want somewhere of her own. And she was also tiring of the whole scene. So young, she thought with a smile, so jaded.
 

But there was something else about the whole thing too. She could see herself falling down that rabbit hole, being swallowed up by the life she was living. Booze and pills and sex. She was hitting all three hard. Harder than she had ever been. Especially the sex. She wasn’t just fucking the girls and boys, she was hurting them. Couldn’t get off until they were crying. And that wasn’t going down well with some of the boys in the gang. Not because they didn’t like what she was doing – objectively they couldn’t have cared less. But just by doing it she was damaging their merchandise. And that wasn’t on.
 

Sometimes, when she was hitting one of the girls, really hitting her, until she was covered in blood, cowering and crying in a corner of some shitty room, screaming while she did it, she had a kind of out-of-body experience. She could look down on herself, see herself doing this. And she would see her face. No longer human. Just an animal baying and howling with rage, in pain.
 

Her walls were gone. Drugs, drink and everything else had battered them down. The sex was her only way of coping and that in itself wasn’t enough. Because it wasn’t keeping her controlled, it was becoming more and more excessive. And the highs were getting harder to reach, the comedowns of comfort harder to maintain, shorter in duration. She had to do something.
 

So she took herself off for a while. Went somewhere to think. Decide what she was going to do next. She had money. Or a bit of it, anyway. Saved from her years of pimping out girls. But it wouldn’t last forever. She knew that. It didn’t need to, though. Just long enough until she decided what she was going to do next.
 

She stayed in hotels. Meditated. That was something they had been encouraged to try in the home. A teacher had come in and tried to show them. It’ll help you cope, she had said, show you ways to get through your days when it’s all getting on top of you. Most of the kids had laughed, arsed around, predictably enough. But she had listened, taken it in. Practised it. On her own, of course. When no one was looking. And it did work.
 

So that was what she did now. In her hotel room. Looked inside herself, built that wall up again brick by brick. Told herself she didn’t care about Fiona any more. And that she didn’t care about what she’d done to Sean. That it was all in the past. That she was a new person.
 

The first time she confronted all that, the real first time, delving down, down inside her, she opened her eyes to find herself in floods of tears. Crying for her lost love. Crying because she had caused someone else’s death. But she didn’t carry that through with her when she came out of her meditative state. Quite the opposite. She felt calm, happy, even. For the first time in years, possibly the only time ever. At peace. All that had gone. And she could look forward to the future.
 

After that, her future came to her accidentally.
 

Despite not going to university, she still wanted to learn things. After all, her school had judged her to have an above-average intelligence and a temperament that would become easily bored and restless if not put to good use.
 

So she read. Widely and indiscriminately. Anything and everything. Devouring, accumulating knowledge, learning all the while.
 

It happened one night. A Holiday Inn somewhere up north. She couldn’t remember where. Somewhere anonymous. That was the important thing. There was some kind of gathering going on in the bar. She sat there on her own, reading, drinking. Rebuffing offers from the local lotharios. Not that she was saving herself or had saved herself; there was just no one there she could be bothered to have sex with. They were all too boring. Also she didn’t like taking them up to her room. Even though it was temporary, rented, it was still her own space. And she didn’t like anyone to invade it.
 

She had just about finished her gin and tonic, ready to go up to bed, when this group of people came in. She couldn’t make them out at first. They were mostly middle-aged, dressed in evening wear, a mixture of both sexes. All drunk or at least tipsy, all having had fun somewhere and not wanting it to end. And the one surprising thing: they were all masked.
 

Some were simple Burt Ward as Robin types, some were elaborate creations. But everyone wore one.
 

She was intrigued. Suddenly she didn’t want to finish her drink and go to bed. She wanted to know where they had all been. She went up to the bar. They were all clamouring to be served but she found a space for herself. A drunk middle-aged man would always allow a pretty young girl to be served first. Sometimes they would even buy her drinks.
 

I’ll get that, said a voice.
 

She turned. He was tall, rounding out but she could tell he had been handsome once. Clearly he still thought he was. She had watched him as he entered with the rest of them. Some of the women obviously agreed with his assessment of himself. It was no accident she ended up standing next to him.
 

Gin and tonic please, she said, not even bothering to pretend she didn’t want him to. No time for that lame trick.
 

He got her her drink. She thanked him, took a mouthful, letting him see the way she sucked on her straw.
 

So what’s this all about, then? The masks.
 

You want one? he asked and produced one from his pocket, tied it on her.
 

Always carry a spare, he said.
 

She smiled, allowed him to tie it. It had a satin ribbon at the back. He stood back, admired his handiwork.
 

Lovely.
 

So what’s it for, then? she asked again.
 

He smiled. A special party. You see that film
Eyes Wide Shut
?
 

She hadn’t.
 

Oh. Well, like that.
 

You mean a sex party?
 

Now you’re getting it.
 

She looked round at all the rest of them. So why come here?
 

This is where we’re all staying. Or most of us. We’ve had our fun. If we want to continue, we do it here.
 

Must make breakfast a bit difficult.
 

He laughed, as if that was the funniest thing he’d heard all night.
 

She kept smiling at him. So, she said, do you want the fun to continue?
 

He did. He definitely did.
 

It was as easy at that.
 

She didn’t know she was going to kill him. Not at first. She thought she would just fuck him. Maybe tie him up, keep him restrained while she went through his wallet. But one thing led to another
…
 

He was a surprisingly good lover. He knew how to make her respond. Most men didn’t, in her experience. And she enjoyed being with him. At times she even lost herself in what was happening. And that was dangerous. She had made that agreement with herself that she would never lose control of herself again. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Not even with this man. Not even if she was enjoying herself. And, she was amazed to admit to herself, she was.
 

But all good things had to come to an end.
 

She was in his room, still wouldn’t allow him back to hers. He had come well equipped for his night of fun. His bag contained all manner of toys. They had worked through most of them together. She now had him tied to the bed, face down. Ready to use on him the strap-on dildo he had so thoughtfully provided. But she stopped. Looked at his back.
 

She had read something in one of her recent studies. A blade, even a small one, a stiletto, perhaps, between the right vertebrae could paralyse a person. She had brought a long hatpin bought just for this. She’d been practising on an anatomical model that she’d bought online from a medical supplies shop. But just in case it didn’t work first time, the Rohypnol that she’d slipped into his drink would have taken effect by now.
 

She got off the bed, crossed to her bag.
 

What you doing? he said. Making me wait?
 

It’ll be worth it, she promised.
 

She found the pin. Counted the vertebrae. Slid it in.
 

Ow
…
have you
…
I can’t
…
I can’t move
…
Rising panic in his voice. What’s happened? What have you done?
 

She stared at him, amazed that it had actually worked first time. All those hours of practice had paid off. Staring dumbfounded at him, smiling all the while.
 

What’s happened? Why can’t I feel
…
Oh my God, I can’t move
…
 

He was becoming hysterical. She couldn’t let that happen. She knelt down beside him.
 

I want you to do something for me, she said to him, mouth close to his ear. I want you to give me your money.
 

What?
 

Give me your money, and I’ll let you go.
 

He started shouting then, calling her names that she had allowed him to call her earlier but in a completely different context. She smiled.
 

I’d hurry up if I were you. It’s reversible at the moment but it won’t be soon.
 

Eventually her words penetrated and he calmed down. Getting out his iPad, putting in his passwords, transferring money from his bank account to hers was simple after that.
 

She stood up. Realised she was still wearing the strap-on, took it off. Looked down at him.
 

Right, she said, I’ll take that out now.
 

She did so. But she was too late. The paralysis had spread. He had choked to death.
 

Back to her own room, checked out the next morning. No breakfast.
 

As she walked away from the Holiday Inn, a strange kind of calm came over her. She had been wearing a mask last night, along with everyone else. She had booked into the hotel under a different name. She had paid in cash. She had left her DNA in the hotel room but so what? She wasn’t on file anywhere. The only thing that could be traced to her was through her bank account. She closed it that day, emptying all the funds, including his. It wasn’t in her name to begin with.
 

His. She smiled.
 

She walked off, feeling like the next part of her life had just started.
 

T
he morning briefing. On the rare times he was part of a large-scale investigation like this, Matthews usually looked forward to them. Made him feel part of the team, an important component. But not today. He just felt terrible.

Beresford stood at the front of the room. But Matthews sensed a change in him. Usually he would be joking with the lads – or occasionally but very rarely the girls, but never in the same way as with the lads – but not today. He just stood apart from everyone else as they all filed in, looking at the floor. Shaking his head as if having a conversation either with himself or someone only he could hear.

Chatter and banter filled the room, the smell of takeaway coffee, paninis and pastries filled the air. Matthews studied Beresford. His eyes were red but not like they were the previous day. This just looked like lack of sleep. His usually immaculate dress sense – or if not immaculate, always neatly turned out to an almost military degree – was absent too. It looked like he had slept in the clothes he was wearing. Matthews looked round. No one else seemed to have noticed it. And there was something else too. Imani was absent.

Matthews had gone home the previous evening unable to relax. His wife had thought it was because of the case he was working on, had run him a bath and handed him a cup of tea. And he was grateful for that. But he couldn’t tell her the real truth. He felt guilty. And, if he was being honest with himself, ashamed. Of what he had told Beresford. For what he had allowed Beresford to do to him.

He had given Imani his word. She had told him that she would be looking into Beresford because she found his behaviour suspect. Deep down, Matthews agreed with her. This was no way to run an investigation. If he had been in charge he would have done it differently. But he had rationalised it, thought that was just him being him, getting ideas above his rank and pay grade. It was only when Imani shared those suspicions that he felt justified in thinking such things. So what had he done? How had he repaid her? At the first opportunity he had covered for himself. Retreated behind Beresford’s thinly veiled threats. Allowed himself to be intimidated. And given her up.

He had tried to rationalise it, claim to himself that he had done the right thing, that he was only looking after himself, that Beresford had been right in what he had said. But as soon as he had spoken, he knew he had said the wrong thing. And the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that he was right.

And now Imani was absent. What was he to make of that?

He looked up at Beresford again. The man looked like he was unravelling. He started to speak.

‘OK, thanks everyone for your, your attention.’ Beresford glanced round the room. He didn’t make eye contact, didn’t seem to know why he was there. He closed his eyes and seemed to give himself a shake. Opened them again. Ready to go.

‘Right. We’ve, er… where are we today? How far have we got?’

He pointed at people, seemingly at random, asking for updates. There didn’t seem to have been any. The same as yesterday, and the day before. No further information. No momentum. Beresford nodded at this news, as if everyone was giving the right answers to his questions.

Matthews waited patiently for Beresford to ask him for an update. Because he had made progress. Potentially, he had discovered other victims of the same killer. Or at least similar methods of death. Matthews was a cautious man. He wouldn’t allow his imagination to run away with him.

Matthews had spent the rest of the previous day scanning the central police computer, looking for similarities in unsolved deaths. He didn’t think he would make much progress since it was such a rarefied method of death but he had surprised himself. In addition to the three he had found when Beresford decided to have his little chat, he had subsequently discovered another two and potentially three more. He had then contacted local police forces, tried to speak to someone involved with the cases. From there he had attempted to build up a picture of the activity and a timeline.

The murders had all happened over a five- or six-year period. And, try as he might, he couldn’t discern a pattern to them. They seemed to be random. And they were unevenly spaced out too. Two months between one, three years between another. Or at least that was what he had found. Maybe there were more, still waiting to be discovered.

Matthews, despite being a cautious man, desperately wanted to use the phrase ‘serial killer’ but knew he didn’t dare. From what he knew – admittedly gleaned from films and the odd crime novel – serial killers worked in patterns. They had specific ways of committing their crimes, took trophies and always left some kind of signature. Besides the method of death, there didn’t seem to be anything like that here. But the descriptions were the same. The victim had been seen talking to a woman in the bar the night before. Eyewitnesses could never agree on what she looked like. And then the victim, usually a middle-aged male, would be found dead. The same method of killing: a small hole several vertebrae down. Just the right place to paralyse. But small enough to be overlooked by a coroner not suspecting foul play. It was only later – if further investigation took place and it wasn’t accepted as a heart attack – that financial irregularities were noticed. A large sum of money missing from his account. The trail would eventually dry up, the case would be left open. And that was that.

Until now. Until Matthews came calling, trying to link them all together.

And still he sat in the briefing, waiting for Beresford to call him to speak. And every time someone finished one of their pointless summings up, he would look anywhere but at Matthews.

Eventually the briefing broke up. Matthews felt that he hadn’t been assigned a task. He waited until the floor had cleared, went up to see Beresford who was now sitting at his desk, looking at his screen, but not seeing it. From close up he smelt bad. Like something within him had started to go rotten.

‘Sir?’

Beresford didn’t look up. Matthews waited.

‘Sir,’ he said again, louder this time.

Beresford had no choice but to look at him. And Matthews found himself staring at a different man. The cocky, self-described alpha was missing. In his place was a tortured, even scared individual. He looked like the kind of devout Catholic monk that Matthews had seen in films who was terrified of God and wouldn’t stop self-harming as a result.

‘What d’you want?’ Beresford sighed the words out.

‘I… well I was wondering what you wanted me to do today, sir.’

Beresford shook his head, a teacher who couldn’t be bothered to talk to an unfavourite pupil. ‘Whatever you were doing yesterday. Keep… keep doing that.’

‘That’s the thing, sir. I’ve been putting together potential victims that match the post-mortem on the three initial victims. I’ve found five more that match and another three that may do. God knows how many others there are.’

Beresford said nothing. Acted like he either hadn’t heard him or didn’t want to hear him.

Matthews felt compelled to continue. ‘Surely we should be doing something about it? I mean, and I hate to use this phrase, but maybe we’re looking at a serial killer.’

Again, nothing from Beresford.

‘Well, surely that changes the whole complexion of the case, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t we be getting more people to work on it?’

Nothing.

‘Sir, why didn’t you ask me to give my findings in the briefing? I’m the only one who’s made progress. Surely that should be shared with the team?’

Beresford eventually looked up. Stared at Matthews for a few seconds then looked away, seemingly unhappy with what he could see.

‘Just keep doing what you’re doing, Matthews.’

‘But sir, I —’

‘Just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s all.’ Almost growling the words this time.

Matthews felt anger rising within him. And superior officer or no superior officer, he wasn’t prepared to take this any longer.

‘Where’s Imani?’ His voice was louder, angrier than he had wanted it to be. The odd head looked up from their work towards him.

Beresford tried to pretend he hadn’t heard.

‘I said where’s Imani?’ His heart was pounding. He had never spoken to a senior officer this way. Had never dared.

‘Gone,’ said Beresford, eventually.

‘Gone where? Back to Birmingham?’

‘Yeah. There. Wherever.’ He looked up again. And this time there was something close to murder in his eyes. ‘Now get back to work.’

Matthews walked back to his own desk.

Work was now the last thing on his mind.