The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (30 page)

M
arina was still interviewing Beresford, Matthews watching. She was still smiling at him. Beresford, not knowing why, was looking uneasy.

‘Have you worked out what you just admitted to me yet?’

‘I didn’t admit anything.’ Beresford frowned. His voice was angry.

‘Think about what I asked you. Think about your reply.’

He said nothing. Just stared at her. It seemed like he had the feeling he had been bested in some way but hadn’t yet worked out how. So he covered it up with anger and irritation.

‘You killed anyone who got in your way, didn’t you?’

Beresford gave a small shrug of acknowledgement.

‘And you know what?’

‘What?’ His voice dead on the surface, trying to hide a genuine interest. Issued more like a challenge than a question.

‘You enjoyed it.’

He gave a snort, shook his head, rolled his eyes. The whole repertoire. ‘You haven’t a clue,’ he said, voice curled into a snarl. ‘Not a clue.’

‘Really?’

Marina sat back, regarded him some more. Unblinking. Seemingly making up her mind about something before speaking. Reading him.

‘Have you ever apprehended a rapist?’

He stared at her, warily.

‘It’s not a trick question, it’s just a question. Have you ever apprehended a rapist?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘What about a man who beats up women? Targets women, hurts them. Abuses them. Just for the hell of it. Ever arrested anyone like that?’

‘Yeah, course.’

‘What about a child rapist? Someone who preys on children, vulnerable little children, who can’t fight back. Who forces them to —’

‘What you on about now?’

‘Just asking. It’s just a question. Have you ever arrested a child rapist?’

‘What d’you want to know for?’

‘I just want to know, that’s all.’

‘So you can make some decision about me, is that it? Then come up with some bullshit theory.’ Another snort.

‘Is that a yes or a no?’

‘Yes. Course I have.’

‘Good,’ said Marina nodding. ‘Right.’ She sat back, her academic, genuinely curious voice in place. ‘And how did that make you feel?’

‘What, you’re a fucking psychiatrist now?’

‘Psychologist. How did that make you feel? When you brought them in, booked them? How? Like you’d done some good? Got some scum off the streets?’

‘Yeah, course I did.’

‘And when you arrested them, these pathetic individuals, these child rapists, when you’d actually seen what they’d done, did you want to hurt them?’

Beresford thought for a moment, then leaned forward. Eyes locked with Marina’s. ‘Yeah,’ he said slowly, relishing the word and the emotions it evoked, ‘I did. I really did.’

‘I’m sure you did. Who wouldn’t? I’m sure I would.’

‘Yeah,’ Beresford said, warming to his theme. ‘Especially when they started crying. Because where they were going, prison, they’d get it easy. Put on the vulnerable prisoners’ wing, kept apart from everybody else, protected. Because that’s what we do. Worry about their human rights. Protect scum like that.’

‘So before they got there…’

‘Yeah. Before they got there I wanted a session with them. Anyone would.’

‘What stopped you, then?’

Beresford froze, didn’t answer.

‘Fear of getting caught, was it?’

He shrugged.

‘Were you worried that if you did it and word got out and there was a court case then you’d lose your career, was that it? Lose your job, your respect, your pension, even. Your family, perhaps. And all for some piece of shit like that, is that it?’

‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘So what if you didn’t have that fear? What if you could do it and not get caught, what then? Would you hurt them? Teach them a lesson?’

‘Yeah,’ Beresford said, smiling and nodding. ‘Yeah. Course I would.’

‘You’d hurt them.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’d kill them, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you’d feel like a hero for doing it, wouldn’t you?’

Beresford smiled, like he was imagining the adulation that would go with it. ‘Yeah, I would. Because that’s what I’d be.’

‘No you wouldn’t.’ Marina’s voice suddenly icy. ‘What you’d be is a killer. A murderer. That’s all.’

Beresford blinked. ‘What?’

‘A garage mechanic. You killed him. An ex-social worker. You killed him.’

‘Yeah, but they were —’

‘Doesn’t matter. A serving police officer. You killed her. A fellow officer.’ She sat back, regarding him like he was something she had to scrape off her shoe. ‘You’re a killer. A murderer. That’s all. You’ve made excuses, you’ve lied to yourself about what you’ve done and why you’ve done it but you’re just a killer. Just another criminal who deserves to be sitting on that side of the table.’

‘I was —’

‘No, you weren’t protecting your wife and son. You were using them as an excuse. And you were killing because you thought that excuse protected you. Because you thought you could get away with it. That’s all you are.’

Something broke behind Beresford’s eyes. ‘I’m not… I’m not…’

There was a knock at the door. A uniform entered, said there was a visitor for Marina.

She stood up, irritated to be interrupted but knowing that it must be for a good reason.

‘Well,’ she said to Beresford, ‘I’ll leave you that little thought to be going on with.’

She left the room.

Silence fell.

Eventually Matthews unfolded his arms, leaned forward. He smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

‘Now that she’s gone,’ he said, ‘now we’re alone at last, there’s a few things I want to say to you…’

S
o simple. So, so simple.
 

Most people would have thought that being caught for a crime and enduring the subsequent incarceration would be the end of the story. But she wasn’t most people.
 

Yes, she wasn’t in prison. That was a plus. She was in a secure hospital. And that was fine. That was also part of the plan. Her well-paid solicitor had arranged that. No. This wasn’t the end of the story. It was just the beginning of the next chapter.
 

As she had expected, her crimes attracted attention from Essex Police’s MIS. Namely Anni Hepburn and Mickey Philips. This was part of the team who had taken down the real Fiona Welch. When she saw them walking towards her for the first time she was so excited she could have asked for their autographs.
 

But no Phil. At least not yet. She would just have to try harder.
 

She cast around for a way of attracting more attention and found it quite easily. Murder. Inmate on inmate, with the strong suspicion that she was behind it. Which she was. The killer she chose was so simple and susceptible that it was almost laughably easy.
 

But it worked. It attracted more attention. This time it was Marina Esposito.
 

It wasn’t Phil, no, but she tried to look at the positives. It afforded her a chance to study the woman who called herself his wife close up. And that she did. All the time the woman was talking to her she was watching, trying to work out what – if anything – had attracted Phil to her. She couldn’t find anything. Marina Esposito had nothing that she didn’t have. She had smiled inwardly on discovering that. She had no competition.
 

She could sense the next phase approaching. And it did. An escort back to Colchester to be formally questioned about the murder in the hospital. And the driver? Mickey Philips.
 

Perfect. So perfect.
 

He wouldn’t fall for her charms. She knew that straight away. He was too much in love with Anni Hepburn for that. But there were other ways. She wasn’t just some one-trick pony. There was a more direct approach she could take. Much more visceral. One that Mickey definitely wouldn’t survive.
 

And he didn’t.
 

She had always been good with her teeth.
 

And then she was free. And if that didn’t attract the attention of Phil Brennan she didn’t know what would.
 

But she had attracted his attention. Especially after what she did next.
 

It was a risk and at the time she was in two minds about doing it. The cautious, pragmatic part of her, the part that had ensured her continual survival and expanding bank balance, said don’t do it. The other part of her, the yearning, desperate and, if she was honest, romantic part of her, wanted to do it. Had to do it. So that side won out.
 

And in hindsight it turned out to be the best thing she could have done.
 

She invited herself in to Phil’s house when he and Marina were out. She just wanted to be near to him, see what he saw, feel what he felt. Be close to him. For hours she was alone there, soaking up the atmosphere, touching things that belonged to him, smelling his clothing. She drank a bottle of beer from the fridge. His beer, it must be. Just to savour the taste, experience what he experienced when the cold liquid ran down his throat. She didn’t like beer, never drank it. But this tasted like the most beautiful thing in the world.
 

She found a book of old photos from his childhood, was thrilled to go through them. And that’s when an idea formed.
 

His childhood. That’s what she had to do. Recreate his life in reverse. Take him from where he was now with Marina through to his adoptive mother Eileen, back to his childhood with her. And from there, spend their eternity together.
 

Perfect. That’s what she would do.
 

She took the photos. And took some more, of the house where he lived. Every room. She noted down where the crockery had been bought, what brand of beer he liked to drink. Checked the dishes for what they had eaten. Built up as full a picture of Phil’s life as possible.
 

Because that was the life she was going to dismantle. Piece by piece. And then rebuild in her own image.
 

But she couldn’t let it go at that. She had to do one more thing.
 

She got undressed. And got into bed, waiting for him.
 

Eventually he returned, entered the bedroom. He saw her there, thought she was Marina. She didn’t attempt to change his mind. Until he realised she wasn’t.
 

Their first time together didn’t go quite the way she had expected. She left him lying at the top of the stairs temporarily paralysed. Taking a selection of Marina’s clothing, she left the house. And, as far as he was concerned, disappeared.
 

It had been worth it, though. Just those precious few minutes in bed with him, skin on skin, had given her the impetus she needed to carry on. The belief that everything was going to work out fine and they were going to be together. She couldn’t wait.
 

She didn’t disappear, of course. She kept very close to Phil. And when he and Marina separated she came close to stepping back in. Consoling him, making him forget his wife and daughter, starting a new life with her. But she restrained herself. Concentrated on the long-term plan instead. It was better that way.
 

She planned everything meticulously. She had to. She would get only one shot at this and it had to work. It would work.
 

First, she needed a base. There was an out-of-the-way farm renting out old outbuildings just outside Elmstead Market. She visited it. Found it perfect for her needs. The area around was flat, no one could arrive unannounced. The building itself was old, brick-built with a corrugated iron roof. No one was the slightest bit interested in why she wanted the building. She just knew she would be left alone here. Perfect.
 

Once inside, she had rooms built, like a stage or film set. The photos she had taken of Phil’s house and his childhood home with Eileen were blown up and pasted on them. She sourced matching items from online for any three-dimensional objects that would be needed. And she stocked up on Phil’s favourite beer. She couldn’t forget that.
 

She noticed that the guy who sorted out the photographic enlargements looked a lot like Phil. And he also made it clear to her that he was available, should she be interested. She smiled. That was his fate sealed. All she needed was two others and the next phase of the plan could go ahead.
 

They weren’t hard to find. And, as before, they were willing volunteers.
 

Three lookalikes. Three locations. Three murders.
 

She killed them the same way she had all those men in those hotel rooms. Then she arranged for the bodies to be hanged and left in locations that would definitely get Phil’s attention.
 

But she couldn’t hang the bodies herself. She was many things, but she just wasn’t physically strong enough. So she enlisted help. Dave Beresford was an old friend of hers from way back in Rainsford Children’s Home. He had risen to the rank of detective sergeant. Ironically, if Phil had not moved to Birmingham, they would have been working together. He would help her.
 

Except he said no. At first. She worked on him, fucked him, tried to manipulate him. He still said no. She was confused: this wasn’t like her. She must be slipping. But she had told him too much now, she had to have him. Sensing he was wavering and that he would do it if the incentive was strong enough, she took his wife and son. Told him that he would only see them alive again if he did what she wanted. And got himself in charge of the investigation. Gave her the time she needed to do what she had to do. Seeing no alternative, he agreed.
 

As she had remarked before, she wasn’t just a one-trick pony.
 

So it was all in place. She just needed one more touch. The tarot cards. At first she thought that was too much, gilding the whole thing slightly. But she decided to allow herself a theatrical flourish, not to mention slight misdirection. And it added an element of fun. What was wrong with that?
 

So it was ready to go. Phil was about to have his old life stripped away and replaced by his new one with her, the real true love of his life. Perfect. Nothing could go wrong. She wouldn’t allow it to.
 

She almost spoiled it by going on Malcolm’s tour that night. Poor Malcolm. Dear, sweet Malcolm and his love of crime scenes. Literally, as she had discovered. One slight misstep. She just had to see the reaction to finding the body, right where Fiona had died. She couldn’t help it. Yes it was risky but she had to do it. And it worked out fine. He didn’t recognise her. Didn’t even look at her. And even if he had spotted her, what could he do? Nothing. He didn’t know she was behind this. And he didn’t know anything about her. There was nothing to worry about.
 

And now it was time to go and see Phil.
 

She rose from her seat. She had removed every bit of make-up from her face. Her hair was now its natural colour. She was naked. She was herself. Her real self. She looked in the full-length mirror. She didn’t recognise herself. Didn’t recognise the face looking back at her. Or the body she saw before her.

She didn’t even know her own name. Her real one. She was wiped clean. A blank slate. She had no identity.

She picked up two small objects from beside her make-up kit and turned away from the mirror.

Ready to spend all of eternity with her brother.

Her love.