The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (6 page)

M
arina wasted no time, straight over to the station on Steelhouse Lane, right into Cotter’s office.

‘So where is he?’ Of all the questions rising inside Marina, that was the first one to break. She felt impotent even asking it but knew there was nothing else she could ask.

‘We don’t know,’ said Cotter. She had stood up from behind her desk on Marina’s entering and seemed reluctant to get behind it once more. She remained standing in the centre of the room alongside Marina. The action seemed to give the whole conversation greater urgency.

‘Have you heard from him?’

Cotter shook her head. ‘You?’

‘I tried his phone in the cab all the way here. Nothing. Straight to voicemail.’

Cotter nodded, her face drawn into a grim mask. ‘Same.’

‘Can’t you put some kind of GPS trace on him?’

‘Not if his phone’s switched off.’

Marina sighed. She felt suddenly exhausted, wanted to sit down, rest, but resisted the urge. ‘Perhaps he’s…’ she began, then gave up, the words dying on her breath.

Silence fell.

‘I think we have to assume the worst, Alison.’ Marina’s voice sounded small and broken. Acknowledging those words she felt a dark dread move into her heart. But the words had to be said. The situation to be faced.

Cotter nodded. Her voice was resigned. ‘If it were anyone else in any other situation I’d say wait. But not this. Not with what we know. Or rather don’t know.’

‘So who…’

‘Sperring and Khan are busy on another case.’

‘Right.’

Cotter walked to the door, put her head round it, called to the person she wanted.

Marina felt a sense of relief as DC Imani Oliver entered. They had worked together before. Had a good rapport. She trusted her.

‘Thanks for stepping in, Imani,’ said Cotter. ‘Something’s come up.’

Imani looked between Marina and Cotter, frowned, a question forming on her lips.

‘I’ll fill you in,’ said Cotter.

She did so.

‘Let’s sit down,’ said Cotter once she’d finished. ‘Coordinate.’

Marina wanted to shout out that she didn’t want to sit down, that she wanted something done immediately, but she swallowed down what would have been grossly unprofessional behaviour and took a seat.

Cotter had a small table and four chairs in her office for meetings. She moved over to it, followed by Marina and Imani.

‘Right,’ Cotter said, once they were settled, ‘plan of action. Imani, I want you to get over to Marina’s house straight away. Take a couple of uniforms with you. Go door to door. I want to know if Phil was seen this morning, getting into a car or otherwise. I want to know if anyone else was there with him.’

‘Maybe he drove to Colchester himself,’ said Imani.

‘Not likely,’ said Cotter. ‘He knew someone was coming for him.’ She turned to Marina. ‘Was his Audi parked on the street?’

Marina felt that impatience rise within her again. ‘Yes, but —’

Back to Imani. ‘Check that it’s still there.’

Imani made a note.

‘And then what?’ asked Marina, barely suppressing her distress.

Cotter turned to her, about to answer. Marina continued.

‘This is all… pointless. We know he’s gone. You should get a description issued, get out on the roads, check CCTV, just…’ she sighed, ‘… be doing something…’

‘We are doing something,’ said Cotter. ‘This is where we start, what we do. We work methodically. You know that.’

Marina said nothing.

‘I know how you must feel. And I want him back as quickly as possible too. But let’s not abandon all sense of procedure just because it’s one of our own. That should be all the more reason to follow it. Speed, not haste.’

Marina slowly nodded. She knew Cotter was right. That what she was implementing was the way forward. She just wanted confirmation that Phil was safe. And she knew she wouldn’t get it.

‘Perhaps there’s something you could do, Marina?’ asked Imani.

‘Like what?’

‘Well, if this is OK with the boss…’ She looked over at Cotter who nodded. ‘If this is who we think it is, checking out Fiona Welch’s background. Going over the case notes from the woman who claimed to be her. See if there are any similarities, things we might’ve missed. Corresponding behaviours. Anything that might give us a clue, a break. Look at it from a psychologist’s point of view not a police officer’s.’

Marina nodded. ‘OK.’ She knew it was work that needed to be done and she was the best person for it, but she felt it was being given to her just to keep her busy.

‘Good idea,’ said Cotter. ‘But I only want you doing this if you feel up to it. I realise it’s uncomfortably close to home but I don’t want that clouding your judgement. Can you do it?’

Marina, her face impassive, unreadable, said, ‘I can do it.’

‘Good.’ Cotter looked at Imani. ‘Right. Get to work. Let’s find him.’

P
hil opened his eyes. Blinked. Again. Looked round. He was home.

Confused, he tried sitting up. Couldn’t, something was stopping him. He fell down again, on his back. He was warm but couldn’t move. He tested his limbs once more: restrained, wrists and ankles. And he was naked too. A duvet covered him, pillows behind his head. He looked down the length of his body. The print on the duvet was the one he had at home.

He looked round the room once more.
His
room.
His
bedroom. The one he shared with Marina in Moseley village. And it was dark, the curtains closed. The only light coming from the bedside light on his bedside table. He blinked once more, confused. Checked himself over again.

He hurt. Down one side. His right. Why did he…

Then he remembered: he had been in the car. Passenger. With Beresford. On his way to…

Beresford.

The taser. Was that what it had been? Or some kind of stun gun? Something like that. Speeding up, going faster, couldn’t get out, his questions were… Then the look on Beresford’s face – an apology? Was that right? Then… Nothing.

Then now.

He looked round the room once more. His room. But…

How was here? How was he back in his bedroom? And where was everyone else? No Marina, no Josephina… And how did it get so dark so suddenly? He thought. No. He must have been out of it for some time. Long enough for day to become night. He had been found, brought home. That was it. But even thinking that didn’t feel right. Didn’t bring him any comfort. Too many unanswered questions. And then there were the restraints.

No. He looked round the room again, closer this time. Something was wrong. Something was off. Yes, it was his room and it was dark, but that wasn’t what was wrong with it. Looking hard, scrutinising the place, he tried to focus, make out what was there. Work out what was wrong.

But he couldn’t see it properly. He kept blinking, wondering why the walls, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, why none of it would come into focus properly. He looked again at the wall opposite, the wardrobe. Blinked. Screwed his eyes tight, opened them wide. What…

Then he knew. He had it. The mirror on the wardrobe cast no reflection. He couldn’t look into it. There was no depth. It was flat. Not just the mirror, the wardrobe, the walls, but everything. The wallpaper the same as the wardrobe, as the window. Flat. His bedroom, yes, but in only two dimensions. Nothing stuck out. Apart from the bedside tables, the bedside lights, nothing was real. But it looked real…

He got it. Photorealistic. Like his bedroom had been photographed and blown up to life-size. Like a theatre set or movie backdrop. So…

He realised what he had just thought.

His bedroom had been photographed.
 

Someone had been in his bedroom with a camera, taking their time, studying.
In his bedroom
. Not to mention the time taken to set this all up, the expense. Someone had been in his room.

He shivered. Now he knew who was behind this. No more guessing.

Her.
 

He pulled at his restraints once more. Frantically this time. Had to get away from here. Wherever here was.

As he struggled he felt his chest tightening.
No
…
no
…
not now
… Harder, harder, stopping him from taking in a whole lungful of air, removing the strength to expel it. Restricting him even worse than his restraints… No… His body shaking, chest palpitating…

He lay back on the bed again, unable to move.

A panic attack. Hadn’t had one for ages. Now of all times, it chooses a reappearance.

He tried to trick his body into breathing again. Pretended to not care, not to feel it, hoped his hammering heart rate would drop, allow air inside him once more.

It worked. Slowly, he began to breathe freely again.

And then the door opened.

He froze, stared at it.

A figure stepped through the doorway. Medium height, dark hair. A very familiar silhouette.

Marina.

Phil felt relief at first but that soon gave way to puzzlement.

The figure stepped completely into the room, crossed to him in the bed. Looked down on him, smiling.

‘Hello, Phil. Remember me?’

He stared at her. The hair was perfect, the clothes just right. But the face…

Not Marina. But he knew who it was.

‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice drying up, fading. He needed more breath. Didn’t have it. ‘I remember…’

She sat on the edge of the bed. Still smiling. Unspeaking.

He stared at her, scrutinised her. She was different to how he had last seen her. Not just the hair and the clothes but the body shape. Like she had remade herself in Marina’s image. Or a grotesque parody of Marina.

She kept staring at him. Eventually the smile faded to be replaced by a puzzled expression. ‘I thought you remembered me, Phil.’

‘I do,’ he said reluctantly.

‘So why don’t you say my name?’

‘Because I don’t know your name.’

She leaned closer to him, mouth right next to his ear. She spoke in a whisper. He could feel the warm air on his neck. ‘Oh yes you do…’

Phil felt something in his chest dislodge, turn over. He knew she was waiting for him to ask the question. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. And he didn’t want to hear her response.

She waited. Realising he wasn’t going to ask, she leant in even further, her mouth right on his ear.

‘You know who I am. I’m your wife. Marina…’

Phil felt his body stiffen in revulsion.

‘And you’re mine, Phil.’

He felt her hand move over the duvet, make its way down his body.

‘Mine…’

I
mani knocked on another door in Phil and Marina’s street in Moseley village. Old Edwardian and thirties houses, substantial and solid, a suburban part of Birmingham but with enough character in pubs, restaurants, non-chain shops and residents to still justify calling itself a village.

She hadn’t expected much and so far she hadn’t been disappointed. Most of the houses on the street were empty. People at work, school runs done and off into town, or just not answering the door. The only ones who had answered her had been elderly and lonely. They invited her in, made or offered her tea. Tried and tried to think if they had seen anything, willing an image or a memory to mind, not wanting to disappoint this young and attractive woman, to prove they could still be of some use, but ultimately had nothing to tell her. Imani didn’t hint, didn’t lead in the questioning, didn’t want them to pick up on something she said and confirm it just to make her happy. She offered no clues. They gave her no answers. But she was fairly well versed on the occupations and spread geography of their offsprings. The two uniforms she had with her were, she presumed, making a similar lack of progress.

She knocked and waited at the latest door. Idly checked her watch and found herself agreeing with Marina. Yes, this was procedure, yes, it was to be followed. But all the while she was doing this, whoever had taken Phil – and that was looking increasingly likely – was getting further away.

Further thought was stopped. The door opened. There stood an old woman. Here we go again, thought Imani.

She held up her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Imani Oliver.’ She put the card down, smiled. Reassuringly, she hoped. ‘We’re doing door-to-door enquiries in this area. Could I ask you a few questions, please?’

The woman immediately became suspicious, glancing behind Imani, up and down the street. ‘What about?’

She took a photo from her pocket, showed it to her. ‘Have you seen this man?’

‘I don’t have my glasses on…’ The woman picked up the photo, scrutinised it. ‘Wait a moment.’ She turned, left Imani on the doorstep. She returned quickly with her glasses, resumed looking.

Imani watched her. Eventually the woman looked up, pointed to the photo. ‘He lives over there.’ She looked quizzically at Imani. ‘Is he in trouble?’

Imani ignored the question. ‘Have you seen him this morning?’

The woman looked up at Imani. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Getting into a car.’

Imani felt her heart thud.

‘Could I come in, please?’

Imani sat on the sofa, the woman opposite in an armchair. An open book lay on the arm of the chair. Imani tried to read the spine, make out what it was. Some non-fiction history. Not the cheap supermarket romance she had been expecting. And she hadn’t been offered tea, either.

‘Joan Harrison,’ said the woman by way of an introduction. Imani smiled in turn.

‘Joan – d’you mind if I call you Joan?’

The woman shrugged. ‘It’s my name.’

‘Joan, what can you tell me about the man you saw this morning?’

‘He was getting into a car.’ Her voice didn’t betray her age at all. Clear and lucid, just like her eyes.

‘Can you describe the car?’

‘Large, silver. Looked expensive. Big and powerful. Cars aren’t my strong point, I’m afraid.’ She gave a small smile. Like she was testing how it would fit her features. ‘If it had been a hansom cab or a sedan chair or litter, then I might be more help.’

She continued, answering Imani’s quizzical expression. ‘Historian. Retired, unfortunately.’

‘I see.’

‘But I’m not one of those busybodies with too much time on their hands, who spend the day curtain-twitching.’ The statement was more like an admonishment, thought Imani.
Don’t expect me to answer all your questions
.

‘Right,’ said Imani, smiling. ‘It’s good to keep active. I don’t suppose you saw the make or model of the car?’

‘Big and silver. Sorry.’

‘Or the registration number?’

Another smile. ‘As I said, I’m not a professional curtain-twitcher. I happened to look out of the window when I opened the living room curtains, here.’ She pointed to the bay window. ‘I saw the man from over the road getting into a car. I didn’t know I was going to be tested on it. If so, I’d have taken more notice.’

‘I understand. You’re being helpful, though, thank you.’

‘May I just ask one question before you proceed further?’

‘Certainly. If I can answer it.’

‘What is the man from opposite supposed to have done?’

‘Done?’

‘You’re a policewoman. You must be interested in him for some reason. Is he a criminal?’

‘No. He’s not. He’s a police detective. He works with me.’

‘Really?’ The woman’s eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Is he undercover?’

‘Why d’you ask?’

‘His clothes. He dresses more like a labourer.’

Imani returned the smile, shook her head. ‘You’re not the first to say that.’

Before the woman could speak further, Imani continued. ‘Did you see anybody else? Was someone driving the car?’

‘Yes. A big man. Bald. Or shaven-headed. It’s so hard to distinguish these days. A lot do it instead of having to comb over what hair they have that remains. I don’t suppose I could blame them, really. Although it does make one look like some kind of street thug.’

‘Absolutely. Did you catch what he was wearing, by any chance?’

‘Not really.’

‘A suit? Casual clothes?’

‘A shirt. And tie. Like he’d taken his jacket off. He helped the man from opposite with his luggage.’

‘Luggage?’

‘Put it in the boot. Then the man opposite got into the car with the bald man and they drove off.’

‘What time was this, exactly?’

Another smile. ‘Around nine o’clock. I’m afraid I can’t be more accurate. As I said, I wasn’t expecting to be quizzed about it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Imani. ‘Just one more question.’ She reached into her bag, drew out a photograph of Beresford that had been printed off from the email Franks had sent over. She showed it to Joan. ‘Was this the man driving the car?’

‘Well, as I said, I wasn’t watching closely but yes. Yes, it could very well have been.’

Imani stood up to go. Heart racing, tingling now. ‘You’ve been very helpful. By the way – did the man from opposite look like he was being coerced to get into the car?’

‘Not at all. They even shook hands.’

‘Thank you.’

Imani hurried out, phone already in her hand, dialling Cotter.

‘It’s me, ma’am,’ she said, getting behind the wheel of her car. ‘I’ve got a witness who saw Phil getting into a car this morning.’

‘What kind?’

‘Big and silver. Driven by a big, bald man. What kind of car does Beresford drive?’

She heard papers being moved in the background. ‘A Vauxhall Insignia. Silver.’

A shiver ran though Imani.

‘I’ve got what could well be a positive ID on DS Beresford being the driver from a witness.’

Cotter didn’t reply.

‘I’m coming back to the station. Right now.’