The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (16 page)

T
hings were never to be the same again. She knew it, even as she was saying yes to Fiona. Yes to everything. Yes. Yes. And the more she agreed with her, the more desperately she clung to her, the more she felt her heart weaken. Like Fiona had infected her with a terminal disease. A heroine from an old Gothic romance, diminished by love to waste away to nothing.
 

Love. That’s what it was. Not infatuation or a phase. Nothing like that. Love. The fortress walls she had worked so hard to keep in place all those years now well and truly breached.
 

And even knowing all that, she was powerless to do anything to stop herself.
 

Fiona had her. Any and every way she wanted her.
 

She tried to tell herself that it was an equal partnership. That Fiona and she picked the girls together, decided who to single out, how to nurture them. When to turn them out. And Fiona was right. Always right. The girls she chose were always the most damaged, the saddest, yet the most willing. Fiona could size them up straight away. She revealed a natural talent for turning suffering into money.
 

And Fiona seduced them in ways she had never done, couldn’t have even thought of doing. Not just sexually – although that was involved too, a surprisingly gentle, nurturing and caring weapon in Fiona’s arsenal, at least at first – but in other ways too. Kinder ways. Ways that made it even worse for the girls in the long run. Making them feel beautiful, wanted. Special. Important. All of that. Usually for the first and sometimes only times in these girls’ lives.
 

Why d’you do that? she asked Fiona after a while. You don’t have to do all that. But she suspected she knew the answer before she’d spoken. The real answer.
 

Makes it easier for me to control them when I have to, she said in reply. Less trouble. Then I can move on quicker.
 

I, she noticed. Not even We. Not any more.
 

The real answer? Because Fiona enjoyed it. Got a kick out of seeing them fall so far. Watching hope die in their eyes and knowing she had been responsible for that. Manipulating them. Her human puppets.
 

And she could understand that. Because it was something she had got a kick out of herself when she was in charge. But Fiona enjoyed it so much more. Got off on seeing that damage be removed, replaced by a thin sliver of hope, then removed once and for all, the damage brought back tenfold. Fiona thrived on that dark energy.
 

When she was in charge. Yes. She had actually thought that.
 

Because she knew what had happened. She wasn’t stupid. And eventually had to admit it to herself. Fiona had taken over. Yes, Fiona still kept her alongside, but that was, she felt, more because she turned up and stayed and not because she particularly wanted or – the really hurtful part – needed her there.
 

Fiona didn’t need her. That should have made her want to walk away, leave the girl alone. Get on with her life. But she couldn’t. She had an addiction to the girl that was stronger, more all-devouring than any drug. She was in love, in lust, in EVERYTHING with Fiona.
 

She didn’t know what to do. For the first time in a very long time she was absolutely helpless. She thought of approaching Michael, telling him what was going on. But never did. What could he do? He took his cut – which had gone up since Fiona took charge – looked the other way, smoothed over things officially if need be. He wouldn’t help her. He was happy the way things were.
 

At school they were studying
King Lear
. A king who’s no longer a king but still wants to behave and be treated like one. She knew exactly how that felt. But she knew that Lear’s fate would not be hers. At least she hoped not.
 

At night, when Fiona was asleep or even sleeping with someone else, she reached deep within herself. Tried to touch that hard, angry centre she had nurtured for so many years. Tried to consciously rebuild that stone wall. Brick by brick, night after night, through insomniac, heartbroken tear after insomniac, heartbroken tear. Or at least she tried. Come morning she hoped it would give her the strength to get through another day.
 

It always did. Because at the end of that day she’d be in the same place again.
 

It was getting time for them to leave the home. Forever.
 

The thought of leaving, of losing Fiona, gave her even more pain than actually being with her. So she tried to talk to her. Convince her that they were still a couple. That they would still be a couple. Their A levels done, the summer stretched ahead of them. But it was what lay beyond that worried her most.
 

Which uni you going to, then? she asked Fiona, one day when they were both lying on their backs out in the fields near the new Homebase superstore. The sun was blazing, they had weed and vodka and it should have been perfect. She kept trying to convince herself that it was.
 

You know. Portsmouth. They do the course I want.
 

What if you don’t get your first choice? What then?
 

Fiona looked at her, smiled like there was something about her only she knew. There seemed to be nothing left of that shy, damaged girl she had first met. The one she had fallen in love with. This Fiona was altogether different. But still so, so desirable.
 

I’ll get my first choice. The confidence in her voice unshakeable.
 

She propped herself on one arm, looked directly at her, smiling a completely different smile to Fiona’s previous one. Head spinning from the weed and booze, the sun looking like it was oozing into the sky, spreading heat and warmth and goodness. Why don’t we go together?
 

What d’you mean?
 

Portsmouth. I’ll go there too.
 

Why?
 

She didn’t understand. How could Fiona ask that?
 

So
…
so we can be together.
 

Oh.
 

She waited.
 

Well?
 

Go where you like. I’m going to Portsmouth.
 

She lay back down again. Stared at the sky. The sun was a cracked, rancid egg, broken over the horizon.
 

That was it. The moment when everything came to a head. The moment she snapped.
 

She sat up, looked down at Fiona.
 

You don’t want me any more, do you?
 

Fiona barely looked at her. Want you? What d’you mean, want you?
 

Want me. Like I want you.
 

Fiona sighed. Things change. People change. We’re not who we used to be. I understand that. You have to understand that. Spoken almost as a sigh. Breathed as an afterthought.
 

Look, said Fiona, continuing. We’re here. Right now. We’re together. Let’s just enjoy what we’ve got. Everything ends. Everything that lives dies. Just enjoy the living bit.
 

She nodded. Hung onto that small glimmer of hope. That small shard of love. Lay back on the ground, gripped it tight as she clung to the spinning Earth, hoping never to fall off.
 

She had thought that meant Fiona would be spending the summer with her. But she was wrong again. Because Fiona got herself a boyfriend.
 

Sean, his name was. A local boy from Chelmsford. Tall, dirty blond hair, good-looking. And he seemed to be devoted to Fiona, a fact she was well aware of.
 

Fiona took every opportunity to parade him in front of her. Ostentatiously kissing in public, letting him feel her up while her eyes locked onto hers, issuing challenge after challenge with just a smile, a tip of the head, a parting of the lips. A quick gasp of ecstasy.
 

And she hated Fiona for it.
 

That was it. Hate. And it felt so good to admit it.
 

And with that acknowledgement something changed inside her, almost immediately. She became focused, fixated on Fiona once more. But in a different way this time. Because she knew what Fiona was doing with Sean. Trying to provoke her. Hurt her. And she knew what she must do in return. Hurt Fiona. Really hurt Fiona. Purge her from her system. Make sure she can never hurt her again.
 

That thin line between love and hate. She was ready to cross it.
 

T
he music coming out of the closed doors was both funereal yet beat driven. Imani wondered how that was possible. Mournful guitars, viola and piano soared over pounding rhythm, topped by a dark, rumbling voice, by turns angry and melancholic, that sounded like it belonged to an Old Testament prophet. The fact that he was singing about death and murder just added to that. She shouldn’t have liked it. It shouldn’t have worked. But she did, and it did.

She opened the doors. A man dressed in scrubs hovered over a dead body on the table. Thin and bald, he looked like a resurrected cadaver. Imani guessed who he was. She had heard Phil and Marina mention him. Nick Lines.

‘Dr Lines?’ She spoke from the doorway.

He looked up, startled to find someone there. Peered over his glasses at them. His look wasn’t welcoming. Matthews flinched, retreated behind Imani slightly.

‘Yes?’

‘DS Oliver,’ she said, raising her voice over the music. ‘Can I have a word?’

He looked irritated to have been disturbed. Ready to refuse her request. Imani played what she hoped would be an ace of a card.

‘I’m working on the Phil Brennan case.’

It was like the clouds disappearing after a particularly dreadful downpour.

‘Come in.’ He pointed at Matthews. ‘You look familiar.’

Matthews nodded. ‘Detective Constable Matthews. I’ve —’

‘That’s right. Yes.’ He turned to Imani. ‘Who’d you say you were, again?’

‘DS Oliver.’

‘Not from round here, DS Oliver.’

‘No. West Midlands.’

Nick Lines raised an eyebrow, left the table, turned the music off. Silence. ‘Nothing makes the time fly by like a Willard Grant Conspiracy death ballad,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

The room was cold and smelled of death, decay and disinfectant. Most police hated morgues, Imani had discovered, but that wasn’t the case with her. She had always been fascinated by them. Like a butcher’s shop staffed by high-end graduates. But then, she thought, her dad had always said she was a weird one.

‘It’s the Phil Brennan case.’

‘Those three bodies, you mean?’

‘Well, it’s kind of more than that now.’

Nick Lines stared at her, still frowning. Waited.

‘Phil Brennan’s disappeared,’ she said.

‘Disappeared?’

‘On his way over here to join in the investigation of the three bodies. He left, never turned up.’

‘Right.’ Another frown. ‘And you think I know where he is?’

‘Do you?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t think so. No, we just want to talk to you about the PMs on the three dead men.’

‘What about them?’

‘Well, I know you’re busy,’ she said, gesturing to the table, ‘but since DI Brennan’s actually disappeared we need every bit of help we can get.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ Nick folded his arms, leaned his head forward. ‘So what d’you think I can do for you?’

Imani shrugged. ‘Hurry along the PMs.’ She looked at him, still frowning. ‘Please.’

He held her in a hard, unblinking gaze. Matthews had warned her about him on the way over. Doesn’t suffer fools gladly and all that. Doesn’t suffer anyone gladly. That was all right, she thought. She didn’t like to put up with idiots either.

She held his gaze. Eventually he walked away, sat behind his desk, started clicking at his screen. Found something, invited her over.

‘Here. Three post-mortems for you to look at.’

It was Imani’s turn to frown. ‘You’ve done them?’

He nodded.

‘You had them all this time?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. These were sent over to DS Beresford as soon as I’d done them. A matter of priority.’ He pointed to the table with the half-dissected corpse on it. ‘Luckily that day wasn’t busy. Hospital death, that one. Always needs a PM.’

Imani and Matthews shared a look. Or at least she attempted to: Matthews couldn’t hold her gaze.

‘DS Beresford said he didn’t get them. Some kind of hold-up at your end, apparently.’

Nick Lines bristled. His professionalism was being questioned and he didn’t like it. ‘I don’t know why he would say that. I sent them over straight away. He had them on his desk within twelve hours. I worked overtime to get them there. And I’ll invoice for it.’ The last sentence dripping with the indignity of it all.

It felt to Imani like having suspicions confirmed. Unpleasant suspicions. She didn’t have time to think about that now. There was something more pressing.

‘Could I have a look at them, please?’

‘By my guest.’

She moved round the computer until she stood at his shoulder. Matthews followed meekly.

‘Talk me through them.’

Nick Lines barely stifled a smile. ‘Police are the same the world over,’ he said and pointed at the screen. ‘All three bodies were found hanging from the neck. Obviously, the first thought would be that this was what killed them.’

‘But?’

‘But. I knew better. Lividity, body temperature, not to mention burst capillaries in the eyeball all told me that wasn’t the case. The bodies had been deliberately placed there to give that effect.’

‘Any idea who placed them there?’

‘Yes, of course. We also handle clairvoyance in this department.’

‘I meant a physical description. Any indication. Big? Strong? Man? Woman?’

‘Yes, all of that,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘I mean was there any damage done to the bodies that would have been consistent with them being hung there? Any bruising, something that might give us an idea of the height of the person, the build?’

‘Not really. The bodies were, for the most part, unmarked. Normal wear and tear.’

‘So was there anything else?’

‘Patience, please. I’m getting to that.’ He clicked on the mouse. The images on the screen changed. Three backs of three necks. ‘See here?’

Imani moved in closer, squinted at what he was pointing at. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘Here,’ he said, irritation in his voice. ‘Look. Punctuation marks.’

Imani kept squinting. ‘How can you tell?’

‘Because all three have them in exactly the same place. Not nearly the same place, exactly the same place. A pin prick in each.’ He looked up at her, smiled. ‘Not everyone would have found them. But I’m not everyone.’

Imani found herself – somehow – warming to this cadaverous egoist. ‘Indeed.’

‘Which led me to my next discovery. Some kind of poison was used. An opiate, as best as I could deduce. I’ve sent trace amounts off for analysis.’

‘What was it meant to do?’

‘Paralyse. That, in conjunction with the hole in the skin, which I assume was made by an acupuncture needle, is what killed them.’

‘Poison?’

‘In conjunction. The needle was stuck in one of the main nerves running along the spine. A gifted practitioner could almost paralyse a person instantly. The poison would doubly ensure that. And then they would slowly choke to death.’

Imani stood up, thinking about what he had just said.

A voice from the door brought her out of her grim reverie.

‘You’ve not lost your touch, Nick.’

All three of them looked up. There in the doorway stood Marina and Anni.