Free The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) by Tania Carver

all, she had been there herself.
    Whatever doesn’t kill you, her dad had said during that time when she had returned to the small family home to feel safe, trotting out the old Nietzschean cliché (not that he had a clue where it came from), makes you stronger. His bluff way of showing concern. She smiled at the memory. If it didn’t concern Aston Villa he was useless at expressing emotion. The smile faded. Imani had never agreed with the sentiment. If something didn’t kill you straight away it didn’t necessarily make you stronger. It could also kill you bit by bit. She hoped that wasn’t the case.
    The afternoon was more empty than full when she eventually arrived at Queensway station in Colchester, satnav pinging that this was her final destination. She looked at the building before her. It was totally unlike Steelhouse Lane. She always considered her place of work to be like some kind of Gothic schoolhouse, all red brick, turrets and crenellations. This was completely the opposite. Low and spread out, a kind of bland, beige box. She could almost feel her hair lifting from the imagined static coming off the nylon carpets inside. It could have been anything from an office block on an anonymous provincial industrial estate to a low security prison. In a way, she thought, it was both of those things.
    She locked the car, went to the desk, asked for DCI Gary Franks.
    She didn’t wait long. A red-headed, red-faced bull of a man came barrelling down the corridor towards her. He wore his suit grudgingly, as if he’d lost a fight with it. He gave a grim smile, extended his paw of a hand.
    ‘DCI Franks.’
    ‘Detective Sergeant Imani Oliver.’ She shook. His eyes looked like they had seen bad things and learned from the experiences.
    ‘Come this way.’
    He beckoned her along the corridor. She followed.
    Despite the beige trappings, the station was the same as what she was used to. Same smell. Same feel. Same atmosphere. Same people doing the same job.
    He directed her to his office, closed the door behind her and gestured she take a seat. She did so. He took his jacket off, ripping it away like it was some kind of parasite that had wrapped itself round his body, and sat down behind his desk.
    ‘Quite a day,’ he said. She noticed, for the first time, his Welsh accent.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
    ‘Quite a few days, really.’
    ‘How is that going, sir? I presume you mean the hanging bodies?’
    ‘I do,’ he said, sitting back.
    She took the opportunity to glance around the room; through it, take some impressions of the man himself. There was a kind of near-military discipline to the place. Framed photos and citations on the walls. Everything neatly placed. Rugby trophies, handsomely mounted.
    Franks continued. ‘We’re still working on them. As yet, no one’s come forward with anything. No missing persons that fit the description. But we’re working. We’re looking. Our top priority.’
    She nodded.
    ‘I take it there’s no sign of DI Brennan yet?’
    ‘No. We were hoping you had some news.’
    Franks shook his head. ‘Incredible. Just incredible.’ A ghost of a smile passed his lips. ‘Mind you, if it would happen to anyone, it would happen to him. Magnet for trouble, that man. Murder rate’s dropped since he left. Bet it’s gone up where you are?’
    Imani wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘I… I’d have to check, sir.’
    He did smile this time, but it didn’t stay very long on his features. ‘Only joking, DS Oliver.’ He sighed, all business again. ‘You say someone answering Detective Sergeant Beresford’s description was seen at DI Brennan’s house? And that he got into the car with him and off they went?’
    ‘That’s right. Even the car, make and model, matched. Same with the description. I’m sure Phil —’ she corrected herself, ‘DI Brennan would have asked for identification. There’s no way he would have got into that car otherwise.’
    ‘Phil,’ said Franks, nodding.