Surrogate – a psychological thriller

by Tim Adler

  "What about the fingerprints?"

  "Forensics didn't find anything. Not yours anyway. We're still trying to find a match to others we found."

  My heart thickened in gratitude. "So, you're saying you've got the killer's prints already?"

  "I'm not saying anything. Forensics is still turning the house upside down. It's a question of whether we find anything on HOLMES. I don't want you going anywhere, though. We might need to call you in for further questioning."

  And with that I was free. I collected my possessions from the duty officer and was patting my pockets, making sure I had everything, when he told me my wife was outside.

  Mole was sitting behind the wheel in the Tesco car park where we had first reported Alice missing, what, six months ago? A different life. This was the moment I had been dreading: I knew that I had to tell her the truth. I had rehearsed the conversation so many times in my head, but somehow the words died in my mouth. The idea of hurting the woman I loved made me sick to my stomach.

  "They told me to come and collect you," she said, stroking my hair.

  Our baby girl was sitting in her car seat in the back. "How's she been?" I asked, trying to deflect attention.

  "She kept waking up in the night for feeds. I think I fell asleep on the sofa. I don't think I've ever felt so tired."

  "Apparently they found another car. A black Range Rover. The police are searching for it. A couple walking their dog saw it parked outside Alice's cottage."

  Mole digested what I had just said. "This other car. Do they know who it belongs to?"

  "Not yet, no, but there was clearly somebody else in the cottage that night."

  "So you're no longer a suspect?"

  "Well they told me to go home." Relief was flooding through me. All I wanted to do was have a bath and something decent to eat, but before that, I had to get through this.

  "Mole," I began. "Turn the engine off. There's something I need to tell you." I took a deep breath. "You need to know that Alice and I slept together. Just once. The day I gave my sample at the fertility clinic."

  Mole sat in silence, gripping the wheel and looking as if I had just slapped her across the face.

  "They showed me a YouTube clip. Alice filmed us on a mobile phone," I said, filling in the silence.

  Mole turned to me, beginning to cry. "Were you in love with her?"

  I shook my head. "Oh God, no, of course not. It was just one night. I don't know what I was thinking."

  Suddenly Mole started slapping me around the head. I put my arms up to defend myself but knew I deserved it. "What is wrong with you?" she said once she had exhausted herself. She sat shaking behind the wheel, and I wanted to tear myself into a thousand pieces.

  "Mole, I am so sorry. I never thought–" I said, reaching for her arm, but shook me off. "I just want to talk."

  "Oh, what do you want to talk about?"

  "Mole, listen, you know me–"

  "No, I don't know you. I knew the Hugo who told me everything. I have no idea who you are now. If the police hadn't seen this video, would you have told me then?"

  My beautiful wife turned to look at me, and I felt wretched for causing her so much pain.

  I shook my head. "Mole, I was wrong. I should have told you. My dad was unfaithful to my mum, and I swore that I would never do that. I can't believe that I did it so soon. I hate myself for what I did."

  "We made a vow on our wedding day that we would tell each other everything, no matter how uncomfortable, don't you remember?"

  I folded my hands in my lap as she switched on the ignition.

  You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife on our drive home. Mole avoided me when we got back by preparing Nancy's bottle and putting her down for a nap. If only we could talk this out, she would see I was as much a victim as she was.

  I found myself cooking an absurdly elaborate dinner that evening. In hindsight, of course, I was trying to hang on to my marriage, but I could feel the balloon drifting off, the tether slipping between my fingers. Neither of us touched the food. Instead we sat there in silence, as if there was a glass wall between us. Finally Mole put her knife and fork down and said, "Hugo, I don't want you sleeping here tonight. I think I need to be alone."

  "Mole, please be reasonable."

  "Reasonable? How do you expect me to feel? Were you doing it in our bed when I was out? The idea of being around you, touching you, makes me feel sick."

  "I told you. It was a one-night stand. It didn't mean anything. You're all that I ever wanted. You're all that I could want. Yes, Alice started coming on to me whenever you weren't around, but I pushed her away, I told her our sleeping together was a mistake never to be repeated. She threatened to tell you, and that's when we had our big argument and she stormed out."

  "So it was your fault she kidnapped our baby?"

  "I suppose so, yes," I nodded dumbly. Self-pity was edging nearer, and I could feel a big fat tear forming.

  "Oh," Mole said, throwing her paper napkin down. "Please don't start feeling sorry for yourself. I couldn't stand that. You brought this on yourself ... you brought this on us."

  "Emily, I'm begging you–"

  "Don't you see? This is unmendable. You broke the trust. Every time you look in the mirror, remember that you were the one who rejected me and not the other way round."

  "Mole, I want to start again. A bone that's been broken is often stronger after being mended."

  "I'm sorry Hugo, it's over. I can't believe anything you say any more."

  "You don't believe I had anything to do with Alice's murder?" I said sharply. Righteous anger was building inside me and, truth be told, the slightest moral leverage.

  Mole shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know what to believe."

  "You just tell me what you want me to do. I would crawl over broken glass to make things better between us."

  "Well, first I suggest you pack a bag and get your shaving kit and your condoms, and whatever else you need."

  With that I got up, scraping my chair on the wooden floor. I am not ashamed to say that I got down on my knees and rested my head in Mole's lap, begging for forgiveness. Mole looked down at me with a mixture of incredulity and astonishment. Everything I did disgusted her now.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  I parted the net curtains in my hotel room and came face to face with a brick wall. What kind of a view could you expect in one of those cheap traveller hotels, I thought, but I figured it was at least close to work. Double bed, dressing table, utility shower. More like a cell than a hotel room. Sitting down again, I retraced just how I had arrived at this moment: one tiny mistake, one error of judgement, and my life had unravelled. Now I was reaping the consequences. The straight and narrow was what they called it; oh yes, the path was straight and narrow indeed, and somehow I had fallen off it. Saturday morning and alone in the empty City. I glanced for the umpteenth time at my phone on the bedside table, hoping somebody had called me back: Currie had gone away for the weekend, and I had even left a message with DI Syal asking for news. Last night I had got drunk alone in my hotel room, hoping it would make me feel better, but of course it only made things worse. I so needed to hear somebody's soft words telling me that everything was going to be okay. But Mole's was the voice I really needed to hear. Every atom of my body yearned for her, to feel the warmth of her skin and smell her marvellous hair. Yet she had not returned a single message. Of course, she had every right to be disgusted with me, but she could not feel as bad as I did. My tongue felt thick and my brain was sluggish, as if somebody had taken a dump in my head. I got up, went to the bathroom and showered, and then heard my phone ringing next door. Then it rang again. Thank God, she had called me back.

  There were two messages on my voicemail. One from Dad telling me to return his call, and another from my darling wife.

  "Hey, Mole, how are you doing?" I said gently.

  "Feeling a little better. It's all come as a terrible shock. First Alice, and now this."

>   "You know how sorry I am–" I began.

  Mole cut me off. "I'm sorry, Hugo. This isn't a conversation about your emotions. What's done is done." She could be so cold sometimes that I wondered if I really knew her. "You still need to be able to see your daughter, though. Come and meet us in the park this afternoon. Don't come to the flat; it's too painful."

  What did she mean by still needing to see my daughter? Why, where was she going? "Mole, I never meant for any of this to happen–"

  "But it did happen, didn't it? You can't unring a bell, Hugo. You were the one who put your foot through our marriage."

  "All I'm saying is–" I said, searching for the right word, "don't rush into anything. We have our daughter. We could rebuild, start again. Christ, we could move somewhere else."

  "Don't you think I've thought of that? That would just be moving the problem with us, wouldn't it? It would always be there. I woke up this morning and for a moment felt all right. Then I remembered everything that had happened, and I felt as if you'd knifed me in the head or something." I could hear Nancy grizzling in the background. "Listen, I've got to go. Meet us in the park at one. We could have a sandwich."

  I lay back down on the bed and studied the ceiling for a moment, wondering how my life had come to this. Then I decided I'd had enough of these four walls. With a few hours to kill, I had to get out and do something.

  That morning the City of London was mostly deserted, apart from a few tourists. A coffee bar was open, and I ordered a flat white. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a copy of that morning's Daily Telegraph someone had left on a table. Sweeping crumbs off the surface, I sat down and rattled the paper open. Somehow I already knew this wasn't going to be good. Skimming the front page, I turned to page three, where they ran the crime stories. There, about halfway down, I saw the headline: "Surrogate Mother Found Battered to Death." There was a photograph of Mole and myself taken at some charity event: me grinning inanely and Mole looking composed, cupping her chin with her hand as she looked coolly at the camera. My heart tightened. Reading the story, my skin crawled as the facts were laid out in black and white for the first time:

  A surrogate mother employed by a City tycoon has been found battered to death.

  Police found Helen Noades, mid-twenties, dead on the floor of her rented cottage in Goudhurst, Kent, on Thursday night. Miss Noades had been reported missing after being employed as a surrogate mother for insurance boss Hugo Cox and his wife, Emily.

  Mr Cox, chief executive of Lloyd's of London insurance syndicate Berkshire RE, was arrested and held for questioning on Friday night but later released. Their month-old daughter was found abandoned in a car in a multi-storey car park in nearby Tunbridge Wells. The baby was returned to her parents unharmed. Mr Cox was unavailable for comment.

  Police found Miss Noades lying dead on the floor of her sitting room, having been repeatedly struck on the head. The savagery of the attack has shocked police officers. Noades moved to London last year after agreeing to act as a surrogate mother for Mr and Mrs Cox.

  Detective Inspector Deepa Syal, who is leading the investigation, said: "This innocent young woman was subject to a frenzied attack, and we urge anybody with information about the murder to come forward."

  My first reaction was shame mixed with incredulity. Christ, my dad read this paper every day. How dare they say I was unavailable for comment when they hadn’t even tried to contact me? The newspaper had given me an important piece of information, though, that Alice’s real name was Helen Noades. Reading the story again, it dawned on me what had been left out: there was no mention of blackmail or the black Range Rover that had been spotted outside the cottage. I guessed the police were trying to flush out anybody who knew something without giving away their hand. You don't just bludgeon somebody to death without leaving clues, traces. Because, just as Martin Wynn said, all of us leave traces: credit card transactions, mobile phone calls ... somebody out there must know something, a boyfriend or a husband behaving oddly. I folded the newspaper and got up, feeling wobbly on my feet. Everything started crowding in on me: this was only going to escalate, and Berkshire RE was right at the centre of it. I thought about calling Dad and explaining everything. This could jeopardize the merger – squeamish Americans were not going to want anything to do with a chief executive suspected of murder. My head felt as tight as a pressure cooker. No, the first thing I had to do was speak to Mole and ask for her advice. Then I remembered that Mole was probably the last person I could turn to.

  The girl behind the counter gave me a funny look as I lurched towards the exit. "Are you all right, sir?" she called after me.

  Dogshit Park was my name for the stretch of grass that ran along the river near our flat. It was another foggy afternoon, and my breath smoked as I walked up the path towards the café where we had arranged to meet. Joggers and cyclists overtook me as I ruminated on how best to play this. What was I hoping for? Some reconciliation where we would cry and hug and walk back home, arms around each other? Probably. Mole would be waiting for me at the café and stand up when she saw me. She would say, "Hugo, I was thinking about what you said. About starting again. If I knew you were sorry, if you showed contrition–"

  "Darling, that's all I wanted. It was a stupid mistake. I would walk over broken glass rather than hurt you."

  "Oh Hugo, I've missed you so much," she would say. And then, looking down at our baby, "We both have."

  Instead, I found Mole standing in the toddler park near the baby swings. It was such a cold afternoon that only a few other parents were there. Watching them play with their children, I felt as if there was a window separating me from other people's happiness. Mole was standing with the pram, and the wind ruffled the fur hat she was wearing. She looked so bloody lovely, and I cursed myself for having been so stupid.

  "How is our little girl?" I said, trying to sound jovial. Nancy was fast asleep in her cot, wearing a woollen skullcap and with her blanket pulled tight. She shuddered a little in her sleep. Dreaming.

  "I think it's good for her to get some fresh air every day. Even if it's cold ... just for half an hour."

  I offered Mole the folded over newspaper. "Alice's murder has made the papers."

  "I know."

  "What do you mean, you know?"

  "A reporter called last night. I told her you were away."

  "You knew about this and still you didn't tell me?"

  "What could I say? It's out of our hands now. The police told me not to say anything without going through them. At least you're in the clear."

  "Not exactly, no. They might still call me in for more questioning. Now they know what I did, it gives me a motive. Mole, do you realise how much is at stake here? Not just me or us, but the merger. Do you really think the Americans are going to go ahead with this hanging over us?"

  "What does your dad say?"

  "I haven't had the guts to speak to him. He left a message on my mobile. He must have read the story already in the paper. I feel so ashamed." I paused to see if Mole was going to say anything to make me feel better. Nothing. "The paper said that Alice’s real name was Helen Noades. Remember, the woman in the nursing home also said she was called Helen. I was thinking, we don't know anything about Alice's family. I mean Helen's, or whatever the hell her real name is."

  "Leave it to the police. Somebody will tell them. Hugo, this isn't going to be a one-off newspaper story. This is going to be television, front-page news. Fat-cat City boy has affair with murdered surrogate mother. You know how much the press hates bankers. They're going to rip us both limb from limb."

  "I'm not a banker, I'm in the insurance business."

  "They won't care." Women could be so less emotional than men sometimes; despite everything, Alice was somebody we had lived with us, shared meals with. I remembered laughter. Christ, Mole had even taught her how to boil an egg.

  "And there's still the money, Hugo. Where's that gone? All your shares, plus we're mortgaged to the hilt."

 
"I know, I know. The police are trying to trace the money, a bank in Panama–"

  Mole gave a little laugh. "That could take months, or even years. Meanwhile, the repayments are going to start. What if you're suspended from work? What are we going to do then?"

  Another couple was chatting and laughing as they pushed their buttoned-up toddler in a swing, and I envied their happiness.

  "So, have you given any thought to what I said?" I asked "About wanting to start again?"

  Mole shook her head. "I haven't decided anything. I need to go away. Get my head straight. Reporters started ringing our doorbell this morning. They're hanging around outside the flat."

  I took a step forward. This was not how I had expected the conversation to go. "Mole, please–"

  She ducked her head. "I never told you, but my father was unfaithful to my mother," she said. "I always swore that would never happen to me."

  I found myself begging again. I was prepared to do anything, say anything to hang on to my marriage. "Alice planned this from the start. The camera phone. Right from the moment she met us, she intended to blackmail me. It was, what do they call it–" I snapped my fingers trying to remember "–a honeytrap."

  "You made your bed and now you're lying in it."

  It was hopeless. Perhaps Mole was right and this really was unmendable. In my mind's eye I let go of the balloon and watched our marriage drifting away over the rooftops.

  "How long will you go away for? How will I contact you?"

  "A week or so. Until things have died down or they've made an arrest," she said ambiguously. "You can move back into the flat while we're away. After that, I just don't know. You really hurt me, Hugo."

  "Emily, what do I need to do to prove to you–"

  Mole leaned over the pram and fussed with Nancy's blanket. Straightening up she said, "Hugo, can I give you some advice? Get a lawyer. I'm sorry, but for all I know you did lose your temper with Alice. I can't believe anything you say any more. You lied about having an affair with her–"