‘Where’s Anni?’ he asked.
In response to his question a head poked round the frame of the bathroom door.
‘Here, boss.’ Detective Constable Anni Hepburn was small, trim, with variably coloured spiked hair that always contrasted with her dark skin. The strands poking out of her white hood were today mostly blonde. She gave a quick glance to Clayton. ‘Sorry, we should have waited for you, but Forensics said—’
Phil held up a hand. ‘We’re all here now. Let’s get going.’
A look passed between Clayton and Anni. Quick, then gone. Phil caught it, couldn’t read it but hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was. He always felt slightly jealous at the amount of female attention Clayton attracted, and he knew the DS often did plenty about it. But not with members of his own team. Not with Anni. Still, now wasn’t the time to think about that. They had work to do.
He turned back to the room, took in the scene before him. Forensics had set up their arc lamps, shining down on the bed, lending the central tableau an unreal air, as if it was a film or a stage set. They moved about in the light in hushed, almost reverential silence, kneeling, bending, peering closely at what was before them, scraping and bagging, sampling and storing. Like stage management or props making final adjustments.
Or supplicants before a sacrificial altar, thought Phil. A woman lay on the bed, spreadeagled and naked, wrists and ankles tied to the metal frame. Her stomach had been cut open and her eyes had rolled back in her head as if in witness to something only she could see.
Phil swallowed hard. The one in the hall had been bad enough. This one threatened to reacquaint him with the cup of coffee and two slices of wholemeal toast and Marmite he had had for breakfast. Just what he needed on a Tuesday morning.
‘Jesus,’ said Clayton.
‘I mean, this is Colchester,’ said Anni, shaking her head. The other two looked at her. She was visibly shaken. ‘Things like this don’t happen here. What the hell’s going on?’
Clayton was ready with a retort. Phil sensed his two officers were starting to develop unprofessional responses. He had to keep them focused. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What do we know?’
Anni snapped back into work mode, pushed a hand down her paper suit, withdrew a notebook, flipped it open. Phil took a grim pride in the fact that she had recovered so quickly, that she was professional enough to work through it. ‘The flat belongs to Claire Fielding,’ she said. ‘Primary school teacher, works out Lexden way.’
Phil nodded, eyes still on the bed. ‘Boyfriend? Husband?’
‘Boyfriend. We checked her phone and diary and we think we’ve got a name. Ryan Brotherton. Want me to look into it?’
‘Let’s get sorted here first. Any idea who’s in the hall?’
‘Julie Simpson,’ said Clayton. ‘Another teacher, works with Claire Fielding. It was her husband who contacted us.’
‘Because she didn’t go home last night?’ asked Phil.
‘Yeah,’ said Clayton. ‘He called us when she didn’t come back. This was well after midnight. Apparently there was some kind of get-together here last night. He’d tried phoning and got no reply. Not the kind to be out on a bender, apparently. ’
‘Not on a school night, anyway,’ said Anni.
‘Has he given a statement?’ said Phil.
Clayton nodded. ‘Over the phone. Bit distraught.’
‘Right. We’ll talk to him again later.’
Anni looked at him, worry in her eyes. ‘There’s, erm . . . there’s something else.’
She turned, gestured to the living room. Phil, glad of the excuse to not look at Claire Fielding’s body any more, followed her, stopping at the entrance to the living room. He looked inside, instinctively trying to get some idea of her life, her personality. The person she used to be.
The room was tastefully furnished, clearly on a budget, but small flourishes and touches of individuality indicated that the budget had been used creatively. With books and CDs, foreign ornaments and framed photos, it spoke of a rich, full life. But something stood out.
On the coffee table were empty and half-empty bottles of wine, white and red, a sparkling soft drink and several glasses. In amongst the glasses and bottles was the detritus of opened presents. Boxes, bags, gift wrap, tissue paper. The presents were there too. Toys, both soft and primary-coloured plastic. All-in-one Babygros, shawls, hats, jumpers, socks, shoes.
‘This get-together . . .’ Anni said.
‘Oh Christ . . .’ said Phil. He was aware of Anni looking at him, gauging his reaction, but couldn’t look at her or Clayton yet. His pulse began to quicken. He tried to ignore it.
‘You’ll see one of them wasn’t drinking,’ said a voice from the bedroom.
The three of them turned. Nick Lines, the pathologist, was straightening up from the bed, peering over the tops of his glasses at Phil. He was a tall, shaven-head, hook-nosed, slightly cadaverous man, with graveyard looks and a gallows humour to match. He always looked excited at a crime scene, Phil thought. As much as he ever looked excited at anything. Lines took his glasses off, looked at Phil. ‘I’m guessing that’s because, as far as I can make out from an initial examination, she was pregnant.’
Phil stared with renewed horror at the slit stomach. He didn’t dare voice the question that all three of them were thinking. ‘Shit,’ was all he could say.
‘Quite,’ said Lines, his voice like Nick Cave’s more miserable brother. ‘She was pregnant. And before you ask, the answer’s no. There’s no sign of it. Anywhere in the flat. Once we realised what condition she had been in, that was the first thing we did.’
Phil felt his heart beating faster, his pulse racing; tried to calm it down. He would be no good to the investigation in that frame of mind. He turned to the pathologist, his voice urgent.
‘What have you got, Nick?’
‘Well, as I said, this is only preliminary; don’t hold me to any of it. The obvious stuff first. Broken nose, bruising. She was punched in the face. Hard. It looks like she’s been injected with something at the back of her neck. Then again at the base of her spine. Obviously I don’t know what it is yet but I’d hazard a guess that it was something to paralyse her.’
‘And the . . . the cutting?’
Nick Lines shrugged. ‘Carried out with a modicum of skill, it would seem. The one in the hall, they knew which arteries to go for. Likewise here. They had a fair idea of what they were doing.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Hard to say at present. Late last night. Eleven-ish? Sometime round then. Between ten and two, I’d say.’
‘Any sign of sexual activity?’
A faint smile played on Lines’ lips. Phil knew it was his way of displaying irritation at being asked so many initial questions. ‘As Chairman Mao said when asked how effective he thought the French Revolution had been, it’s just too early to tell.’
‘Any clues as to who could have done this?’ said Clayton.
Lines sighed. ‘I just tell you how they died. It’s up to you to find out why.’
‘I meant what kind of person,’ Clayton said, clearly hurt by the response. ‘Build an’ that.’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘How far gone was she?’ asked Anni.
‘Very well advanced, I’d say.’
‘But how far?’
He gave her a professionally contemptuous look, clearly getting irritated. ‘I’m a pathologist, not a clairvoyant.’
‘And we’ve got jobs to do as well,’ said Phil, matching Lines’ irritation with his own. ‘Would this baby be dead by now, or is there a chance it could still be alive?’
Nick Lines looked back at the body on the bed rather than directly at Phil. ‘Judging from the condition of her womb, I’d say almost full term. Only weeks away.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning yes. There’s every chance that this baby is still alive.’
3
Marina Esposito stepped slowly into the room, looked around. She was
nervous. Not because of what she was about to do particularly, but because of the public admission. Because once she had taken that step, her life would be changed, redefined for ever.
The room was large, the walls painted in light pastels, the floor wood. It had that warm yet simultaneously cool feel that so many fitness centres had. She had tried to slip quietly into the changing room, not engage anyone with eye contact and certainly not in conversation, get changed as quickly as possible, hoping her body wouldn’t mark her out as one of them. She had heard them and seen them, though, talking and laughing together, and knew instinctively she would never be part of that. Never be one of them. No matter what circumstances dictated. Now she saw the same women in here and her heart sank. Hair piled up or tied back, trainers or bare feet. All wearing brightly coloured, almost dayglo leotards and co-ordinated joggers. Full make-up. Marina was wearing grey jogging bottoms, a black T-shirt, old trainers. She felt dowdy and dull.
Someone stopped behind her. ‘You lost?’
‘Yes,’ she said, turning. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t emerge.
‘Pre-natal yoga?’ the woman said, seeing the mat under Marina’s arm.
Marina nodded.
The woman smiled. ‘That’s us, then.’ She patted her stomach. It was much bigger than Marina’s. Taut and hard, the bright orange leotard stretched tight across it. It protruded proudly over the waistline of her rolled-down joggers. Marina could see the distended navel through the material, like the knot of a balloon. The woman smiled like being that size and shape was the most natural thing in the world. She looked at Marina’s stomach.
Oh God, Marina thought. Looking at stomachs. That’s how I have to greet people from now on.
‘How far gone?’
‘Just . . . three months. Four.’
The woman looked into the room. ‘Starting early, that’s good.’
Marina felt she had to reciprocate. ‘What . . . what about you?’
The woman laughed. ‘Any day now, from the size of it. Eight months. I’m Caroline, by the way.’
‘Marina.’
‘Nice to meet you. Well, come on in. We don’t bite.’
Caroline walked into the room, Marina following. Marina sized the other woman up, looking at her face rather than her stomach for the first time. Mid-thirties, perky, cheerful. Probably a housewife from somewhere like Lexden. Kept herself in good shape, filled her days by lunching with friends, going to the gym, the hairdresser’s and the nail salon, shopping. Not Marina’s type of person at all. Caroline stopped to talk to other women, greeting them like old friends. All of them scooped from the same mould as her. Brightly coloured and round. Giggling and laughing. Marina felt she had walked into a Teletubbies convention.
She wanted to turn round, walk out.
But at that moment the instructor arrived and closed the door behind her, cutting off her escape route.
‘See we have a new member . . .’ The instructor beckoned Marina into the room.
Caroline waved her over and Marina, trying to disguise her reluctance, crossed the room, unfurled her mat and waited for the session to start.
There. She had done it. Admitted it in public.
She was pregnant.
4
Phil couldn’t speak.
He looked at his two junior officers. They seemed similarly dumbstruck as the enormity of the statement sank in.
There’s every chance that this baby is still alive . . .
‘Shit . . .’ Phil found his voice.
‘Quite,’ said Nick Lines. He looked back at the bed. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me?’
Phil nodded and ushered his team away from the bedroom, leaving the pathologist to carry on with his job. The three of them still didn’t speak.
He felt his chest tightening, his pulse quickening. He could hear the blood pumping round his body, feel the throb of his heart like a huge metronome, marking off the seconds, a ticking clock telling him to get moving, get this baby found . . .
He called over one of the uniformed officers in the living room. ‘Right, I want this whole—’ He stopped. ‘Liz, is it?’
She nodded.
‘Right. Liz.’ He spoke fast but clearly. Urgent but not panicking. ‘I want this whole block of flats searched. Everyone questioned, don’t take no for an answer, draft in as many as you can on door-to-door work.You know what I mean: did anyone hear anything, see anyone suspicious. Someone must have done. Use your instincts, be guided by what they say. I noticed the flats have all got video entry-phones. If someone got in, they must have been buzzed in. And seen. And I want the area combed. Do it thoroughly but do it quickly.’ He dropped his voice. ‘You know what we’re looking for.’
The officer nodded, went away to begin the search.
‘Boss . . .’
Phil turned, looked at Anni. She was the highest-ranking woman on his team and he had requested for her to be there. She was trained to deal with rape cases, abused children, any situation where a male presence might be a barrier to uncovering the truth. But that wasn’t why Phil wanted her. She had an intelligence and intuition that he had rarely encountered. And despite the ever-changing hair and the impish smile, she could be tougher than the best when needed to be. Even tougher than him. For all of that, he could forgive the affected way she spelled her first name.
‘Yes, Anni?’
‘What about Julie Simpson?’
Phil looked around, mentally trying to think through what must have happened. ‘If it’s all about . . .’ he gestured towards the bedroom, ‘then I’m afraid she was just wrong place, wrong time.’
Anni nodded, as if he had confirmed her thoughts. Then frowned. ‘Shouldn’t we keep an open mind?’
‘Course.’ He felt the blood pumping once more, his internal clock telling him time was running out. ‘But . . .’
‘So was this party a baby shower, then?’ said Clayton.
Anni looked at him. ‘You’d know about them, would you?’
Clayton reddened. ‘My sister. She had one . . .’
Despite the situation, Anni smiled.
Phil cut their repartee short. ‘Right. Let’s think. So Claire Fielding was having a baby shower. If she, or her baby, was the one deliberately targeted, then whoever did this must have thought she was alone. Maybe they miscounted or something.’ He sighed, trying to control his heart rate. ‘But just in case it’s anything to do with Julie Simpson, get the Birdies to follow up on her. Talk to the husband. See if he knows who else was here.’
The Birdies. DC Adrian Wren and DS Jane Gosling. Inevitable they got paired together. But no one was laughing about their names at the moment.
‘You think it’s about the baby, boss?’ Anni again. ‘He’s taken it, hasn’t he? Whoever did this.’
‘Like I said, not jumping to conclusions, it seems the likeliest explanation.’
Anni looked into the bedroom once more. ‘D’you think it’s still alive?’
Phil sighed. ‘Nick reckons it is, so we have to assume the same; bear that in mind.’
‘Until we find out otherwise,’ said Clayton.
‘Yeah, thanks, Dr Doom.’ Clayton had the potential to be an exceptional police detective, Phil knew. He had made no secret of his ambition, but despite what he thought and told people, he wasn’t the finished article yet. And sometimes his comments, as well as irritating Phil, betrayed the fact. ‘I’m aware of that.’
‘Putting aside how fucked up this is,’ said Anni, stepping between them, ‘I think there’s another possibility we should consider.’
‘That it’s him, you mean?’ said Clayton.
Phil knew what they were both talking about, glanced round to see who was in earshot, bent in close to them. ‘Not here. You know what walls have got, and it’s not ice cream.’ He sighed, ordering his thoughts, willing his training to kick in, take over. He could still hear his heart beating, each beat signalling inactivity that took him further away from catching the perpetrator.
‘Right. A plan. Anni, chain of evidence. Accompany the bodies through the post-mortems. See what you can find there. Get Nick to prioritise. Don’t let him fob you off. I’m sure the budget for this one’ll get upgraded.’
She nodded.
‘Now. Claire Fielding’s background. Who loved her, who hated her. Friends, family, work colleagues, the lot. Her boyfriend, Clayton, what was it? Brian . . .’
Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate Page 2