Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate

by Carver, Tania

  He waited, scrutinising Brotherton and Sophie’s faces for the slightest out-of-place expression, to file away for a later date. The two of them exchanged glances. Sophie looked to be about to say something but Brotherton shushed her. ‘What happened?’ he said, voice flat.

  ‘She was murdered. In her flat, last night.’

  His jaw sagged slightly open, his eyes went blank. Phil imagined that for him it was quite a display of emotion. Brotherton’s usual range probably went all the way from anger to anger.

  ‘What . . . what...’Then a thought struck him. ‘She was pregnant, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She was, Mr Brotherton. With your baby?’ said Clayton.

  ‘So she said,’ said Brotherton, the anger in his words indicating that whatever grieving process he had undergone for Claire Fielding was now officially over.

  ‘What d’you mean by that?’ said Phil.

  ‘What I said. Oldest trick in the book, innit? You wanna catch a man, you tell him you’re pregnant.’ He made an expansive arm gesture, looked round the office. ‘I mean, look at this place. I’m not bleedin’ Alan Sugar, but this is all mine. I own it.’

  ‘Your company?’ said Phil.

  Brotherton nodded. ‘I do all right out of it. And women, when they see that, they think, ooh, I’ll have a bit of that for myself. Better than workin’. So what’s the easiest way to do it?’ He shrugged, gave a self-satisfied smile as if he had just explained a particularly thorny issue to the Oxford University debating society. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well she’s dead now, Mr Brotherton, so your empire is safe.’

  Brotherton nodded, failing to pick up the sarcasm in Phil’s tone.

  ‘So who’s the F?’ asked Clayton.

  ‘What?’ Brotherton was clearly irritated by the question.

  ‘The F. In the sign out there. B & F Metals.’

  Brotherton shrugged. ‘Bought him out. Kept the name so people knew who they were dealing with.’

  ‘And that’s important, isn’t it?’ said Phil. ‘Knowing who you’re dealing with.’

  Brotherton just stared at him.

  ‘Why were you out on the crane if you’re the boss of the company?’ asked Phil, frowning. ‘Don’t you pay someone to do that?’

  Brotherton’s chest puffed out with pride. ‘Good to keep your hand in. Keeps you fit, strong.’

  ‘Never know when that’s going to come in handy, do you?’

  Brotherton turned to Phil, his muscles flexing, hands balling into fists. Clayton looked between the two, spoke.

  ‘So you were no longer seeing her?’ he asked. ‘Claire Fielding?’

  Another snort, attention diverted from Phil. ‘Why would I?’ He looked around, smiled triumphantly. ‘I’ve got Sophie now, ain’t I?’

  Sophie returned the smile with all the warmth and animation her Botoxed features would allow.

  ‘So why would you still be described in her diary as her boyfriend?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘It’s true, Mr Brotherton. Her address book still has your name in it too, and she carried a photo of you in her wallet.’

  ‘You know what birds are like,’ he said, trying to remain cocky. ‘Can’t let go, can they?’ But his features didn’t mirror his words. And something unfamiliar entered his eyes. Fear?

  ‘Mr Brotherton, where were you last night between the hours of ten p.m. and two a.m.?’

  ‘What?’ Brotherton looked between the two policemen.

  ‘You heard the question,’ said Clayton.

  ‘I was . . .’ He looked to Sophie for support.

  ‘He was with me,’ she said, picking up on his visual clue.

  ‘Where?’ said Phil.

  ‘At my place,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Doing what?’ said Clayton.

  ‘What business is that of yours?’ she said, her face finding animation at last.

  ‘This is a murder inquiry; answer the question, please.’

  ‘Watching a DVD. Bottle of wine, takeaway.’

  ‘What film?’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘What film were you watching?’ Phil said again.

  ‘We . . . had a couple,’ Brotherton said.

  ‘What were they?’ Clayton’s voice was calm and emotionless.

  ‘Something . . . something Sophie wanted and . . . and something I wanted.’ Brotherton looked at her again, willing her to speak.

  ‘Which was?’ Phil’s voice was also flat and emotionless. A question machine.

  ‘Atonement,’ said Sophie.

  ‘No Country for Old Men,’ said Brotherton.

  ‘Is that out on DVD yet?’ said Clayton.

  ‘Got a pirate.’

  Phil allowed himself a small smile. ‘Want us to do you for that as well?’

  ‘Look, just . . . fuck off. You’ve got what you wanted, we’ve told you what we were doin’. You’ve got your information, just . . . leave. Now. I’ve got a business to run.’ Brotherton was talking himself into confidence again. ‘And you’re bad for it.’

  Phil and Clayton exchanged another look, the purpose of which was to rattle Brotherton and Sophie even more than their questioning had. Leaving them with that, they made their way to the door.

  Phil stepped through first, Clayton following. As he came abreast of Brotherton, he turned.

  ‘What did you think of Romola Garai?’

  ‘What?’ he said, startled.

  ‘Briony,’ he said.

  Brotherton’s face was blank. He looked to Sophie for help, but she was as lost as he was.

  ‘Romola Garai,’ Clayton continued. ‘She played the adult Briony. The lead character in Atonement.’ He smiled. ‘Thought you might have remembered that. I mean, you only saw it last night.’

  He left, following Phil across the yard to the car.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ said Phil when Clayton caught up with him.

  ‘Thank you, boss. Everythin’ I learned, I learned from you.’

  ‘You like Atonement, did you?’

  Clayton smiled. ‘Never seen it. Saw some pictures of that Romola Garai in Nuts. Thought she looked hot. Remembered what film she was in.’

  Phil’s turn to smile. ‘So there is some value in those magazines after all.’

  They reached the Audi, got back in.

  ‘So what d’you think, boss? Dirty?’

  ‘Hard to say. Something’s not right. He’s big enough to do it and he’s got previous. And from the way he responded, there seemed to be some unfinished business between him and Claire Fielding.’

  ‘He didn’t seemed too upset about her death,’ said Clayton.

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘And he was lyin’ about where he was last night.’

  ‘They all lie to us, Clayton. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’ He put the car into gear. ‘Back to Colchester.’ He thought of Marina. She would be at the station by now. He felt butterflies at the thought, tried to immediately tamp them down. He had work to do.

  Clayton looked back at the office, then round again. He groaned. ‘Not Glasvegas again . . .’

  ‘No,’ said Phil, thinking. ‘About time you developed some taste, I think.’

  Clayton’s eyes brightened. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘How about some Neil Young?’ Phil knew his DS would have never heard of him, but after the last admonishment he wouldn’t dare to argue. ‘A classic. Something to get the old brain cells working.’

  Clayton shook his head. ‘Kill me now,’ he said under his breath.

  Phil took a perverse and childish satisfaction in putting Clayton in his place.

  They drove back to Colchester as fast as they could.

  11

  Marina bent over the washbasin and vomited again. One hand on the porcelain, one holding her hair away from her face.

  ‘Oh God . . .’ Her voice broken, riding out the waves of nausea, crying as she spoke. ‘I can’t . . . can’t do this . . .’

  She gasped, breathed hard, w
aiting to see if there was to be any more. A deep breath in. Held and let go. And again. She sighed, eyes closed, listening to her body. That was it, she felt. No more. There was nothing left inside her to come out.

  Opening her eyes, she ran the cold tap, splashed her face, the water disguising the tears, and straightened up, running her fingers through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes more haunted than ever. More fearful.

  And with good reason, she thought.

  Her hands went automatically to her stomach as she tried to control her breathing, will herself to calm down.

  So, she thought. She was one of those women who were sick. And she knew the cause: the photos. She had been shown into reception at Colchester’s main police station on Southway. The duty sergeant had rung through; DCI Ben Fenwick had come down to greet her. He looked exactly the same. Smart suit, hair greying but neatly cut. His features were symmetrical and pleasing to look at, but somehow avoided being handsome. Marina assumed this was because he was too bland.

  He came towards her, hand outstretched, smile in place, reminding her once again of the overeager head boy, welcoming newcomers to the sixth form. She felt sure he had done that.

  ‘Marina,’ he said, shaking her hand, moving her forward. ‘Welcome back. Come through. Let’s walk and talk.’

  They went through the double doors, Fenwick striding urgently. ‘You know,’ he said without breaking stride, ‘we could never have reached a successful conclusion in the Gemma Hardy case without you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ And we know what happened with that, she thought, almost running along behind him.

  Fenwick must have picked up her thought telepathically. ‘Of course, what happened afterwards, none of us could have predicted. And for that I am most deeply, deeply sorry. I am just so pleased that it was concluded successfully.’

  And that I never sued the department, she mentally added.

  ‘I’m fine now.’ She was glad he wasn’t level with her, couldn’t see her eyes.

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it. Delighted.’ His voice changed, the pitch deepening. Through another set of double doors. ‘Of course, there will be nothing like that this time. Nothing. You have my personal word on that.’

  King Cliché, she thought. Of course. How could she forget?

  ‘Thank you. Heard you on the radio on the way in, Ben,’ she said. ‘A double murder? Two women?’

  Fenwick nodded, rounded a corner. ‘A flat in that new development. Parkside Quarter. Neither showed up for work today. Both stabbed to death. Nasty. Very nasty.’

  Marina nodded, already processing the information, making quick assumptions. Women, stabbing. The blade a surrogate sexual organ. Since her specialisation was psychosexual deviancy, that was obviously why she had been called in. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘What else have you got?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Fenwick stopped walking, looked at her. She instinctively pulled her coat close around herself. A specially bought swing-cut coat to hide the baby bulge. And something told her she should disguise it. Despite numerous diversity training courses, she still believed that the police as an organisation remained not only institutionally racist but sexist too. And always would be: a brick house is always a brick house and no amount of beechwood cladding is ever going to change that, she thought. It was just something she had to accept if she wanted to work alongside the police. But she didn’t want any of her findings being dismissed as the misguided thinking of a hormonally overcharged woman.

  Fenwick sighed. And she saw beyond his politician’s bonhomie a worried, weary man. ‘We think it ties in with another two murders we’ve had,’ he said. Marina could clearly see the stress lines etched on his face. ‘It’s a biggie. A real biggie. Under a lot of pressure on this. A hell of a lot. We’ve got to come up with a result, and soon.’ Another sigh. He rubbed his eyes, then, aware that she was watching him, rallied. ‘Come on. I’ve got the case files ready for you. And a desk too, come to that. This way.’

  She was led through more corridors. She tried to remember the layout from the last time, but this time she was being taken somewhere different. Fenwick opened the door to the bar. She frowned, followed him in. The pool tables were covered over, turned into desks with computers and phones on them, likewise the tables, banquettes and booths. Filing cabinets next to fruit machines. And there were plenty of people working. More than she had seen last time.

  ‘Bit unorthodox,’ said Fenwick. ‘Major Incident Squad is usually based up at Stanway, but they’re having asbestos removed in the interview rooms. Plus we need a lot of space for this one. Lot of space.’

  The shutters were down over the bar, whiteboards placed in front, dominating the room. They kept the team focused, reminding them all what they were working towards; the desks, tables and chairs in the bar were in satellite formation to them.

  She looked at one of the whiteboards, saw photos of four women’s faces. All smiling, anyone else cropped, leaving them the centre of attention, all unaware through their smiles that they would one day end up here. Names were attached: Lisa King, Susie Evans, Claire Fielding, Julie Simpson. Ordinary names, extraordinary deaths. Marker-pen lines linking them together like a grisly dot-to-dot. Other names, dates, locations beneath them. Nothing yet linking them. Marina knew there wouldn’t be. She wouldn’t be here if there were.

  Fenwick gestured from a table at the side of the room. She crossed to him.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Not much, I’m afraid, but there’s a computer and a phone. And these.’ He tapped a set of files sitting by the keyboard. ‘All yours. Photocopied this morning. If you could keep them on the premises we’d be grateful. But if you can’t, you know, be discreet.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ said Fenwick, a smile playing on his lips as he gestured to the shuttered bar. ‘Gin and tonic? Wine? Beer?’

  Marina smiled. ‘Coffee would be good, thanks.’

  Fenwick arranged for a junior officer to fetch her a coffee. Marina sat down at the desk, took her notebook and pen from her bag, ready to read.

  ‘There you go. I’ll leave you to do your . . . whatever it is you do,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘But I should warn you. The photos . . . they’re pretty upsetting. And if I’m saying that, they must be. So be warned.’

  She nodded and he left her to it. She opened the first file, marked Lisa King, and began to read. She hadn’t reached the photos before she felt her stomach start to lurch. The uniform placed the coffee down on the desk and she took a mouthful. It tasted bitter. She felt it swirl around in her stomach. She kept reading.

  Her head began to swim. She swallowed hard, blinked. Picked up the next file: Susie Evans. Read on. It became harder to breathe. Despite the room being large and open, it felt stuffy and hot. She needed air. Her stomach lurched and a heaving sensation began working its way up her chest. Her hand went to her throat, tried to hold down the rising acid and bile. She looked again at the photos.

  And knew she was going to be sick.

  12

  Phil Brennan pulled the Audi into the car park, switched off the engine.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to Clayton, unfastening his seat belt and swinging open the door. ‘Report to write. Let’s see if Anni’s back yet.’

  Clayton didn’t move. ‘You go on without me, boss. Just got something I need to do.’

  ‘What, put in a harassment claim because I made you listen to Neil Young? Again?’

  Clayton managed a polite smile. It had sounded like the same three-note song all the way back. He had hated it. ‘Just got an idea,’ he said. As he spoke, his eyes darted round, looking anywhere but at Phil. ‘Thought someone in that scrapyard looked familiar.’

  ‘Who?’

  Clayton began to get out of the car. ‘Not sure. Give me a couple of hours.’

  ‘Don’t take too long,’ said Phil.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Clayton, turning and walking away. ‘First twenty-four hours and all that.�
�

  Phil bit back the retort, tamped down the irritation he felt at his junior officer. Let him go, he thought. Give him his head. He entered the building, pushing through the doors, swiping his pass. He felt tense, on edge.

  Nothing to do with seeing Marina again. All to do with the clock ticking, he said to himself.