Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate

by Carver, Tania

He made his way up to his office.

  Marina stood outside the bar, trying to pluck up courage to enter once again. She knew what they must be thinking of her.

  Civilian. Can’t stand the heat. Can’t take the pressure. Shouldn’t do it, then. And a woman, what can you expect?

  She knew. Was sure they were saying it out loud. Normally she would be in there, confronting them, facing down anyone who dared to question her fitness for the job. But not this time. This time she didn’t blame them. This time she even agreed with them.

  She put her hand beneath her coat, cradling the baby growing inside her. It might not have been planned, but she didn’t want anything to happen to it. To her. Not like in those reports, those photos. Dead mothers. Dead babies.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to the bar, walked back in. A few heads turned in her direction, then went back to what they had been doing. She walked over to her desk, sat down again, picked up a report.

  ‘You okay?’

  She looked up. Fenwick was standing over her, concern in his eyes. She gave a quick look round the room. Saw only sympathetic looks in her direction, nothing judgemental.

  She nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s just . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. Nobody blames you for your reaction. I told you this was a bad one. I mean, I’m sure I’ve dealt with worse, but I really can’t remember when.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Fenwick, leaning over her. ‘Now that you’ve had a look at the files I should tell you. In the first murder the baby was cut up in the mother’s stomach. In the second it was removed. The baby in this morning’s murder is missing.’

  ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘So work your magic, the quicker the better, please.’

  He laid a hand on her shoulder that could have been either comforting or patronising and walked away, leaving her to it. She watched him go into his office, close the door.

  She looked at the reports in front of her, then to her notebook. She opened the Susie Evans report again, began to read once more. She was here to do a job.

  She became engrossed, didn’t notice someone standing at her side until they spoke.

  ‘Hey.’

  Her breath caught in her throat. She stopped reading. She wanted to look up but didn’t dare until she was ready.

  ‘Hey yourself.’

  He looked good. A bit thinner perhaps but that was no bad thing. She found a smile for him and sat upright in her chair. ‘You still here, then?’

  ‘They tried to get rid of me, kept coming back.’

  ‘Bit like me,’ she said.

  Phil smiled, then looked round the room, as if aware that people might be staring. Marina was unsure how many people knew of their relationship or its ending and she felt herself blushing. She picked up the coffee mug to cover it, put it to her lips. Cold. She made a face, replaced it on the desk.

  ‘I’ll get you some fresh,’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I doubt it’ll taste any better.’

  Silence. She saw Phil’s mouth move, as if rehearsing what he wanted to say. But knew he wouldn’t say it.

  ‘Ben Fenwick been looking after you?’ he said eventually.

  ‘My every whim catered for.’

  Phil gave another smile. ‘Is that right. You got everything you need?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Another look round, then back to her. ‘How’s . . .’ He paused.

  She knew he was only pretending to forget the name.

  ‘Tony,’ she said, prompting him.

  ‘Tony. Right. He okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ She looked into the coffee mug. ‘Everything. Fine and Jim Dandy.’ She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, breathed in, her stomach suddenly feeling enormous.

  ‘Whoever he is,’ said Phil. ‘Well, you look like you know what you’re doing. I’ll leave you to it, right?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You said that already.’

  He laughed. ‘Right.’ Laughed again. ‘Well . . . I’m sure I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Later.’

  He moved away, walking towards his desk. She kept her eyes on him the whole time, then shook her head. No, she thought, that’s the last thing I need right now.

  She put her head down, looked again at the paperwork in front of her but couldn’t concentrate. There had been too many things left unsaid between her and Phil. Things they should talk about. If she decided she wanted to. But they would have to wait.

  She went back to the reports. Concentrating this time.

  Because lives depended on it.

  13

  Emma Nicholls sat down behind her desk and gave DC Anni Hepburn a smile intended to convey confidence and professionalism but which instead screamed tension and barely suppressed emotion.

  She was dressed as if for a normal day at work as a head teacher: black two-piece trouser suit, light-coloured blouse, hair cut into a long bob. But the day was no longer normal. Two of her teachers had been murdered and now the school had been invaded by police.

  DC Anni Hepburn had been a detective long enough to develop a detachment that enabled her to do her job effectively while still retaining sympathy for the victims of violent crime. She hoped she always would. Human debris, was how she often secretly referred to them. Broken remains needing - and hoping for - repair. But she had also been a detective long enough to know that that wouldn’t always happen.

  Emma Nicholls, she thought, would be all right eventually. She hadn’t seen what Anni had seen earlier that day in Claire Fielding’s flat, smelled what she had smelled. And, as the headmistress kept stressing, her relationship with Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson had been mainly professional.

  ‘Please understand,’ Emma Nicholls said, tipping her head back and appearing to audition words in her head before trusting them to leave her mouth, ‘that my primary concern is for this school.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘By that I mean everyone. The welfare of the children and the staff I consider to be equally paramount.’

  ‘Right.’

  Words chosen, she continued. ‘Having said that, I seldom interfere in the affairs of my staff unless they are personal friends or they ask for help.’

  Anni nodded, knowing a disclaimer when she heard one. ‘Okay.’

  Emma Nicholls’ office managed to be both professional and welcoming, with achievements and diplomas on the walls alongside schedules, year planners and pictures the children had made especially for her. She seemed to be popular and well thought of. It was how Anni thought a primary school head teacher’s office - and a primary school head teacher - should be.

  The school was old but had been modernised. Clean, bright and bursting with positive energy, and with children’s work and achievements decorating the walls, it was clearly a place where the children were valued and well taught. But then, thought Anni, this was Lexden. An affluent suburb of Colchester. She would expect it to be like that.

  The children, or at least most of them that Anni had come into contact with since she had arrived there, seemed so full of hope, of life, of potential and enthusiasm for the world. They had seemed thrilled by the arrival of the police. Something different, something exciting to break up the routine. But as Anni and her small team of junior officers and uniforms had gone about their business of interviewing staff and explaining what their procedures would be, the children, she knew, no matter how discreet her team or how careful the teaching staff in explaining things, would soon find out. There was no way the murder of two teachers - well loved, if the comments she had overheard were anything to go by - could not affect them. And then they would see what the police were really there for. And begin to understand that the world wasn’t like they saw on TV; that it could be a horrible, cruel place. That was why Anni had never wanted kids herself. Because no matter how hard you tried to protect them from the world, the world would eventually claim them.
r />   ‘So,’ she continued, her notebook open, ‘were Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson personal friends?’

  Emma Nicholls seemed about to answer but instead sighed, her eyes drifting off, her forced pleasantness slipping away to be replaced by a dark, depressive air. Like a cancer victim who had momentarily forgotten their predicament.

  ‘This is just terrible,’ she said.

  With nothing to add, Anni nodded.

  ‘Oh my God . . .’

  The dark, depressive air was increasing. Anni had to take control. ‘Ms Nicholls,’ she said. ‘I’m most terribly sorry about what’s happened. I realise this is an awful time, but I really do need to ask you some questions.’

  Emma Nicholls pulled herself upright. ‘I know, I know. You’ve . . .’ Her mind drifted again, her features taking on the appearance of approaching tears. She managed to pull herself together. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  The head teacher allowed a small smile to cross her face. ‘At times like this I wish I still smoked.’

  Anni gave a small smile. ‘I’m sure you do. Right. Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson. Friends?’

  Emma Nicholls nodded.

  ‘Julie was Year Six, Claire Year Four, right?’

  Emma Nicholls nodded again, her hands fidgeting as if an imaginary cigarette was there.

  ‘And Claire was pregnant.’

  Another nod.

  ‘How long did she have to go until maternity leave?’

  ‘A couple . . . a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Was it planned, d’you know? Was she happy about it?’

  Emma Nicholls frowned. ‘Is that important? She’s dead.’

  ‘I know. But we have to ask these questions. Helps us find out who did it.’

  ‘Right.’The frown slowly disappeared to be replaced by a sigh. ‘She seemed happy about it, from what I could gather.’

  ‘We believe she had friends round last night.’

  ‘Yes. A baby shower.’ Her lip trembled again.

  ‘Ms Nicholls, we’re trying to track down anyone one else who may have been there. Could you give me any names?’

  Emma Nicholls didn’t have to give the matter any thought. ‘Chrissie Burrows. Geraint Cooper. They were talking about it this morning.’

  ‘That’s it? Just those two?’

  ‘Just . . .’ Tears threatened her eyes again.

  Anni waited until the head teacher was once more under control.

  ‘Ms Nicholls, I’ll need to talk to them too.’

  Emma Nicholls nodded. Anni looked at her notes. ‘What about Claire’s boyfriend? Did she ever mention him?’

  The frown returned to Emma Nicholls’ face, along with a guarded look in her eyes. ‘Her boyfriend.’

  ‘Ryan Brotherton,’ said Anni, looking at her notes once more. ‘At least that’s what we’re assuming. His name crops up a lot in her diary. Dates, that sort of thing. Did she ever mention him at all?’

  ‘Well, Claire didn’t have a very . . . easy relationship with him from what I could gather. As I said, it was none of my business. She was an excellent teacher, very professional, and the children adored her. Whatever else went on in her life, as long as it didn’t impinge on work I couldn’t get involved.’

  Anni said nothing.

  Emma Nicholls continued. ‘Claire had recently split up with her partner.’

  Anni frowned. She hadn’t received that impression from the notebooks in Claire’s flat.

  ‘You look surprised.’

  ‘I am. I was given to understand that the relationship was still ongoing.’

  Emma Nicholls shook her head. ‘Again, I must stress that I seldom interfere, but my staff know my door is always open for them. A few months ago Claire was looking very despondent. I asked her if she wanted to talk. She didn’t. Julie . . .’ Again the dark cloud descended as she spoke the name. ‘Julie . . . told me that Claire and her partner had split up. And that Claire was taking it very badly.’

  ‘When would this have been?’

  Emma Nicholls thought. ‘About . . . when she announced she was pregnant. Five months ago? Six months. Something like that.’ Her fingers fidgeted again. ‘Everyone rallied round, as I said. And she got over it eventually.’

  ‘Do you think she wanted him back?’

  Emma Nicholls looked surprised at the question. ‘Of course. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose I would,’ Anni said, trying to smile.

  ‘Yes. Even him.’

  Anni leaned forward. ‘Even him? What d’you mean?’

  Emma Nicholls did her auditioning thing once more. ‘He . . . I don’t think he did her much good. Not just running out when she was pregnant, but . . .’ She put her head back. Anni felt as if she was about to impart something important. Then she leaned forward, waved her hand. Whatever it was she was going to say, the moment had passed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. You wanted facts. Anything else I could say would be conjecture.’

  Anni realised this would be as much as she was going to get on Claire Fielding. She checked her notes once more. ‘What about Julie Simpson?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Anything happened to her recently that strikes you as out of the ordinary?’

  Emma Nicholls frowned in thought. Shook her head. ‘Nothing . . . No. Nothing.’

  ‘Any enemies?’

  ‘Enemies?’ Emma Nicholls looked round the room as if unable to believe what she had just heard. ‘She was a primary school teacher, not a . . . an international terrorist.’

  ‘No,’ said Anni, ‘but she’s also just been murdered.’

  Emma Nicholls’ face fell. Her head nodded forward. ‘No,’ she said to the floor, ‘no enemies. She was liked in this school. Well liked.’

  ‘No . . .’ Anni tried to be tactful, ‘liaisons? Anything like that? Something that could go wrong?’

  ‘No. Nothing at all. Nothing.’

  Anni nodded. There were at least two people she thought would be able to help her more than the professionally guarded Emma Nicholls. ‘Chrissie Burrows, Geraint Cooper,’ she said. ‘Where could I find them, please?’

  Emma Nicholls made arrangements for Anni to see them. Anni put her notebook away, rose to go, thanked the head teacher for her time.

  ‘Not at all. I just wish I could have been more help.’

  ‘You’ve been fine.’

  Emma Nicholls put her hand on Anni’s arm, stopped her from leaving. ‘There is one more thing. Perhaps you were right.’

  Anni frowned. ‘About what?’

  ‘Ryan Brotherton. I know I said it was over between them. But I got the impression . . . and again this is just conjecture, not fact . . . I got the impression that it may have been over but it wasn’t quite finished. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do. Some people are like that,’ said Anni.

  ‘Men in particular,’ said Emma Nicholls.

  14

  Caroline Eades pointed the BMW 4x4 towards Stanway, drove out of the city centre. As she took it round the roundabout and down the Lexden Road, she felt once again that she wasn’t just driving a car but manoeuvring a tank. She knew all her friends at the gym were jealous, told her how much they loved it, but she hated it. She wished she had never let Graeme buy it for her.

  Her lunch had passed in a pleasant enough way, the same as it always did. Her friends were good company and it was always fun to catch up with the gossip. The Life café on Culver Street West wasn’t Starbucks or Caffè Nero, and when it was her turn, she always insisted they went there. Everyone else went to the chains because they thought they were somewhere to be seen. And because they had the same menu all day every day in every branch and you knew what you were getting. But Caroline found that boring, depressing even. She preferred Life. And the others went along with her.

  With original art for sale on the walls and iMac internet access, Life was individual, a one-off, and it made her feel like an individual going there. It was bright and a
iry and the coffee and cakes were good. Not that she allowed herself cakes all that often. She had compromised: a slice of rocky road with the marshmallows removed. Well, most of them.

  She turned off the Lexden Road before it became London Road, feeling her arms ache as she spun the wheel - even with the power steering it was a beast to manage - and headed towards her estate. It was starting to feel like home now. She had moved there nearly two years ago from a small but very pleasant house in St Mary’s, an area over the walkway from the Mercury Theatre, just outside the town’s wall. Bordered to the west by Crouch Street, and on the east by the wall, it had the feel of a little village within the town, but the nearness to the centre meant it wasn’t too cut off. Broad Street also had its delis, designer clothes shops, restaurants, pubs and furniture shops, all adding to the feel. However, like so much of the town, it had become choked by new apartment blocks and she took that as her sign to leave. By then it was just another suburban outpost of Colchester, the chi-chi shops of Crouch Street an affectation on what was really a main road off the Queensway roundabout.