Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate

by Carver, Tania

  ‘Nine o’clock. The Lamb and Flag, Procter Road, New Town.You know it?’

  He did.

  ‘And I’ll need a lift home afterwards.’

  ‘Right.’

  He rang off. Looked round. The graveyard was fully dark by now. Ghosts and other horrors were free to lurk. He turned, walked back to the station. He didn’t need those ghosts.

  He had enough of his own.

  17

  Anni Hepburn was still questioning Geraint Cooper.

  ‘So Ryan Brotherton killed Claire? Is that what you’re saying?’

  Geraint Cooper nodded. ‘Not content with just Claire, he has to do Julie as well.’

  ‘Why d’you say that, Mr Cooper?’

  ‘Oh, come on. It’s got to be him. That bastard.’

  ‘Do you have any proof, Mr Cooper?’

  He looked at her, anger abating slightly. ‘Well, no. But it must be, mustn’t it?’

  ‘Why must it be?’

  ‘Because of what he was like.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘You said he didn’t want the baby and wanted Claire to get rid of it. She wouldn’t and she dumped him. Hardly sounds like grounds for murder.’

  ‘Well, he was a bastard. The worst kind of bloke. The kind kids leave home to avoid and spend all their lives hating.’

  ‘Abusive?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Was he not.’

  ‘To Claire?’

  Geraint Cooper calmed down, nodded. His voice dropped. ‘She always goes for the same type. Big blokes, look like they can handle themselves. Real macho. I’ve told her she shouldn’t, they’re trouble, won’t do her any good, but she still does it.’ He stopped, attempted to correct himself. ‘Does . . . did . . .’ He sighed again, fighting back tears, then used his anger to regained composure. ‘Oh God . . . anyway. It’s him.’

  ‘Tell me more about him, Mr Cooper.’

  He leaned forward. Anni didn’t doubt the honesty or sincerity in his eyes. ‘He was awful to her. Started out nice, but then they all do. Then a couple of months in, he changed. Little things. She was late home. Bang. She looked at someone in a pub a funny way. Bang. He didn’t like the dinner she’d cooked him. Bang.’

  ‘But she didn’t leave him?’

  He shook his head. ‘She was unhappy, but she loved him. Kept going back to him. Every time. She would turn up at my house or Julie’s in tears with a black eye or something, saying she was going to leave him. Then she’d get better and he’d call her, promise never to do it again, and that would be it. She’d have him back.’

  ‘Right,’ said Anni.

  Geraint Cooper looked at her, his face hard. ‘I suppose you’re saying she deserved it, aren’t you? That she brought it on herself for being so stupid? So soft? For letting him do that?’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Cooper,’ said Anni, her voice calm and even. ‘I’ve seen this happen a lot. Too much, to be honest. And not to soft, stupid women. They’re intelligent, sensible and mature. And often they don’t know how they’ve ended up in that state either.’

  Her words seemed to calm him down.

  ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘We had what you’d call an intervention. Julie, Chrissie and me. We were her best friends. And we hated what was happening to her. Hated it. Luckily we managed to make her see sense.’

  ‘But the next thing, she was pregnant?’

  Geraint Cooper nodded.

  ‘By Ryan Brotherton?’

  He nodded again. ‘That’s when she finally left him.’

  Anni frowned.That contradicted what Emma Nicholls had said. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. He said he didn’t want a baby. At all. Under any circumstances. She did. Even his. So he decided she was going to get rid of it. And if she didn’t do it, he would. Forcibly.’

  Anni swallowed hard, kept her face as straight as possible. ‘How?’ Her voice was slightly less calm than she wanted it to be.

  Geraint Cooper held up his hands, clenched them hard. ‘With these.’

  ‘Right.’ She swallowed again. ‘And that’s when she left him.’

  He nodded. ‘And that’s when he decided he wanted her back.’

  ‘What about the baby?’

  He shrugged. ‘He wanted her more.’

  ‘So how did he go about that?’

  ‘Nice as anything. Charming, flowers, the lot. He’d changed, he was a new man, the usual.’

  ‘And did it work?’

  ‘No. Like I said, she had us with her now. We helped her be strong.’

  Anni frowned again. ‘So he didn’t run out on her; she ran out on him?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And he didn’t like that.’

  Geraint Cooper rolled his eyes. ‘He certainly didn’t.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Got nasty. Phone calls, mainly. Threatening ones. Horrible ones. What he would do to her if he got hold of her. What he would do if she didn’t come back to him. What he would do.’

  ‘If she didn’t come back to him.You keep saying that,’ she said. ‘I heard the story was that he left her. Is that not right?’

  He shook his head, looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Some people may have been given that impression.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we wanted them to think that. It helped Claire. The three of us there last night, we weren’t just her friends. We were her support group. We kept her going.’

  Anni said nothing, knew there was more to come.

  ‘Think about it. Isn’t it easier to say that you’re pregnant and single because your man’s left you rather than because you’ve summoned up the courage to leave him after he threatened to kill your baby?’

  ‘He actually said that? Those words? That’s what the phones calls were about? He threatened to kill the baby?’

  Geraint Cooper nodded. And kept nodding. And all those tears he had been holding back started to break out.

  Anni closed her notebook. She had everything she needed for now.

  18

  ‘Thanks for doing this,’ said Phil. ‘Really appreciate it.’

  Nick Lines shrugged; one case was much the same as another to him. ‘Not my decision to make. Those on high deem it high priority; I just act accordingly.’

  Phil had done a background check on Ryan Brotherton, and with Clayton still not back and everyone else out on jobs, he phoned Nick Lines. The cadaverous pathologist had been as good as his word, doing both post-mortems in record time. Phil had wasted no time coming straight to the mortuary at Colchester General, where he had released DC Adrian Wren to take care of other duties.

  Nick Lines’ office was, in contrast to the clean, sterile, stainless-steel efficiency of the cutting room, a mixture of professional clutter and personal effects. Newspaper articles pinned up on the wall, both serious and jokey, alongside schlocky film postcards, fifties sci-fi and horror. Superhero action figures struck ridiculous poses on shelves. Surprising things, Phil thought. But then it was that kind of profession. Nick Lines was clearly a surprising man.

  As they spoke, a CD played in the background. Something gothic and baroque, Phil noted, yet tuneful. He couldn’t place it.

  ‘What’s this we’re listening to, by the way?’ he asked.

  ‘The Triffids,’ said Nick, throwing a CD case across the desk, pleased that Phil had asked but hiding his pleasure. ‘Calenture. Brilliant album.’

  ‘Right,’ said Phil, as he listened to lyrics about sewing up eyelids and stitching up lips. He didn’t ask any more. ‘The results?’

  Nick nodded, opened a yellow file, sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers before him. Like a Bond villain about to explain his plan for world domination. ‘The same blade was used on both victims,’ he said, the words drawling, as if his findings had thrilled him to the point of inactivity. ‘About seven inches long, smooth, very sharp edge. Probably a hunting knife, something like that. Quite a heavy blade judging by t
he size and shape of the incisions.’

  ‘Could this knife have been used in the previous two murders? ’ asked Phil.

  ‘I think so,’ said Nick, nodding. ‘Of course I’ve only made a preliminary re-examination of the other two cases at this stage, but I think it’s fair to assume.’ He went back to his explanation. ‘The knife was actually used in different ways. Julie Simpson, the first victim, was stabbed with a sharp slash to the throat. Death wouldn’t have been long in coming.’

  He paused for dramatic effect. The Triffids were singing about being blinder by the hour. That just reminded Phil that time was running out.

  ‘The second victim was dispatched in a completely different way. Physically restrained while a drug was administered.’

  ‘What drug?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Tests aren’t back yet, but my guess is introcostrin. It’s a neuro-muscular blocking drug. Controls spontaneous muscle movement during surgical procedures, usually given in very controlled doses.’ He sounded almost regretful. ‘However, this was administered in a much larger dose.’

  Phil frowned. ‘How big are we talking?’

  ‘Very big,’ said Nick. ‘Paralysis would have been almost instantaneous.’

  ‘So that was for . . . what? To stop her moving?’

  ‘Larger than that,’ the pathologist said. ‘It would have stopped her breathing.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Phil. ‘Can we trace the drug? How easy is it to get hold of?’

  ‘It’s worth a try. If it’s local, you may be able to find it. But it won’t be easy. If someone’s taken it from a hospital, they’ll have likely covered their tracks. And if they got it from the internet, a counterfeit . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  Phil made a note.

  ‘Was it accidental, d’you think? Giving her that much? Or did he mean to?’

  Nick smiled. Like he had set a secret test and Phil had passed it. ‘That, in the rather overused and clichéd words of the Bard, is the question. My guess, and it’s only that, is that he didn’t mean to. He wanted her compliant. He then tied her to the bed. It was clear the drug had kicked in by then because there was very little abrasion on the skin against the restraints. She didn’t - or rather couldn’t - struggle. Then he got to work cutting the baby out of her. For that he used the same knife he dispatched Julie Simpson with.’

  ‘Could he have drugged her to keep her silent? Block of flats, people home . . .’

  ‘Very possible. Not easy to keep that kind of thing quiet.’

  Phil thought for a moment. ‘How fast d’you think he worked?’ he asked.

  Nick frowned.

  ‘Would there have been time for the drug to have spread to the baby? Would it have been removed still breathing?’

  ‘Speculation only, I’m afraid. There was very little finesse about the incisions. They were made quickly, which would suggest he was working towards a purpose. I’d say there’s a chance that the drug hadn’t reached the baby by then.’

  ‘So we can assume it’s still alive?’

  Nick shrugged. ‘That would be my assumption.’

  ‘How skilled were they? I mean medically? Surgically trained?’

  The pathologist mulled over the question. ‘Trained . . . no. Skilled . . . perhaps. They might have had a rudimentary grasp of what they were doing. They knew where to cut. But not a professional. An enthusiastic amateur.’

  ‘And Lord preserve us from them,’ said Phil. ‘What about DNA? Anything back yet?’

  Nick shook his head. ‘Too early. Could be anything up to a week, even more.’

  ‘What about sex?’

  Nick gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘It’s a kind offer but I’m afraid you’re not my type.’

  Phil shook his head. ‘I’ll bet you’re a wow at the Christmas party.’

  Nick raised an eyebrow, gave a small smile. Phil didn’t want to think about it.

  ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘No evidence of sexual activity. Forced, consensual or otherwise. With either body.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Phil was digesting what he had heard. ‘Right. Well, if that’s it, I’ll be off.’ He moved to pick up the file.

  ‘Couple of things,’ said Nick. Phil stopped, waited. The pathologist slid another sheet of paper across the desk. ‘Took the liberty of speaking to a colleague in Ob/Gyn. She factored in the variables: traumatic delivery, premature by four weeks - I checked Claire Fielding’s records; she had a Caesarean booked for four weeks’ time - drug administered to the mother . . .’ He sighed. ‘If the baby receives fortifiers along with plenty of milk and is kept warm, it might be all right.’

  ‘Where would you find these fortifiers?’

  ‘Anywhere. That’s the good news. But if it doesn’t receive constant quality care or it develops breathing difficulties, I think we’re talking hours rather than days.’

  Phil took the paper. Felt the familiar band tighten round his chest. ‘Thanks. I think.’ He ignored the pressure building inside him, made his way to the door.

  ‘Something else. This was all done with some force. I think that that, along with the angle at which the blade entered Julie Simpson, would rule out the possibility of it being a woman. Unless that woman was a six-foot, sixteen-stone bodybuilder.’

  Phil nodded. Thought of someone who fitted that description perfectly.

  ‘Go get him, Phil,’ said Nick.

  Phil nodded. Left as fast as he could.

  19

  ‘Okay,’ said Phil, striding into the bar. ‘Gather and pool. What have we got?’

  Everyone looked up.

  ‘Just briefly,’ he said, ‘before we go home.’

  It didn’t look like anyone was about to go home. In fact the bar looked like his team had moved in for the duration and had no intention of leaving until the killer was caught and the baby found. Anni was writing up reports at her desk, Marina next to her. The Birdies, DC Adrian Wren and DS Jane Gosling, sat at their desks, Adrian tall and rake-thin, Jane round and squat. They looked to Phil like an old music-hall double act, but they were two dedicated coppers.

  Ben Fenwick entered.

  ‘Come and join us,’ said Phil.

  The overhead lighting compensated for the evening darkness outside, keeping the room unnaturally, even depressingly, bright. The whiteboard in front of the bar displayed grisly before-and-after shots of Claire Fielding, Julie Simpson, Lisa King and Susie Evans: one from life, one from death. Before: smiling, displaying contentment or the hope that being alive held. After: lifeless and soulless. Arrows pointing outwards from them, bloodied husks reduced to components and clues. To the right, a map of Colchester, the scenes of death highlighted. Below that, a photo of Ryan Brotherton. A marker invited anyone to fill the remaining white space with facts, supposition, hypotheses. Make links, illuminate secret, occult connections, bring order to chaos, provide answers. Next to the board was a TV on a stand with a VCR/DVD combination underneath.

  ‘Where’s Clayton?’ asked Anni.

  ‘Following something up,’ said Phil. ‘He should be with us shortly.’

  ‘Glory-hunter,’ said Anni, just loud enough for Phil to catch. He knew Clayton had his eye on bigger places than Colchester, higher rank than DS. This was probably the perfect case for him to move up on the back of. If they got a result.

  Phil fixed her with his eyes, chastised her, but let her words go. This wasn’t the time or the place.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘it’s roughly seven hours since the bodies of Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson were discovered, and that baby’s still out there. Let’s go. Anni?’

  Anni checked her notes, told the team about her findings at All Saints Primary. Chrissie Burrows, Geraint Cooper and Julie Simpson, celebrating Claire’s pregnancy. How they were more than friends, a support group for Claire Fielding. Because of Ryan Brotherton and what he had threatened. Phil stepped in.

  ‘Ryan Brotherton,’ he said, ‘previous for ABH, assault. Done time in Chelmsford for it, too. Domestic-abuse-related,
all directed against women.’

  Marina put her head down, started writing.

  ‘And he threatened to kill the baby if Claire didn’t have an abortion?’ asked Fenwick.

  ‘With his own hands,’ said Anni.

  The sides of Ben Fenwick’s mouth twitched as if they wanted to smile but weren’t yet allowed and his eyes lit up. ‘Looks like we have an early front-runner,’ he said.