Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate

by Carver, Tania

  But she kept smiling at him. And he kept focusing on the case.

  Then they touched. Accidentally, both standing over a desk, looking down at a spread of reports and photos. As she went to point at something, her hand came down on top of his. It was like an electric current passed through him. Like it jolted him awake, alive. Made him feel truly connected to another human being for the first time in his life. He looked at her as if shocked. And in that moment, that look, he knew: she felt the same way. She was still smiling at him, but he understood the smile now. She wasn’t laughing at him, mocking him. There was affection there. And something more.

  ‘Listen,’ he had said, ignoring the reports and looking directly at her, her hand sliding slowly off his as if reluctant to move, ‘I was just wondering, d’you fancy a drink or something some time?’

  Phil had felt himself blush then, massively. What was he doing asking her out? What had possessed him to say that? He worked hard within the force to be seen as a man’s man when he had to be and a thief-taker by trade. He had shrugged off death threats from criminals that other officers would be seriously concerned by. But with women, he was all but clueless.

  His mouth was open, ready to attempt to take his words back, when she said yes, that would be lovely.

  ‘Why did you say yes?’ he had asked her on their first proper date, in the Olive Tree restaurant in Colchester’s town centre. It was relaxed and comfortable with good, if slightly pricey, food. The kind of place professionals came to eat. But not usually police officers of his rank. He figured it for a safe place not to be seen.

  They had made small talk on shared interests, discussed the case, whereabouts they both lived. Then Phil decided to move things on.

  And her response was that smile again. Her wine glass at her lips, the deep reds matching, the candlelight dancing in her hazel eyes. ‘Why not?’ she said, taking a slow mouthful of wine. Phil watched as her lips lifted from the glass, glistening. ‘You’re handsome. You’re intelligent. You look like you can handle yourself if you need to, but you’re sensitive too.’

  Phil laughed. ‘Is that a professional opinion?’

  She nodded. ‘A personal one. But it’s true. I can see it in your eyes.’

  He didn’t know what to say.

  She laughed. ‘Are you happy being a detective?’

  Phil was surprised by the question. ‘Yeah. Are you happy being a psychologist?’

  Marina smiled. ‘They say all psychologists are damaged and are just trying to find their way home.’

  ‘They say all police are racist, violent thugs.’

  ‘Not the ones with sensitive eyes.’

  Phil was feeling uncomfortable but exhilarated by her honesty. ‘So is that the case with you? Are you trying to find your way home?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m on the right path.’

  She asked what appealed to him about police work. He was going to give her something boring and mundane: the hours were good, the pension scheme, something like that. But seeing her eyes, feeling the way they bored into him, and after the answer she had given him, he couldn’t just do that. She needed something more, something honest.

  ‘Well, it’s like this. You get a case. You get called out. Something’s happened. A robbery, a murder. Whatever. It’s a mess. There’s usually someone in tears, a house torn up, lives in pieces. Something like that. And they don’t know what to do next.’ He shrugged. ‘And it’s up to me to find out what’s going on. See what’s gone wrong and help repair it. Make sense of it.’ She was still looking at him. He felt suddenly self-conscious. This woman was unlike any he had ever met before. He picked up his wine glass to hide behind. ‘That’s it, really.’

  She slowly nodded. ‘Did you go to university?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Did you want to?’

  Another shrug. ‘Maybe. Wasn’t an option at the time.’

  She toyed with the stem of her glass, frowning slightly. It left a lovely little crease in her forehead. ‘You like reading, I bet.’ A statement, not a question. ‘But you don’t tell anyone at work in case they have a go at you about it.’

  He thought of the bookshelves in his flat. Filled with all sorts of stuff. Everything from philosophy and poetry to literature, biography and airport thrillers. He had a thirst for knowledge, for understanding, the roots of which he was sure lay in his childhood. He hadn’t found what he was looking for, though. The only thing that gave him real satisfaction was police work.

  He shrugged again, growing even more uncomfortable with her questions.

  ‘You had a bad childhood, didn’t you? Lot of hurt there. Damage.’

  The exhilaration was gone. Phil felt only discomfort. ‘Sorry. Off limits.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Marina, looking down at her plate. ‘I only mentioned it because I sensed it, that’s all. Because . . .’ She paused. ‘I recognised it. ’ She looked up, eye to eye. ‘There’s something in you that reminds me of me. I’m sorry if I’ve got that wrong.’

  Phil looked at her, said nothing. She slid her hand across the table. They touched. Electricity sparked again. As if the touch confirmed that they understood each other instinctively.

  ‘D’you want to know about me? I don’t mind,’ she said. She opened up then, told him of her home life, how her alcoholic, abusive father had walked out on her mother and two brothers when she was only seven years old, coming back occasionally into the lives only to cause anguish and upset.

  ‘He was a bastard: a pathological liar, a bully, a cheat, a wife-beater,’ she said, her eyes clouding over with unpleasant memories.

  ‘And those were his good points,’ Phil had said, trying to turn her from the dark emotional path her words were sending her down.

  She smiled. Continued.Told him how she was encouraged at school, how they praised her intelligence, cajoled her to push herself and her studies. She had willingly responded, eager to get away from her background.

  ‘So you’re not from round here? I didn’t think you had an accent.’

  ‘I’m from Birmingham originally,’ she said. ‘And that’s an accent you don’t want to carry round with you.’ She continued, telling him how she had been awarded a scholarship to Cambridge and chosen psychology.

  ‘I suppose I chose it because of my dad. I wanted to understand what made him the way he was. Why he did what he did.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yeah. But I didn’t need a degree in psychology to work out that he’s just a vicious, lazy bastard.’

  Her mother had died soon afterwards of cancer, robbing her of the chance to see her only daughter graduate. ‘And I feel bad about that. I wanted her to be proud of me.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’

  Marina nodded, her eyes averted.

  ‘And what about your brothers?’

  A shadow passed across her eyes as she spoke. ‘Let’s just say they grew up to resemble their father. I’m sure your colleagues in the Midlands have more to do with them than I do.’

  Phil raised an eyebrow, didn’t push it.

  ‘So, you’re from Colchester?’ she said. ‘Lived here all your life?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said, hoping she would laugh. She did. Politely. ‘And you’re not married,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Is there . . . anyone?’

  A curious look crossed her face. ‘I’m living with someone. ’

  Phil’s heart sank. ‘Oh.’

  Marina shrugged. ‘It’s . . . we’ve been together a long time.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He’s . . . I was his student. He was my lecturer.’ She shrugged. ‘At least we waited until I’d finished the course. Well, more or less. He was . . .’

  ‘A father figure?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Before Phil could say anything more, she went on. ‘Maybe it’s time I . . . Sometimes I feel more like his . . .’ She looked at her drink, swirling it round in the glass. ‘I don’t know. So that’s me. What about you?’

&nb
sp; Because Marina had been honest with him, Phil felt that honesty should now be reciprocated. He spoke. And Marina listened attentively.

  He told her of the pain of being abandoned, of growing up in various children’s homes and foster homes until Don and Eileen Brennan took him in.

  ‘They gave me everything I’d been lacking. A home. A sense of belonging, I don’t know . . . a purpose.’ He smiled, took a drink of wine. ‘Sorry. I’m not very good at talking about all this. It’s . . . I can’t express myself well.’

  Her hand was on his again. She smiled. ‘You’ve told me everything.’

  Their eyes locked once more. Different colours but the same in every sense that mattered. They went straight back to his flat.

  He hadn’t had time to fully take in her body before they began making love. The connection continued. Nerves evaporated as they quickly fell into rhythm with each other, complementing and second-guessing what the other enjoyed, linked almost by a carnal telepathy. It was hot, physical, intense. Connected by more than just bodily sensations.

  At one point, her legs wrapped round him, pulling him into her as deeply as he could go, he had opened his eyes to see her staring up at him. She had smiled. He had returned it. And in that moment he knew there was something between them stronger than lust or physical attraction. It was stronger than any bond he had ever experienced. It thrilled him beyond description.

  It scared him beyond imagining.

  He came.

  Later, lying spent and exhausted, their bodies intertwined, Phil tried to work out what had just happened. It was more than just a physical release. He glanced across at Marina. Knew without asking that she was experiencing the same thing. It was the biggest thing that had ever happened to him. Again he was thrilled. Again he was terrified.

  Early-morning sunlight eased round the curtains. They had barely slept. Phil pointed the remote at the CD; Elbow played gently in the background: ‘One Day Like This’. The euphoric love song establishing and nourishing the mood.

  ‘Aren’t you going to be in trouble when you get home?’

  Her face was half in shadow. ‘Leave that to me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I don’t do this normally, you know,’ said Marina.

  ‘What, you do it abnormally?’

  She gave him a shove. ‘You’re hysterical. I meant that. Jumping into bed with people.’

  ‘People? You want a threesome now? Foursome?’

  Another shove. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Phil laughed. ‘I know. Then why did you do it?’

  Their eyes connected. ‘Why did you ask me out?’

  Phil couldn’t bear to look at her; the intimacy was too naked, too knowing. ‘Felt right.’

  ‘More than right,’ she said.

  Phil couldn’t reply. He just held her tighter. Felt the damage and uncertainty slip away, to be replaced by the beautiful, terrible peace of a love that reached down to his soul.

  Held Marina like she was about to stop being real, turn into smoke. Knew she was experiencing similar emotions.

  Knew that, whatever happened, his life would never be the same again.

  Phil pointed the remote at the stereo, silencing Elbow before the album reached the track that reminded him of Marina. It wasn’t healthy: like picking a wound, stopping it from healing.

  He drained his bottle, put it down. Looked at the half-eaten takeaway before him. He couldn’t eat. There was another bottle in the fridge if he needed it. He felt the start of a headache. Forced it away. He couldn’t indulge himself. He had to work.

  Trying to push Marina out of his mind, he made himself re-examine the day he had just gone through. Close up his heart to her, compartmentalise his life and concentrate on finding a killer. And a baby.

  He played back the events of the day, starting with the discovery of Claire Fielding’s body. Went over everything once again, looking for something they might have missed, attempting to make hidden connections.

  Ignored the loneliness in his flat, his life.

  Focused on his job.

  Unaware that the song was still on his lips.

  30

  Marina stood at the window, glass of sparkling apple juice in hand, wishing it was something stronger. In front of her was a path, and beyond that the River Colne moved slowly past. Her house, a painted brick cottage with clematis climbing round the porch, was on the front at Wivenhoe, a quaint old fishing village now colonised primarily by academics working at the nearby university. The whole village had a relaxed, cultured ambience. A homely, safe place. But, putting the glass to her lips, Marina was feeling neither of those things.

  Tony was cooking a late dinner. Nothing special, pasta arrabiata. It should have been Marina’s turn but he had taken one look at her as she entered and, handing her a glass of juice and kissing her forehead, declared he would do it. She had made a half-hearted attempt to refuse.

  ‘No,’ he had said, fussing around her, his reading glasses still perched on the end of his nose, ‘my last seminar finished at five, and since then I’ve done nothing but read and drink wine, so . . .’ He sat her down in an armchair as if she was an invalid and handed her a newspaper, then, pleased with himself for being so solicitous, retreated into the kitchen. She had smiled at him, accepted it. He was good to her, she told herself.

  She had looked round the living room of their cottage, filled as it was with books, interesting one-off pieces of furniture, subdued lighting, unexpected pictures, plants and wall hangings. They had done that to show visitors and themselves that they were interesting people leading a full, rich life. The opposite of the house she had grown up in. But crossing to the window and looking out at the slow-moving, sluggish, dark river, Marina felt as if it all belonged to someone else and not her.

  Music wafted from the kitchen - some chilled Brazilian beats Tony had picked up somewhere - along with delicious cooking odours that any other night would have had her stomach rumbling in anticipation. But not tonight. She took a sip of her drink, grimaced, disappointed in herself that she had expected something that wasn’t there.

  She saw Claire Fielding’s dead body. Julie Simpson’s too. The other two women. Phil had been right about the murder scene. It felt like they shouldn’t have been there. Like life had passed on.

  Phil. She had planned what she was going to say to him the next time she saw him. Several times. But as the weeks had passed and life had ground on without him, she had resigned herself to never seeing him again. And perhaps, she had thought, that was for the best. She was back with Tony, pregnant, with a fledgling private practice. Her life had moved on. Or at least back. Back into her safety zone.

  But here they were, together again. And she hadn’t been able to say anything to him. Because every time she thought of him, she saw Martin Fletcher’s face. The locked door. She felt the cold fear bubble and boil inside her once more, and then she thought of Phil. And it all rendered her speechless.

  She hadn’t realised how much of a rut she had fallen into before the police called her in on the Gemma Hardy case. Routine had turned to drudgery without her noticing. Her safe job, her pension. And Tony, her safe man.

  But then she hadn’t wanted an exciting man. Before she met Tony she had been attracted to the kinds of men who reminded her of her father. She knew it was wrong, not to mention unhealthy, but nevertheless she kept going back, kept seeking them out. Until one day she had looked in the mirror and seriously questioned what she was doing. And found that she couldn’t do it any more.

  Tony had been there. A good man, solid, dependable. Thoughtful, pleasant, companionable. Old enough to be her father, but his diametric opposite in every other respect. He didn’t thrill her or excite her, but he made her feel comfortable. Safe. He was kind to her. And those, she told herself, were admirable qualities. He asked her out, she accepted. And that was that. He wanted her to move in with him, out of her town-centre flat, into his cottage in Wivenhoe. She had done so. And felt comfortable. Conte
nt. Or so she thought.

  By the time of the Gemma Hardy case she was ready for a new challenge. And she got one. It taxed her, stretched her. Being forced to turn something she only dealt with theoretically into a practical application, with a young woman’s life potentially at stake, terrified her. But it also pushed her, confronted her. And when she helped provide the team with a positive result, it gave her a thrill teaching never had. Never could.