She fought against it again. Pushed her hands between her legs, clamped down hard with her thighs.
‘No . . . no . . . Don’t come back, it’s fine. It’s going to be fine . . .’
Rocking backwards and forwards in the bed while she did it.
It was no good. The memory, long suppressed, was already there. Once again she could feel the guilt lance through her, the hurt and humiliation. Crawling naked along the floor, blood and other bodily secretions oozing from her, those cruel, hateful words still ringing in her ears. And all that pain, working through her body, pounding in her head. More than one person could stand. Certainly more than the person she used to be could stand.
Once again she remembered how that hurt and humiliation had driven her to the kitchen. Told her to open the drawer. In her mind’s eye she could barely see what she was doing, tears had been streaming so hard down her face.
‘Stop it . . . stop it . . .’ Rocking in the bed, curled up in a foetal ball, hands still pushed firmly between her thighs. But sparked by the dead child lying next to her, those long-suppressed memories just kept coming. They wouldn’t stop.
‘Oh God . . . no . . .’
She was seeing her own hand once again open the drawer, reach for the knife . . .
‘No . . .’
She clamped down harder, screwed her eyes tight shut.
‘Make it stop . . . no . . . I don’t want to . . .’
Take the knife, place it against her skin . . . Feel how cold and sharp the blade was against the soft flesh of her lower stomach. Push - tentatively at first - to see what it felt like, to see if it was a pain she could stand . . .
No words now, just muffled, inarticulate sobs.
But what was one more kind of pain against the rest that were swirling around inside her? She pushed, harder again. Felt blood trickle down her skin from underneath the path of the blade. It tickled, felt like it was nothing at all. She couldn’t call it pain. Not really. Not compared to the rest of her.
She felt once again her hand grasping herself between the legs, pulling out the skin and gristle, stretching it out . . .
More sobs, more rocking, more shaking.
Pulling, stretching as far as it would go . . . willing this to be an end, hoping and praying that the pain would stop when she had done it . . .
Just get it over with . . .
And then, with the realisation that whatever she did couldn’t be worse than what she was at present, she took the knife in her other hand and brought the blade swiftly down.
It didn’t go as planned. It was harder than she had imagined, tougher to cut through. But she managed, sawing backwards and forwards. The pain was so much more intense than she had thought it would be. And the blood, so much blood . . .
She felt she might black out. But she didn’t, she couldn’t. Looking down, she saw the job half finished, that hateful piece of gristle hanging off her body, bloodied and mangled. With a surge of rage she plunged the blade in once again and, in a fresh bout of arterial spray, resumed cutting.
And then, eventually, it was off.
She held it in her hand, that offending piece of flesh now looking so small and harmless. Shrivelled and lifeless.
Hester had smiled then, out of relief or respite from the pain she couldn’t remember. But she knew she had smiled.
Before she collapsed.
32
When Hester opened her eyes, she was standing in front of the cot, looking at the baby. Her memories receding, waiting for her husband to arrive.
What the fuck’s the matter with you now, woman? What you standin’ there like that for?
He was there. She quickly wiped her eyes, willed the last smoky trails of her memory to be gone. She didn’t want him to know she was thinking of that again. Anything but that.
‘The . . . the baby . . .’
What about it?
‘It . . .’ She knew she had to deflect her attention away from her memories. She took her hands from between her legs and pointed at the cot. ‘It died . . .’
‘It’s dead,’ she said again when he didn’t respond.
I can see that.
‘What . . . what should we do?’
Bury it.
So she did. As soon as it was time to get up, she climbed out of bed and took the now cold and stiffening body from the cot. She carried it outside and picked up a shovel. It was difficult. The cold, hard earth proved unyielding to anything less than her pickaxe. So she swung it down, over and over, until she had loosened enough ground to dig a shallow grave.
And there she stood, looking down at the empty patch of earth, the weak early-morning light casting a deep, spidery shadow into it. Hester and her husband were the only people around along the bleak, deserted coastline. She put the pickaxe down and picked up the tiny body in one hand. The sky was grey and oppressive, like it was pressing down on her, trying to squash her into the ground too. She took the blanket from the baby, knelt down and placed the body in the hole.
She stood up, looked down at it. And felt something. Again there was that emptiness, that strange aching feeling inside her. It seemed to well up inside her, building in her chest. She opened her mouth, put her head back. And out came a wail, as surprising to her as it was plaintive and heartfelt. It sounded like a wounded, cornered animal that could fight no more and knew it was about to die. The sound had a pained inevitability to it. She kept howling and screaming, her head back, her eyes closed. Just howling and screaming.
She didn’t know how long she stood there. Time for Hester became elastic and stretched, then fluid and flowed away. Then finally solid once more as she opened her eyes. Her voice was silent, her throat raw. She felt empty, spent. She looked round. The baby’s body was still lying in the grave. She picked up the shovel, began to heap earth on to it. Each spadeful fell with a flat, spattering crash until eventually the body was covered. She tamped and smoothed down the earth, stood upright once more.
The emptiness she had thought she felt wasn’t there. The pain inside her that had caused her to wail was. It had returned when the baby had become obscured by dirt. In fact, it was growing stronger. Her earlier memories of shame and rage were now totally forgotten, or at least suppressed once more. This was a more immediate pain. This called for a direct resolution.
She was holding the dead, headless chicken.
Here, said her husband.You’ll know what to do with that.
She couldn’t take her eyes off the patch of smooth earth. ‘The baby’s gone . . .’ she said once more. The words, she knew, were unnecessary, but she felt she had to say something. Fill in the gap between the earth and the sky.
‘We were goin’ to be a family,’ she said.
Her husband was silent. She continued.
‘The baby was goin’ to make us a family.’
We’ll get another one.
Hester smiled, eyes shining. ‘Can we? Because that’s what couples do when things like this happen. It’s what makes them families.’
There’s more on the list.
Another smile played across Hester’s features. ‘Have you got one in mind? Have you been out hunting again?’
I’ve got one in mind.
Hester could have kissed him, she was so happy.
‘When can we get it?’
Soon. Now take that hen inside and get to work. I’m gettin’ hungry.
Hester went inside. She gave barely a backward glance to the flattened mound of earth. She didn’t need to now. That was in the past. Water under the bridge and all that. This was the present.
She had something to look forward to. She was going to have a baby. She was going to be a mother again.
She was going to be complete.
Part Two
33
‘Morning.’
Clayton locked his car, strode across the car park, smiling at Anni. She tried to return the smile, found her facial muscles wouldn’t allow her to be wholly successful. Instead she nodded. He reach
ed her, stopped, his own smile evaporating. Scrutinised her face, caught her mood. Frowned.
‘What’s up?’
She dug deeper, crinkled the corners of her lips upwards. ‘Nothing. Everything’s fine.’
Clayton’s smile returned, reassured. ‘Good. Glad to hear it.’
It didn’t take much, she thought, to make Clayton’s world right again. But then he wasn’t the deepest of thinkers. He was charming, though. And handsome. And she was sure she wasn’t the first woman who had been taken in by him.
‘So,’ she said, still deciding what she was going to say, ‘what did you do last night?’
He shrugged. ‘This an’ that. Went to the gym.’ He smiled, as if at a private joke.
She nodded.
‘What about you?’
‘Surveillance. Brotherton.’
A shadow passed over his face. ‘When?’
She shrugged, tried to keep her voice non-committal. ‘Late on. Not been long off it. Should still be in bed.’
‘Why aren’t you?’ he said, very quickly.
Anni smiled inwardly. Feeling guilty? she thought. Think I’ve come in to have a little chat with Phil? ‘Suppose I should be. Still, got to make the most of the overtime, haven’t you?’
He smiled again, clearly relieved to see she was thinking the way he was. ‘Too right.’
She had come straight to work from the surveillance, telling herself she would get cleaned up at the station. She had sat in her car in the car park, waiting for Clayton to turn up. She didn’t have anything specific planned to say to him, but she wanted to confront him before they went in, see what he said about escorting Brotherton’s girlfriend back to the house last night. About what happened in the car.
‘You have a good workout, then?’
Clayton looked puzzled. ‘What?’
‘The gym.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Another relieved smile. ‘Yeah. Should join me sometime.’ The smile took on another, unmistakable meaning. ‘Work up a sweat together. Might be fun.’
Her turn to smile then. But not in the way he necessarily imagined. She opened her mouth to speak, the thought transferred directly to her lips, bypassing her brain. Why don’t you take Sophie? she thought. Give more than her facial muscles a workout. But she stopped herself in time. She had nothing to gain from doing that. And everything to gain from keeping silent.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.
‘Good. I’m lookin’ forward to it.’ Clayton gave her another smile, as if he could imagine exactly what would happen. This was the moment, she thought, when she was expected to squirm and look grateful. He should know her better than that.
He began walking towards the doors.
Anni held back. ‘I’ll join you in a bit. Just got something I want to check out first.’
He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
He turned, walked away. Smiling at another woman he passed.
Anni shook her head. He just couldn’t help himself, she thought.
She paused, looked at the entrance, watched Clayton disappear inside. She tried to analyse her feelings, her reactions to Clayton’s responses. She felt spurned, for sure. He had used her for sex, and while she had tried to pretend to herself that she was using him too, she had found herself hurt all the same. But if that was all it was, she would have confronted him about it, told him exactly what she thought of him.
No, it was something more. It wasn’t just the fact that she had seen him with another woman. That woman was at the very least a witness in a multiple murder case. Possibly an accessory even. He was keeping things from the team. Things that could potentially harm the investigation. And she wasn’t going to allow that to happen.
She had thought about the best way to deal with it, and had given him the chance to say something. He hadn’t taken it; in fact he had lied to her, looked scared that she might have found him out.
Anni turned, walked towards the double doors, her mind made up. She would say something, but not yet. First she was going to find out everything she could about possible links between Clayton and Sophie Gale.
Phil looked round the room. The Birdies were there, Clayton; even uber-geek Millhouse had torn himself away from his computer screen, his eyes red-rimmed behind his black-framed glasses. Anni sat at her desk, Marina at hers. His gaze lingered on her a beat too long.
No sign of Fenwick.
The room was exactly as it had been the previous day. The board still dominated in front of the bar, the TV/VCR/DVD set up next to it. Phil scanned the room once more. Already the strain was beginning to show on his colleagues’ faces. It wasn’t so much that they were tired but that they were all feeling the collective responsibility of having to come up with a positive result, and quickly. And in the intense spotlight glare of the media and the public. Not to mention the police themselves. Catch the killer, find the baby alive. No pressure there, then.
‘Okay,’ he said with energy, trying to inject some adrenalin and focus into his group, ‘let’s make this quick and get out there. What have we got?’
‘CCTV,’ said DC Adrian Wren. He crossed to the TV, turned it on. Slipped a disc in, took the remote, sat down in the nearest seat. ‘Came through first thing. Watch.’
The TV screen showed a grainy image of Claire Fielding’s block of flats. It was night-time.
‘Night before last,’ said Adrian. ‘Here’s the time we want.’ He froze the frame. It showed a figure moving up by the side of the apartment block. A tall, stocky figure wearing a buttoned-up overcoat and a hat pulled down, disguising its face. Adrian let the footage move again. The figure walked purposefully towards the entrance of the block, looked round, waited. Adrian froze the frame once more.
No one in the room spoke or moved. Their attention was focused solely on the TV. Phil was no different. He was thinking exactly what everyone else in the room was thinking: This is him.This is our first glimpse of the murderer.
‘Big bloke,’ said Clayton, the first to speak. He was voicing what everyone in the room was thinking: it could be Brotherton. A few nods, grunts of assent in return. They waited for the footage to resume once more.
‘Time here?’ asked Phil.
‘Just after seven thirty,’ said Adrian. ‘Now look. He wants to get in but can’t find a way. No key. So he waits.’
He clicked and pointed with the remote once more. The figure tried the double doors, then moved away and disappeared round the corner. A slight fast-forward, then he returned carrying three bags of shopping.
Phil frowned. ‘We didn’t find any shopping anywhere . . .’
The figure stayed around the side of the building. Eventually a woman approached the double doors, took out a key to enter. The figure detached himself and struggled towards her, making the bags look as heavy as possible. The woman turned, her hand keeping the door pushed open.
‘It looks like he’s calling to her,’ said Adrian, ‘asking her to hold the door.’ He looked at the screen again. ‘And she is, look. There. She’s smiling.’
The woman held the door open for him. He seemed to be bobbing his head in thanks. The door swung shut behind the pair of them.
‘And he’s in,’ said Adrian.
‘Who’s that woman?’ said Phil. ‘Have we spoken to her? Has she given us a description?’
Adrian gave him a look that managed to be both elated and exasperated. ‘We’ve seen her. But we haven’t spoken to her.’ He paused the recording, rewound until she reappeared on the screen. ‘Look again.’ He pressed play. They all moved forward, staring intently.
‘Fuck,’ said Clayton.
‘Exactly,’ said Phil. ‘Julie Simpson.’
It was like a collective sigh of exasperation had been heaved in the room. Phil shook his head. ‘She let her own murderer in . . .’
‘If it was Brotherton, she’d have recognised him,’ said Clayton.
‘Not if he was disguised,’ said Anni. ‘His face hidden.’
The room fell silent
as they watched the screen.
Phil held up a hand. ‘Shopping bags? We didn’t find any in Claire Fielding’s apartment . . . Have we checked the stairs, everywhere else in the flats?’
‘He’s going to reuse them,’ said DS Jane Gosling.
‘Very eco-friendly,’ said Clayton.
‘Right,’ said Adrian, bringing the focus of the room back to him and the TV. He restarted it. ‘So he’s in. At seven thirty-eight.’
Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate Page 17