So engrossed was she in doing so that she wasn’t aware of another person at her side until he spoke.
‘May I join you?’
She looked up. Ben Fenwick was standing there. She wouldn’t have recognised him from the contrite voice. But it matched the general state of him. He seemed to be disintegrating before her eyes. She hadn’t paid his appearance that much attention in the dark of the observation room, but she looked at him now. The smug political air that he usually affected had now unravelled and dissolved as the pressure of the case increased. He needed a shave, his hair was messed up, and so was his suit. His tie was askew and there were dark half-circles beneath his eyes. She hadn’t noticed it at his press conferences; maybe he saved his grooming for then. Perhaps, she thought, this was what actors looked like when the camera wasn’t on them. She thought again of the seminar she would have been delivering had she still been teaching: Chimerical Masks and Dissociation in the Perception of the Self. How true, she thought.
‘Feel free,’ she said, still packing her bag. ‘I was just leaving. ’
‘Where to?’
‘Off.’
‘Where?’
‘Back to work.’
He nodded. ‘You mean leaving us? For good?’
She stopped what she was doing, looked at him. ‘Why not? I don’t get paid enough to put up with the abuse you give me. To say you haven’t valued my professional opinion or input barely covers it. You’ve belittled and derided anything I’ve said. And in front of the whole team as well.’ She felt her voice rising again, knew that people were starting to stare. She didn’t care.
‘Well, I . . .’
She didn’t want to let up. Time for some home truths, she thought. ‘You ask me what I think, and when I tell you you ignore it because it doesn’t fit in with what you want to believe. And now you’ve got an innocent man sitting in an interview room—’
‘He’s hardly innocent.’
She felt her face reddening, her anger deepening. She kept her voice down but focused. ‘Innocent of the crime you want him to be guilty of. Well, good luck.’ She stood up, swung her bag on to her shoulder. ‘I’ll invoice you.’
‘Wait.’ He placed a hand on her arm. She stopped, looked down at him. There was more than contrition in his eyes. There was also a desperate hope. The kind a shipwrecked man has when clinging to a piece of wreckage. ‘Please. Sit down again. Don’t go yet. Let’s talk first. Please.’
Marina knew what she should have done. Just shaken off his grip, walked out of there. But she didn’t. Instead she took the bag from her shoulder and, anger barely abating, resumed her seat. She said nothing, sitting upright, waiting for him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She waited, still said nothing. Made him work. Knew there would be more.
There was. ‘I was . . . I was wrong.’ He sighed. ‘Yes. I was wrong. And I admit it. I was wrong to ignore your findings. And I was certainly wrong to speak to you like that in front of everyone at the briefing. That was unforgivable. I was . . . out of order.’
‘You were.’
He nodded. ‘And I’m sorry.’ Another sigh. His shoulders drooped as the air left his body, like he was deflating. ‘I’m very sorry.’ He rubbed his eyes, his face. ‘But we just . . . We need a result on this one. A quick result. It feels like . . . the eyes of the world are upon us.’
Despite the situation, Marina stifled a smile. King Cliché rides again, she thought.
‘So that excuses it. Your behaviour towards me, your grasping at straws . . .’
‘It wasn’t grasping. It was good, solid police work.’
‘It just wasn’t the right man.’
Fenwick sighed. ‘We need to find him. It’s as simple as that. We need to find him. And I thought we had him.’ He balled his hands into fists as he spoke. ‘I wanted, really wanted to believe we had him . . .’ He let the fists go. ‘But we didn’t. And I think that maybe, deep down, I knew it.’ Another sigh. ‘So I’m sorry. I’m afraid you were just a casualty of . . . that.’
Marina nodded, her anger ebbing slightly. Not that she would let him see that, though. ‘They say that when you’re under stress your true character is revealed,’ she said.
He offered a weak smile. ‘Then I’m a twat. And an obnoxious one at that.’
She couldn’t return the smile. ‘You’ll hear no argument from me.’
‘True.’ He put his hands on the table, reaching out to her. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is that we need you. This investigation needs you.Your input is invaluable. If we are to catch whoever has done this, then I think we need to drastically alter our approach.’
‘In what way?’
‘My approach hasn’t worked. So I want you and your expertise central to the investigation from now on. I want us to be guided by your experience.’
Marina raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, I know, I know. You should have been central from the start. I said you would be and didn’t carry it through. I got anxious. What with everything going on . . . I’m sorry.’
‘So you said.’
‘So.’ He rubbed his hands together, gave her another smile. ‘Are you still on board? We need you. Please.’
She looked at him. His smile was thinly stretched, papering over the doubt, anxiety and guilt on his face. Marina’s first response was to tell him where to get off, and walk; her second to make him suffer a while longer for her answer. But her third was the direct one, the honest one. The one that reminded her of the photos of the murdered women on the board in the incident room. The before and after shots. She felt for the child inside her once more, her arm going instinctively, protectively round her stomach.
‘Yes, Ben. I’m still on board. But not for you.’
His smile was genuine this time. Relieved. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I’m—’
‘But you keep your word. I am not here as an optional extra. Got it?’
He held up his hands. ‘Got it.’
He was about to say something further, but the sudden appearance of Phil at the table stopped him. Phil was breathless, wired. His brow furrowed, his body tense. Marina sensed what he was going to say before he said it. She just knew it. She was standing up, grabbing her bag, her coat.
‘He’s done it again,’ Phil said. ‘Another murder.’
Fenwick stood up too.
‘Marina,’ said Phil, looking at Fenwick. ‘Not you. Sir.’
He didn’t wait for a reply; just turned and hurried away.
Fenwick sat down again. Stayed where he was.
52
Hester held the baby in her arms and smiled. She was a proud mother again.
She had wiped most of the blood off it with an old rag that she had washed out and dried specially for use with the baby. It was smothered in blankets and she was sitting by the heater so it would keep warm. She wasn’t going to make the same mistakes again. That was what life was, she had read somewhere or seen on TV or something, a learning process. So that was what she was doing. Learning how to take care of the baby.
Her husband had been buzzing when he brought the baby to her. She had never felt him so alive. The hunt, he had said. The hunt had done it. She didn’t care. All she wanted was the baby. He had stayed around afterwards, like he was so full of energy he couldn’t go anywhere else. But he had, eventually.
Somehow she didn’t think this baby was going to be as weak as the last one. It was bigger for a start, moving its arms and legs round more. It even had its eyes open a bit. And it was a girl. She had checked. She had smiled when she saw, giggled.
‘My husband’s going to like you,’ she said, still smiling and giggling.
Then felt something wrench inside her at the thought. Something dark and sad. She hoped he wouldn’t. That might mean he went off her. Then she might be abandoned. For the baby. She would have to watch it grow, knowing that it was going to replace her. That couldn’t happen. She wouldn’t allow it. Better to not be a mother at all
than be a mother betrayed.
The darkness and sadness inside her crystallised, hardened at the direction her thoughts were taking. Her face twisted with sudden anger. She stared at the baby, breathing hard.
‘You’d better not,’ she said. ‘You’d better fuckin’ not . . .’
The baby just lay there, trying to look round, its arms and legs doing their jerky, spasming movements. She tried not to be angry with it. Because that was all in the future. That was to come. First there was the here and now. There was motherhood. There was bringing up baby.
She sat there looking at it. She didn’t know how long for. Eventually all the anger drained out of her, leaving just a placid, calm look on her face. Her body was still again, her breathing even and shallow. She wasn’t angry. She was a mother again. Just a mother. And this was the time she should spend with her baby. Bonding time. Special time.
After all, that was why she had gone to the trouble of getting the babies the way she did. So they came straight out of their surrogate and into her arms. No time to bond with anyone else. Hers from the start.
The baby’s face began to twist. Hester knew what would be next. Crying. Then wailing. She knew what to do this time.
‘You hungry, eh? Want feedin’? Want some milk? I’ll get it for you.’
She stood up, put the baby down on the armchair she had been sitting in. It writhed and screamed. She crossed to the kitchen, the screaming seeming to follow her.
‘It’s all right, Mummy’s warmin’ your milk now . . .’
She put the bottle in the microwave. It was old, rusting at the edges, the enamel chipped, the buttons worn and it made no sound any more, but it seemed to still work okay. Still heated things up.
The baby kept wailing. Hester tried to placate it while she waited for the microwave to do its work, but the baby wouldn’t stop. She sighed. She had forgotten about that. In so short a space of time, she had forgotten. How it was at that certain pitch to cut right through you. Down to the bone, in your head. That loud, insistent wail. Even when it stopped you could still hear it. Hester felt anger rise inside her once more.
‘It’s coming . . .’
But the baby didn’t understand. Or if it did understand, that didn’t make it stop. Just kept on wailing. Hester watched the microwave, waiting for it to ping. That wailing . . .
‘Shut up! Just shut up!’ If it was going to do that all the time . . . She remembered how the last one had been, crying, shouting, screaming . . . she hated that. Had wanted to kill it. If this one kept doing the same . . .
The microwave pinged. She flung open the door, grabbed the milk. The bottle felt a bit hot to the touch. Hester didn’t care. She crossed the room, picked up the baby, put it on her lap, stuck the end of the bottle in its mouth. The baby’s eyes widened in surprise, then it started sucking. It took one mouthful, two, then spat it out, milk running down the sides of its face.
Hester felt anger clouding in again, her face twisting in rage once more. ‘What’s this about? Eh? You said you were hungry.You wanted feedin’. Here it is.’
She tried again, pushing the teat in once more. The hot liquid ran down the baby’s cheeks again. Hester’s anger increased.
‘Have it . . . have it . . .’
The baby wouldn’t take it.
Hester looked at the baby, at the bottle, didn’t know what to do. Emotions were tumbling through her, so fast she couldn’t recognise them, catch them. Anger, fear, impotence. She looked once more at the baby, the bottle . . .
She stood up. Put the baby on the seat once more, the bottle beside it. The baby’s flailing arm knocked the bottle over. Milk began to ooze out, soaking the blanket the baby was wrapped in.
Hester didn’t care. Couldn’t think about that. She had to get out. Get away from the baby and its incessant wailing.
She opened the side door, stepped out into the yard. It was dark now and still bitterly cold. The air carried the threat of rain or worse, snow. But Hester didn’t care. She would take all that just to get away from the baby. From that noise, that need . . .
She took a deep breath, let it out as one long sigh. She looked across the river to the lights from the port. Ships would be coming in, going out once more. No screaming babies there. Just the vast, open water. The sea. The ocean. Calm. How Hester wanted to be there, to be miles away from here.
She sighed. It wasn’t the first time she had thought that in her life. It wasn’t the first time she had thought that this week. But she knew that even though all that was just over the river, it may as well have been a million miles away. On another planet, even. She would never go there, not even to the port, let alone over the sea. Here was where she was from. And here she would stay.
Her sister had escaped. Or tried to. She closed her eyes. Didn’t want to think of her sister again. Of the night she got away. Of the night she became Hester. No. All that horror, that screaming, wailing . . . No. Don’t think of it. Too upsetting.
Yeah, her father had said. Her sister had got away all right. Got away for ever. Hester knew what that meant. And what she had to do. So she had stayed.
Hester sighed. From inside, she could hear the baby still screaming. She closed her eyes, willed it away, but it was no good. She opened her eyes again. Her husband was there.
Fuck’s the matter with you? he said. What you doin’ out here?
‘The baby,’ she said, ‘it’s the baby. I can’t . . .’ She was about to say ‘cope’, but she knew her husband wouldn’t like that. Would think her weak, maybe even try to get rid of her, replace her. She thought again of the baby. Her possible replacement. She definitely wouldn’t tell him those thoughts. Didn’t want to give him ideas.
It’s makin’ a hell of a fuckin’ racket.You’d better get in there, sort it out.
She couldn’t answer, just shook her head.
Hey, he said.You wanted it.You can look after it.
‘Can’t . . . can’t you do it?’
I can do it all right. I can go in there an’ make it stop. But if I do, it’ll never start again.That what you want?
Hester thought for a moment. Was that what she wanted? It would make everything so much easier. So much quieter. Just go in and . . .
You can always get another one.There’s still the list . . .
She knew what he meant. He was so high on the blood lust that he wanted to go again. And if it meant getting rid of this one and finding a replacement, then fine. But no. She couldn’t do that. Not after everything they had been through to get it. She couldn’t just let it go like that.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll deal with it.’
Then sort it. Shut it up.
Hester nodded. It was what she was, what she had wanted, what she did. She was a mother. She had to cope. And she could. As long as her husband was with her, as long as they were a family, she could cope.
She opened the door. Immediately the noise was amplified. She walked inside.
53
Stanway had once been a village with its own identity. It wasn’t that long ago, Phil thought, twenty years at the most. But first came the zoo, then the retail park. Now it was rapidly becoming just another part of Colchester’s suburban sprawl.
He stood in a modern estate comprised of boxy houses of varying sizes in red and yellow brick, designed to hark back to some unspecified architecture of the past, something that would endow the flimsy new houses with a sense of tradition and solidity. They were billed as executive dwellings, but from looking at the cars parked there, Vauxhalls, Fords, Renaults, a few Volvos and Audis, he would have said they were more for middle management with either ambitions or delusions.
Phil knew it would be the kind of place that the residents would have moved to from inner cities and town centres, associating them with violence and fear. Thinking money would protect them. And now they found themselves reluctantly embracing those things in the form of a brutal murder. He knew what they would be thinking: the people they had tried to escape from had followe
d them here. But Phil knew different. From sickening experience, he knew there were no boundaries. Money wouldn’t protect them. Nothing would. Murder could happen anywhere.
The house he was standing in front of was one of the yellow brick ones. It had small, square windows and a pillared porch and was, he supposed, designed to project a vaguely Regency air. It looked, outwardly, as ordinary as could be. But once that threshold was crossed, Phil knew that once again he would be stepping into a different and much darker world.
The circus had been called out. The street had been closed off, the white tents had gone up, arc lights erected and pointing at the house. Rubbernecking residents had gathered at the corner, some evicted from their own homes, some being questioned by uniforms. Phil spotted Anni. He crossed the street. She saw him coming, nodded.
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