Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate

by Carver, Tania

  ‘At least I don’t have to pay for it . . .’

  There was nothing more to say. They said goodbye and left Erin O’Connor to her thoughts, her wine, her small house and her plans for the future.

  Outside in the street, Marina pulled her coat tightly around her. Phil looked at her.

  ‘Waste of time,’ he said. ‘Just another gold-digger.’

  Marina shrugged. ‘See a lot of them, do you?’

  He smiled. ‘Only professionally. Not personally. Come on. I’ll get you home.’ He started walking towards the Audi. Marina hesitated, then stayed where she was.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  He stopped, waited for her to catch him up. She didn’t move. He had no choice but to turn round, walk back up the street towards her. ‘What’s up?’

  She didn’t answer immediately. Phil waited, saw an expression on her face that he couldn’t read. She looked like she was at war with herself. Eventually she spoke.

  ‘I . . . I . . . don’t want to go home.’ She kept her eyes away from his.

  Phil didn’t know how to respond. ‘Why? What’s . . . what’s wrong at home?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘Well . . .’

  Phil felt a flutter in his chest. Not a panic attack, he knew that. But something just as dangerous. Hope?

  He stood directly in front of her. When he spoke, his voice was soft, gentle.

  ‘Is something wrong? Tell me.’

  ‘It’s . . .’ Her hand went up to her face. She dabbed quickly and sharply at the corners of her eyes, as if angry with herself for crying. Certainly in front of Phil.

  ‘What? Tell me.’

  Marina sighed, looked round, looked anywhere but at Phil. The street was narrow, tight. Terraced houses on both sides, cars parked either side of the street, allowing only single-file traffic through. The night was cold. When they exhaled, their breath left their bodies as clouds of steam.

  ‘I . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t going to do this. I said I wasn’t going to do this . . .’

  Phil waited. Watched the clouds leave his mouth, dissipate in the dark.

  ‘I saw things today . . . I can’t, can’t just go home after that. Take them with me.’ Then, in a quieter voice, almost to herself, ‘Again.’

  ‘There’s nowhere else to go, Marina.’ Phil wasn’t sure he meant those words. But he had to say them.

  She shook her head. ‘There is.’ She looked up. Eye to eye.

  Phil didn’t know what to say. It was the moment he had been waiting for for months. It was the moment he had been dreading for months.

  She turned away, looked up and down the street once more. They were the only people there. ‘I . . . I missed you. I missed you . . .’

  ‘I missed you too,’ he said, not daring to believe his luck.

  ‘But I couldn’t. We couldn’t. Not after . . .’ She sighed. ‘And then today. Everything that’s happened today . . .’ She looked back to him. ‘I saw the kind of things today that I only ever deal with in books. How can I go home after that?’ Her voice fell away, as small and fragile as a child’s whispers. ‘What if I have nightmares?’

  ‘I’ll be there for you.’ He smiled. ‘I might be having them as well.’

  She smiled, the tears starting again. Phil gently put his arms round her. She fell into his embrace. She turned her face upwards to his, eye to eye once more. The tears in her eyes making them glitter like diamonds in the streetlights.

  On that cold, narrow street, they kissed.

  And Phil, tired beyond endurance only a few minutes ago, had never felt more alive.

  57

  The Hole in the Wall pub was, as it claimed, in a hole in the wall. The old Roman wall that ringed the town loudly proclaimed its heritage, having been preserved and patched up over the centuries. Built into the Balkerne Gate, an old Roman entry point, the pub had its own kind of heritage. It was near the town centre but didn’t attract squaddie or townie drinkers, which meant less violence, which in turn meant, for Clayton, less chance of bumping into colleagues.

  He walked inside, unused to the surroundings, trying quickly to get his bearings. Not a coppers’ pub, he thought, then amended that: he could imagine Phil in here. But certainly no one else.

  Walls bare except for flyers advertising gigs at the Arts Centre and plays at the nearby Mercury Theatre; stripped floorboards; deliberately mismatched old wooden furniture. At a table sat a bunch of people in paint-splattered overalls, scenery painters and designers on a break from the theatre. Some goth types sat at the bar, and despite their spiked piercings and fierce tribal make-up, Clayton presumed they were harming no one but themselves.

  The layout of the pub was haphazard. It looked as if sections had been added over the years. Consequently the floors were uneven, with steps up and down to various levels. There were open spaces and hidden spaces, high ceilings and lower, sloping ones. Clayton scoped the place, frowning at the noise coming from the jukebox, something thrashing and insistent, something he would never appreciate if he lived for ever, looking for the person who had texted him. He found her sitting on a leather sofa in a secluded section at the back of the pub, underneath slanted wooden roof beams.

  Sophie.

  She was sitting with a drink in front of her - vodka and Coke, he imagined - wearing jeans, boots and a shiny black padded jacket. He noticed there was a very large handbag at the side of the sofa. He crossed over to her, looked round once again to make sure there was no one he knew in the pub.

  ‘They let you go then?’ he said.

  ‘Had to. Had nothing to keep me on,’ she said, taking a mouthful of her drink.

  He sat down next to her. ‘I’m takin’ a big risk meetin’ you here. This better be worth it.’

  She put the glass back on the low table, moving her shoulders back, thrusting out her breasts in the process. A faint, fleeting smile played across her lips. ‘I’m worth it.’

  Clayton said nothing.

  Sophie’s mood changed. The smile disappeared, to be replaced by something darker. ‘I’ve left him,’ she said.

  ‘Brotherton?’

  ‘Who else?’ Her voice matched her features.

  Clayton wished he had bought a drink at the bar now. ‘What did he say?’

  Her face dropped, her eyes on the table. ‘Haven’t told him yet. Just went home, grabbed my stuff and left. He’ll find out when he comes home.’

  ‘He’ll be well pissed off.’

  ‘That’s his problem.’ She took another mouthful of her drink, a large one.

  Clayton sneaked a look at his watch. Wondered what Phil and the team were doing. He felt bad about being dropped from the team. Like a striker who was having a goal drought. He knew that wasn’t the case, but that was how it felt. He was embarrassed about it. His first thought: what do I tell my mum? She was always so proud of his achievements. And he gets dropped from the highest profile case he’s ever worked. Not his fault, but how would she feel when she found out? He should have been out there, working, investigating. Not sitting here worrying about his future. But he knew he had no choice. So when Sophie called, he didn’t know what it was about, but if it was something that could save his career he had to go. And now he knew.

  ‘Well, good luck.’ He stood up, made to go.

  ‘What you doing?’ She looked up at him.

  He turned, stood over her. Looked right down her cleavage. Well, he thought, it was there, rude not to. ‘Leavin’. Nothin’ more to say, is there? You’re leavin’ him. Good luck.’

  Anger flashed in Sophie’s eyes. A kind of anger Clayton hadn’t encountered before. ‘That’s it, is it? Good luck? Good fuckin’ luck? Oh no you don’t.You owe me, Clayton.’

  Clayton felt anger of his own begin to build. ‘Really? I owe you? Yeah? You’re a big girl, Sophie.You make your own decisions. ’

  He started to walk away. She stood up, came round the table, grabbed hold of his arm. There was a surprising strength to her grip. Her fingers dug
in. He turned.

  ‘You walk out of here, Clayton, you walk out on me, and you’ll be sorry. Really fucking sorry.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Because there’s still things about you I can tell your boss. Or your mate. DC Hepburn, isn’t it?’ A smile crept back on to her face. No warmth, just a sick, calculating coldness. ‘She doesn’t like you, does she? Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s her problem. Perhaps she’s the one I should talk to. Tell her about your past. What d’you think?’

  And once again, Clayton felt scared of Sophie. Not just because of what she could reveal - he had experienced that before - but because of the way she was behaving. This was a side of her he hadn’t seen before. One he didn’t want to see again. Not just scary, unnerving. He opened his mouth to speak. She stopped him.

  ‘And don’t tell me I wouldn’t. ’Cause you know I would.’

  Clayton sighed, too angry, too scared to speak. She smiled again, and this time there was warmth in it. Or an approximation of warmth.

  ‘Why don’t we sit down again?’ she said. ‘Talk this through.’

  The grip on his arm relaxed, becoming a gentle guiding hand. Another smile. This was more like the old Sophie. The one he knew. Or thought he did. He allowed himself to be led, sat down next to her.

  ‘Right,’ she said, as if they were two old friends together. ‘Let’s discuss this properly.’ She took another mouthful of her drink, prepared herself. ‘I’ve left Ryan. I’ve got nowhere to go, nowhere to live, Clayton.’

  A shudder passed through him as he realised what she was saying. ‘You’re jokin’.’

  ‘No I’m not, Clayton.’

  Saying his name again, building up repetition, like a sales-person trying to sell him something. That was what she was, he thought. That was what she had been as long as he had known her.

  ‘No.You can’t . . .’

  She leaned in close to him, the warmth in her voice now spreading to the hand she placed on his thigh. Another smile. If anyone glanced over from the bar they would just assume that they were a courting couple sitting in a private part of the pub, having a close, intense conversation that would end up in bed.

  ‘I’m staying with you, Clayton.You live alone, you started this.You’ve got no choice.’

  He sighed, said nothing.

  ‘Besides, when Ryan finds out what I’ve done, he won’t be happy, will he? He’ll come after me.’ She moved in closer, her hand snaking round his arm, her thigh against his, slowly moving backwards and forwards. ‘I’ll want protecting. And who better to do that than a big, hunky policeman . . .’

  Clayton felt his head spin, his hands shake, as if his whole body was in a whirlpool and he was being sucked down into some dark vortex. But he felt something else, too. Something that he shouldn’t have been feeling. Because despite her words, her threats, he was getting an erection.

  Sophie guessed what was happening, shifted her eyes to his groin. She smiled, snaked her hand gently over it. He gasped.

  ‘Ooh,’ she said, ‘is that for me?’

  He couldn’t reply. She laughed.

  ‘Well,’ she said, pulling away from him and throwing back the remainder of her drink in one go, ‘now we know where we stand, I think we’d better get going.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Back to your place,’ she said, as if explaining the obvious to a slow child. She patted the bag at the side of the sofa. ‘I brought my stuff.’ Her eyes darted to his groin once more. ‘And I thought you’d want to get there quickly so I can show you my gratitude.’

  He stood up, adjusting his overcoat around his erection. He felt terrible, as if he had a virus or food poisoning, shaking like he was going to throw up.

  Sophie grabbed her bag, stood up too. She put her arm through his, guided him to the door of the pub. Once outside, she stopped, looked at him.

  ‘You hungry? I haven’t eaten all day.’ She hugged him again. ‘And I’ll need my strength. Let’s get a bite to eat.’

  Food was the last thing on Clayton’s mind. But he knew he had no choice. From the moment he had laid eyes on Sophie in Brotherton’s metal yard and recognised her, he’d known he had no choice. He wondered again what his mother would say.

  ‘Come on, then,’ she said, and almost skipped along the street.

  Clayton allowed himself to be dragged along with her, as eager as a death-row inmate with an imminent appointment in the mercy seat.

  58

  Marina walked into the living room, looked round.

  ‘Look familiar?’ Phil was closing the door behind him, coming down the hall. He joined her in the middle of the room.

  She kept looking, taking in everything about the man that he had put on show. His books she remembered from before. His CDs likewise. His small collection of DVDs. Mainly old films, Hitchcock, film noir. Despite the lack of feminine touches, it didn’t seem overly masculine, just comfortable; two sofas, and table lamps offering subdued lighting rather than one harsh overhead light. Prints on the wall showed surprising taste, she thought, for a police officer: Rothko, Hopper. But then he was a surprising man. She turned to him, smiled. ‘Just like I last saw it,’ she said.

  ‘Good job I tidied up this morning.’

  Her smile became teasing. ‘You were expecting to bring someone back tonight?’

  He opened his mouth to reply and for a second he seemed about to give a serious answer, but then a smile split his face, equally teasing as hers. ‘I’m always expecting to bring someone back.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, you’re pathetic.’ She made to sit down but her attention was drawn to a CD case on the sound system. She crossed, picked it up. Smiled. Elbow.

  Phil tried to shrug. ‘Good album.’

  ‘Course it is, Mojo man.’ She nodded, put it down again. Sat down on the sofa, her mood suddenly changing. She sighed; her smile disappeared.

  Phil looked at her, concerned. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said automatically. Then another sigh. ‘No. Sometimes when you see what we’ve seen today . . . I just . . . Why do they do it, Phil?’

  ‘You’re the psychologist, you tell me.’

  Her hands clasped and unclasped. ‘I said something to you once.You probably don’t remember.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘When we were out. That first time. You asked why I became a psychologist. I said it was to understand my father. I lied. It was to understand me. I also said that all psychologists are just looking for a way home. That’s not strictly true either. It’s not just psychologists, it’s all of us. Everyone. We’re all looking for a way home.’ She lifted her head, fixed him directly. ‘Even you.’

  He didn’t contradict her. He said nothing.

  She continued. ‘We all want to be safe, to find some place in the world, in our heads, our hearts, where we can be understood and that we can understand. Where we can belong.’

  Phil nodded, saying nothing.

  ‘Then I think of what we saw today. And what we have to do to catch them. What’s their idea of home? Where’s their head and their heart at? I’ve got to understand them. That’s my job. I have to look into my head and my heart and find parallels. That’s what I have to do.’

  ‘And the abyss looks into you and all that; that’s the job.’

  ‘I know.’

  He turned to her. ‘Look, Marina. You’re the best I’ve worked with.You know you are.You’ll manage.’ He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Then back to her eyes.

  She smiled. ‘This isn’t doubt, Phil. It’s just . . . I can ascribe reasons for aberrant behaviour. I can examine chains of cause and effect. But we’ll never understand, will we? We’ll never truly know what makes a monster. Or what makes someone do monstrous things.’

  ‘You always said we create our own monsters.’

  ‘And we do. But . . .’ She sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose what I mean is, that’s all for tomorrow. Tonight I just want to be somewhere . . . safe.’

 
They looked at each other, eyes locking once more. Phil moved towards her. Marina seemed to be moving to him but she stopped herself.

  ‘You let me down, Phil. That’s why I couldn’t see you again.’

  Phil stopped moving, sat back.

  ‘You let me down and I could have been killed.’

  ‘I . . .’ This was it, he thought. The chance to tell her everything he had wanted to say, to speak aloud all those speeches and conversations he had rehearsed in his head over the months. To explain where he was and why he was needed. Because Lisa King’s body had just been discovered. Because I had to track down a killer. And I couldn’t let you know because you had your phone switched off. And everything else. On and on. But he didn’t. Instead all he said was, ‘I’m sorry.’