Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate

by Carver, Tania

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ She made to move away. He put his hand on her arm, stopped her.

  ‘Is it . . . mine? Ours?’

  She looked away once more. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Is it?’

  As he spoke, her hand went involuntarily to her stomach, massaged the bump that her baby made. Phil saw the action, looked up. Caught her eye to eye. A sheer, nakedly emotional connection. Neither could look away.

  In that moment he knew. And she knew it too.

  The baby was his.

  ‘Look, I have to go. There’s a . . . something’s not right with it.’ She reshouldered her bag even though it didn’t need it. ‘There’s a chance I might lose it. Stress, the doctor said. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Marina . . .’

  She looked at him then, eye to eye once more. ‘I really didn’t want you to find out like this. I’m sorry. But we’ll talk. Soon. I promise.’

  ‘We need to talk now.’

  She looked round, like a cornered animal checking for escape routes. ‘No, not now. No stress, remember . . .’

  ‘But—’

  Anni appeared at the end of the room. ‘Boss?’

  He looked between Anni and Marina, torn. ‘Marina . . .’

  ‘Later,’ she said, using the distraction as an excuse to leave. ‘We will talk. Later. Promise.’

  And she was across the room, out of the door.

  Phil watched her go, then caught sight of Anni, still waiting in the doorway. He shook his head once more, went to see what his DC wanted.

  68

  Phil stood outside the interview room. Flattened himself against the wall. His head was spinning, everything spiralling and pinwheeling, making him feel nauseous and giddy. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply. Tried to clear his mind of everything that was going on around him, jettison the lot, narrow his attention down to just one thing. One person. One objective.

  Getting Sophie Gale to talk.

  Brotherton’s interview had been big, but this was even bigger. The biggest so far.

  He took a deep breath, then another. Willing his heart rate to slow as he did so. Calm. Concentrated. Focused. Not an angry man wanting to avenge the death of a colleague. Not a grieving friend. He couldn’t allow any of that to spill over in the room. There would be time enough for that later. For now, he was a professional with a job to do.

  He checked the file under his arm, flicked through the pages once more. Paid close attention to the paper that Anni had given him. Then he closed the file, opened the door, went inside, closed it behind him.

  Sophie Gale sat at the table, staring straight ahead. She was sitting upright, not slumped, as he might have expected, her hands on the table in front of her, crossed at the wrists. Her hair hung down lank at either side of her face. She didn’t look up as he entered. The only sign that she acknowledged his presence was a double blink.

  He sat down in front of her, put the file on the table, looked at her. And was surprised at what he saw. What glamour she’d had was now gone, her cheap sexual allure dissipated. Her face was blank, white, her eyes inexpressive, like a death mask. She wasn’t even looking at him, just staring in his direction.

  Phil studied her. His first reaction would have been that she was in shock. But that didn’t seem right; he didn’t get that feeling from her. He got no sense of the emotional imbalance that shock often engendered. He looked at her once more, deep into her eyes. And found a spark there, a dark, burning spark. He sat back, understanding. She had no more need to pretend. The masks she wore, the ones that had fooled Brotherton and Clayton, were no longer necessary. She had stripped them away, leaving only her death-like face on view, her rage-fuelled inner core still driving her.

  Now, thought Phil, he had to find the reason for that rage and work with it. That would be the only way to get answers about what had happened, to work out what was going on, to find the baby and stop a murderer.

  He took a second or two to compose himself; then, aware that the custody clock would start ticking with his first question, he started. First he introduced himself to the tape, then he introduced Sophie; he remarked that she had waived the right to legal representation at this stage.

  ‘So what happened, Sophie?’

  No response, just those same staring eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you killed Clayton. Clayton Thompson. Why?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Did you have an argument? A fight? Did he . . . did he try to come on to you?’

  A slight reaction, a twitch of her lips, then nothing once more.

  Phil sighed. ‘Come on, Sophie, help me out here. How can I understand, how can I try to help you if you won’t let me?’

  He waited, sure that his words would get a response, one way or another. He was right.

  ‘You can’t.’ Her voice was small and empty. It perfectly matched the expression on her face.

  ‘What d’you mean, I can’t? I can’t help you or I can’t understand you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Both.’

  His voice dropped low, talking like a counsellor or a friend. ‘Why? Tell me. Make me understand.’

  She sighed. ‘It’s too late for that.’ She shook her head, her lips lifting in an approximation of a smile. ‘Too late.’

  ‘For who? For what?’

  ‘It’s always been too late.’ Her head fell forward, her hair forming a curtain between herself and Phil’s questions.

  Phil tried a new approach. ‘Why Clayton, then? Hmm? Why my DS, why him?’ He mentally pulled back. Kept his rage and guilt in check. ‘Why not Ryan Brotherton or . . . I don’t know. One of your earlier clients. Why Clayton?’

  She put her head up once more, her eyes still staring straight ahead. She seemed to be giving the question some thought. ‘Because . . . because he stopped helping me.’

  ‘Helping you? Helping you to do what?’

  ‘To . . .’ She shook her head, looked away. He had lost her once more.

  Another change of approach, Phil thought. He opened the file he had brought with him. This one wasn’t for show. This one had facts and details in it. ‘Sophie Gale,’ he said, reading down the first page. ‘Real name Gail Johnson. First came to our attention six years ago, when you were arrested for soliciting. You came to an agreement. Became a paid informant. Then you gave it up and disappeared. Why?’

  ‘Got sick of the life.’

  ‘Fair enough. Then you turn up again with Ryan Brotherton. And he’s wanted for questioning in relation to a murder inquiry. At first we think he may be the killer. There’s a lot of evidence to suggest that. Hell of a lot. But it’s not him, is it?’

  No response.

  ‘No. It’s not. But it does look like someone has gone to a lot of trouble to get us interested in him. Now why would that be?’

  No response.

  Phil sat back, looking at her again. ‘You like magic, Sophie?’

  Her eyes met his. She looked confused.

  ‘It’s not a trick question. D’you like magic? Illusions, I mean. Not like Harry Potter and stuff.’

  She shrugged. ‘S’pose so.’

  ‘Thought you might. You know how magic works? You don’t have to answer, I’ll tell you. Misdirection. If a magician’s very good, he gets you looking where he wants you to look, seeing what he wants you to see. You don’t see what he’s really up to. You don’t see the coins being tucked away and palmed, ready to be pulled out later, the cards placed where he wants them. The things up his sleeve. Just what he wants you to see. Right?’

  Another shrug.

  Phil leaned forward, his words hard, his voice soft. ‘And that’s what you did with us, Sophie. You got us looking at Ryan Brotherton. Got us thinking that he was a murderer. Looking for connections with all the other victims, not just Claire Fielding, throwing doubt on his alibi, making yourself out to be a poor little battered wife-in-waiting. Scared of the big bad man. All the while you were playing him. And us. Covering for the real killer, making
us miss the real connections. Misdirection.’

  She said nothing, but the set of her jaw had changed. Phil wasn’t sure, but he sensed that she was taking pride from his words.

  He was pleased that what he was saying was having the right effect. ‘Regular little Paul Daniels. Except it all went wrong, didn’t it? That last one, that wasn’t mean to happen, was it? Not so soon. Certainly not while we had Brotherton in custody and could give him a watertight alibi.’

  He studied her face once more. She took his words in, processed them. Clearly not happy with what he was saying.

  ‘Now we know it isn’t you. Because you were here when the last one happened. But we do know that you know who’s doing it. So tell me.’

  Nothing.

  Phil sighed. ‘Look, Sophie. We’ve got you for murder. No argument.You’re going to do time for that. And since it was a policeman you killed, lots of time, I should imagine. So if you want to make it easier for yourself, tell me what I want to know. And I’ll do what I can to help.’ He couldn’t believe he had said that, but he needed her on side.

  He sat back, waited. Sophie smiled. That humourless grin she had given earlier, just a skeleton display of teeth. ‘It doesn’t matter.You wouldn’t understand.’

  Phil felt himself getting angry and knew that wouldn’t help. He had to channel it, make it work for him. He leaned in to her. ‘Then make me understand, Sophie. Tell me.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Look,’ he said, trying not to give in to his anger, ‘Clayton Thompson had a family. A mother. Two sisters. I’ve lost a friend and a colleague. They’ve lost a son, a brother. How d’you think they feel? Hmm? How d’you think they feel about what you’ve done to him? To one of their own family?’

  Sophie reacted. The word ‘family’ did it. She sat back, recoiling as if she had been slapped. Phil saw the advantage, pressed on.

  ‘Yeah, Sophie, his family. They’ve lost him. Because of you. How would that make you feel? Have you got a family?’

  And then she laughed. It was a dry, rattling sound, matching her grin. ‘Yeah,’ she said, the words drawling out of her. ‘I’ve got a family.’

  ‘And how d’you think they’d feel if they knew what you were doing?’

  She gave another laugh. ‘You really have no idea, do you?’ she said.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The family. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’

  ‘What d’you mean? Tell me.’

  ‘Family. Family ties. Blood. Thicker than water. Stronger than . . .’ Her eyes fixed his. ‘That’s right. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ Phil didn’t know what she meant, though he knew it wasn’t good. But there was something in those words that struck him. On impulse he took out the piece of paper Anni had handed him before coming into the room. Turned it round, slid it across the table.

  ‘Would this be a member of your family, then?’

  Sophie looked at the paper. It was a photo of the man seen entering and leaving Claire Fielding’s apartment on the night of her murder. She glanced up quickly.

  Phil caught the expression on her face. Tried to keep the emotion out of his. Because he had her.

  69

  Tony Scott stared at the page, read the line again. And again. He sighed, stretched. No good. He just wasn’t taking this book in.

  He put it down on the side table beside the armchair, open at the place he had left it, where it lay, pages curling outwards and upwards, like a cumbersome bird unable to take flight. He gave a small smile of enjoyment as he picked up his glass of wine. The perfect simile for a book he was unable to get into. He should write that down.

  He took a mouthful of wine, replaced the glass. Stretched out in his chair, Ray LaMontagne playing in the background. Tony was the first to admit he didn’t like much pop music, but this guy had it sussed.

  He checked his watch. Almost six. Marina had phoned, said she was finished, on her way home. He had scanned her voice for hints as to her emotional state but found nothing in particular that gave her away. She sounded tired, distracted even. But Tony was sure the work was to blame for that. And the baby. One must be putting a strain on the other. That would be it.

  He took another mouthful of wine, thought of picking up the book once more. Looked at it, thought better of it. He had heard so much about it that he’d felt sure he would enjoy it, but that clearly wasn’t the case. But then, he thought, taking yet another sip of wine, perhaps it wasn’t the book. Perhaps it was him.

  Marina had stayed out last night. That thought wouldn’t dislodge itself from his mind. He had thought things were getting better between them. They had hit a bit of a rough patch around the time of Martin Fletcher. That was understandable. Then there was the pregnancy, and her desire to leave the university. A decision he was completely behind. But now she was working for the police again.

  On the last job she had been fired up, talking about the case all the time when she came home. One name in particular kept cropping up in her conversation: Phil. The CIO on the case, she told him, proud of the new phrase she had picked up. For a couple of weeks it was Phil this, Phil that, so much so that if Tony hadn’t known better, he would have assumed she was having an affair. But he knew she wouldn’t. Not Marina. Well, maybe he didn’t actually know, but he felt pretty certain.

  But then came the business with Martin Fletcher, and everything changed. Only to be expected. She’d nearly died. And he had been there for her, comforting, offering words - and gestures - of support. Consoling her. She had responded. And everything had been fine.

  Until she’d stayed out again last night.

  The track finished and another one came one. It sounded the same to Tony, but then that was why he liked the album. Well-crafted tunes, not much variation, but solid and dependable.You knew what you were getting. Qualities that, if he was honest, he admired.

  He checked his watch again. It shouldn’t be long now until she was home. He hadn’t cooked; he was going to take her out for dinner. To celebrate her finishing the job and just to show how much he loved her. He hoped she would appreciate it.

  He picked up the book, took another mouthful of wine. He waited, drinking, unable to concentrate on the book, listening to safe music in his small house. Yeah. He sighed. That was him. His world and everything in it.

  A knock on the door stopped any further thoughts. Tony stood up, the book still in his hand, crossed to it.

  Must be Marina, he thought.

  Another knock. Harder this time, more insistent.

  ‘Coming,’ he called. Maybe it wasn’t her. Jehovah’s Witnesses, probably, he thought irritably. No one else called round. Most of their friends they met in bars or restaurants or at their homes. Shame he had called out, though. If it was Jehovah’s Witnesses he could have pretended he wasn’t in. Avoided any potential confrontation.

  ‘Marina?’ he called. ‘Is that you?’

  No reply. Just another knock.

  Tony sighed, opened the door. Ready for whoever was there. Frowned. Didn’t know this person but didn’t like the look of them.

  Then the hammer appeared.

  His book fell to the floor.

  And before he could speak - before he could even think - his world, and everything in it, went black.

  70

  ‘You know him, don’t you, Sophie?’ Phil tapped the photo. ‘You know who this is.’

  Sophie said nothing. Just moved her body slowly back from the table. Eyes on the photo all the time.

  ‘Good likeness? Yeah?’

  Again, nothing. Phil could see that she was thinking. Deciding what to say next. What he most wanted to hear. What would help her most.

  ‘So,’ he said. He leaned forward, looked at the photo with her. They had done the best they could with it, but it was still blurred, impossible to make out sharp features. But Sophie knew who it was. That was enough. ‘What relation is he to you?’

  She sat back, unmoving. The overhead lights shadowed the
hollows of her eyes, made them appear as empty sockets in a skull.

  ‘Brother? Husband? Father?’

  She closed her eyes as he said the words so Phil couldn’t read her response. He pressed on. ‘One of them, is it? Which one, then? Which member of your family killed Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson? Not to mention Lisa King, Susie Evans and Caroline Eades. Come on, Sophie, tell me.’

  Again Sophie said nothing, and again Phil was aware of the calculation behind her eyes. But they held something more than that. He had seen it before. Madness. And something else. Damage. He could guess which one came first.