Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate

by Carver, Tania

  Another nod. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So.You made Ryan Brotherton the scapegoat. Shifted the blame on to him, deflected attention away from yourself.’

  Sophie yawned. ‘Right.’

  Phil was starting to get angry now. He tried to keep it down, work with it. Channel it. It was a struggle. ‘What about Clayton? Why him? Why kill Clayton?’

  She shrugged. ‘He was useful. Then he wasn’t.’

  Phil leaned in closer, his voice rising. ‘Because he got too close? Because he knew what was going on?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’ She picked up the mug, put it to her lips, grimaced. ‘This tea’s cold. Can I have some more?’

  Phil slapped the mug from her fingers, snapping off one of her nails in the process. The mug went flying across the room, hitting the wall and breaking, leaving a wet brown explosive patch where it had hit.

  ‘Fuck the tea!’ he shouted. ‘Talk to me!’

  Sophie looked up at him in shock. She flinched, pulled her hands away from him, curled up into herself. Phil kept on at her.

  ‘You fucking listen to me! You fucking murderer! Wrabness. Hester is in Wrabness, yes?’

  Sophie nodded hurriedly.

  ‘Where? Which house?’

  She kept whimpering.

  ‘Where?’

  She jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘There’s a . . . house off the main road . . .’

  ‘Name? Number?’

  She curled herself further into a foetal ball. ‘Please don’t hit me . . .’

  ‘Name of the house. Number.’

  ‘It’s . . . Hillfield.’

  ‘Right. And your real surname?’

  She whimpered once more, subsiding into tears. Phil didn’t care. ‘Now!’

  ‘Croft, it’s Croft. Please, don’t hit me . . .’

  Phil stood up, his head spinning. He didn’t know how that display would stand up in court against PACE procedures, but he didn’t much care. He could deal with that later. Right now, he had a solid lead to go on.

  He looked at Sophie sitting curled in the chair. He should have felt pity and knew that once his anger subsided he might do. But not at the moment. His eyes fell on the photo on the table. And he was hit by a sudden thought.

  He pointed to the photo. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Sophie didn’t reply.

  ‘In the photo. That’s him, your brother. Heston. Hester. Is that right?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, kept talking. ‘The husband doesn’t exist, does he? There’s just your brother. That’s why he wants these babies. Because he can’t have children himself. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  Sophie didn’t raise her head, just nodded.

  Phil was breathing heavily, like he’d just run a marathon. ‘Hillfield. Wrabness. Croft . . . yes?’

  She nodded again. ‘But he won’t be there . . .’

  He looked down. Sophie was still curled in on herself.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I phoned him. When I was brought in. If he’s got any sense, he’ll have gone by now.’

  ‘Where?’

  She shrugged. ‘In the wind . . .’

  ‘Shit . . .’

  The door opened. Phil turned, ready to shout at whoever was there, throw them out physically if need be. But it was Adrian Wren. And Phil knew he wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t important. The look on his face told him so.

  ‘Boss . . .’ Adrian gestured to him.

  Phil told the tape the interview had been terminated, stepped outside.

  ‘We’ve had Wivenhoe on the phone,’ Adrian said. ‘Marina’s place has been trashed. Her . . . partner?’

  ‘Tony,’ said Phil, remembering his name this time.

  ‘Right. He was found lying on the floor, head smashed in from the look of it. Ambulance is on its way.’

  ‘Any sign of—’

  ‘No, boss.’

  Marina. The baby . . .

  Phil felt the familiar bands stretch across his chest. His head was spinning, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He hoped he had heard wrongly, but he was sure he hadn’t. Then something struck him. ‘Ambulance? He’s still alive?’

  ‘Barely. But they’ll see what they can do. Attacked with a hammer, it looks like.’

  ‘Just like Caroline Eades . . .’

  Phil nodded, eyes on the floor. He remembered his promise to Marina. He would always be there for her. He would never let her be harmed again. Panic rose within him. He fought it down. He looked at the closed door of the interview room.

  ‘And she knows? Sitting in there, she fucking knows . . .’

  He lunged for the door, ran inside the room. Sophie looked up from the table, startled, then terrified as Phil came hurtling towards her.

  He didn’t get far. The door opened and two uniforms rushed in, restraining him.

  ‘Bad news?’ said Sophie, once she realised she was in no immediate danger. She laughed.

  He was screaming as they pulled him away. Out of the door and into the corridor.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Marina . . .’

  75

  Marina opened her eyes. It made no difference. It was as dark with them open as it was with them closed.

  She tested her arms. They were sore, as was the rest of her, but untied. Was that a good thing or not? Was it an oversight by her captor? Or had she been placed somewhere she had no chance of escaping from?

  She stretched out one hand, felt around. Slowly, cautiously, not sure what unpleasant, unexpected surprises she would find in the dark. Nothing. Just a hard-packed earth floor. She lowered her head, smelled it. Musty, damp. Underground, she thought. A cellar or basement?

  Panic began to well inside her. Trapped. Underground. Palpitations took hold of her chest, made her breathing difficult.

  ‘No, oh no . . .’

  And there was Martin Fletcher in her mind. Standing in her office, blocking the only escape route. And she was once more praying for Phil to come and rescue her but fearing he wouldn’t.

  ‘No, not again, not again . . .’

  Sobbing now, in terrified desperation, she stood up. Stretched her hands tentatively towards the ceiling. It was low, crossed by wooden beams. Definitely underground.

  She sat back on the floor once more. Curled into herself.

  Phil said he would never let her down. Never place her in danger again.

  Phil had lied.

  She screwed her eyes up tight, opened them again quickly, hoping that light from somewhere would filter in once they became adjusted. Nothing. Just pitch-black darkness as before.

  She felt her stomach. No rest now. No relaxation now.

  She tamped down the hysteria that was rising once more within her.

  Hoped that Phil - or someone - would be coming to get her.

  Ignoring that little voice in the back of her mind that said she had been lucky with Martin Fletcher. She had got out alive. She wouldn’t be that lucky again. No one would find her. She had been abandoned.

  She hugged her arms about herself.

  Not daring to move.

  And cried.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ said Phil. ‘Very unprofessional. Won’t happen again.’

  He was in Fenwick’s office, facing him over the desk. Sweating and dishevelled and wanting to get moving but knowing he had to go through this before he could do anything else. He had been hauled in as soon as he had been pulled off Sophie Gale. Anni and the rest of the team were following up the leads that had come from the interview.

  Fenwick regarded him from the other side of the desk as coolly and levelly as possible. It looked like he was also struggling to remain calm and professional.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done the interview, sir. I was too closely involved. And you probably don’t want me to go to Wrabness now. I understand.’ Phil’s voice, his stance said he didn’t understand at all.

  Fenwick sighed. ‘What a mess,’ he said. ‘All round. And I can’t have a go at you
for what you’ve done because you can just come back at me for . . .’

  ‘Your earlier interference.’

  ‘Thank you for reminding me.’ Another sigh from Fenwick. ‘But at the end of the day . . .’

  Here it comes, thought Phil, King Cliché rides again . . .

  ‘At the end of the day, we’ve got to work together. So you’re still CIO on this case and you’re going to Wrabness.’

  Phil felt relief flood through him. ‘Thanks, boss.’

  ‘But no more mistakes. If we screw this up, the CPS will be on us like a ton of bricks.’

  ‘Sir.’ Phil turned to leave the office.

  ‘And Phil?’

  He stopped.

  Fenwick looked pained and tired. As if he’d learned something but that knowledge had been forced on him. ‘I don’t blame you. I’d have probably done the same. But well done on the interview.’

  ‘Thank you, boss.’

  Phil left the office, went to the bar. It was alive with activity. The team were getting suited and tooled up, uniforms putting on protective gear. A firearms unit had been called out. Anni was in the centre of it, co-ordinating. She looked up as he entered. He crossed to her.

  ‘I’m still on the team,’ he said to her unanswered question, taking in everyone within earshot as he spoke. ‘In fact I’m still your CIO.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, boss.’

  ‘So, what we got?’

  She checked the computer in front of her. ‘Hillfield is owned by the Croft family. Smallholding.’ She looked up. ‘Farmer . . .’

  ‘Right,’ said Phil. He felt that familiar tingle when a case began to fall into place. ‘Fits the profile. Name?’

  ‘Last name on the deeds is Laurence Croft.’

  ‘The father?’

  ‘Looks like it, judging from the date of birth. No date of death, but he’s not listed as living there now. Just . . .’ She scrolled down the screen. ‘Hester Croft. One person. That’s all.’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘Female.’ She looked down further. ‘The house is on a couple of acres of land. They own some cottages.’ She read on. ‘No they don’t, they were demolished a few years ago, land turned into a caravan park.’

  ‘And I’m assuming it’s in a suitably out-of-the way location?’

  Anni gave a tight smile. ‘Well, it is in Wrabness.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. He looked at the rest of the assembled team.They stopped what they were doing, looked back at him. Expectant. Fired up. ‘We ready? Then let’s go.’

  76

  The baby was still crying. Hester was on the floor in the corner of the kitchen, as far away from it as possible. Her hands over her ears, her long, thick legs tucked underneath her body, she had tried to curl herself up as small as possible.

  ‘Ssh . . . ssh . . .’

  But the baby kept on crying.

  She had wanted to get rid of it but couldn’t bring herself to do it when it was awake. So she had waited for it to go to sleep. But it wouldn’t go to sleep, it just lay there, wailing.

  The baby was bad enough, but something worse than that had happened. She had called out for her husband but he hadn’t appeared. She had closed her eyes, tried to will him to her. Nothing. No sound in the house, except her sobbing and the baby crying. She had to face it. She couldn’t hear his voice any more, couldn’t sense his presence. Could feel they were no longer joined. She was all alone.

  Her husband had left her. He had gone.

  She kept her eyes tight shut, tried to drown out the noise of the baby with her own crying. The baby. It was all the baby’s fault. If the baby hadn’t come along to disrupt things, then they would still be happy together, like they used to be. Just Hester and her husband. Alone and together. Their whole world each other. But no. They had to have a baby. It was supposed to make their lives complete. Instead it had forced them apart.

  Hester felt impotent rage build up within her. Her body thrashed as she screamed, forcing it out of her.

  ‘No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . .’

  She wanted it to be over. She wanted time to be rewound, things to go back to how they used to be. Just the two of them. She stopped screaming, and the sound withered and died in her throat. Hopeless. It was hopeless.

  She didn’t know what to do. She knew that if her husband had gone, there was no point in her staying in the house with the baby. But she couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it. He had to be there, had to be coming back.

  Hester stood up. She would make one last attempt to find him, and if that failed then she knew that he was gone for good and she had to decide what to do next. She crossed the floor to the back door, closing her eyes as she passed the baby, not even wanting to see it, acknowledge its presence.

  She opened the back door, stepped into the yard. Stood still, listening. The river was making its usual background sound, low static on an untuned TV. She found it comforting, usually, something that reminded her of home. Now it just sounded lonely, like a call for help or attention that would never be answered.

  She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, then looked round the yard. She knew all the shapes and the shadows of shapes. It was her home. She knew everything that was there. She scanned, checking. Saw nothing, no one. He wasn’t there.

  But she wouldn’t give up. Not just yet. She would make one last attempt. She opened her mouth and screamed. No words came out, just inarticulate yearning and desire, loneliness and abandonment. She knew that would be enough to make him come calling if he was there. She hoped that would be enough to make him.

  She stood still, listening. Nothing. Just the river.

  Hester sighed and turned, going back into the house. The baby was still crying, and this time she didn’t bother to cover her ears or avert her eyes as she walked past. It was there and he wasn’t and that was that.

  She went back to her place in the corner, staring at the baby. Making her mind up. She was thinking, trying to sort out in her mind what had happened. She came up with some things. Everything was fine before the baby arrived. Life was good. But now the baby was here and her husband was gone. So, she thought, if she got rid of the baby, her husband might come back . . .

  She didn’t know if that was true, but it was worth a try. She had thought that earlier, though, and hadn’t been able to get rid of it while it was still awake. Now, however, with the constant screaming in her ears, she thought that didn’t matter. She could get rid of it. If it made her husband appear again, she could get rid of it.

  She stood up.

  Walked towards the cot.

  77

  A light went on. At first Marina thought she was imagining it. It was distant and weak, but it was still a light, nonetheless.

  She sat up, focused her eyes, managed to assess her surroundings. Brick walls, dirt floor, overhead rafters. It confirmed her earlier impression. She was in a cellar or basement. But not just a square space; it was a room with alcoves and archways. Crouching, she slowly and silently made her way towards the light. Before her were other rooms, knocked through and interconnected with tunnels. Where it needed it, the ceiling was held in place by heavy wooden struts and supports. Electric cable was strung along it.

  She shivered with the cold, looked at herself. She was filthy, her clothes black with dirt. There were cuts and bruises up her arms and legs.

  She looked at the walls. There was a workbench set against one of them, huge and heavy-looking, with a scarred and pitted surface. There were tools nailed to a board above the bench, old and rusting but still workable. Marina looked round, tried to listen. She couldn’t hear anything, see anyone. But she knew someone was there. They must be. Moving slowly, she crept over to the workbench, looked at the tools hanging on the board. Hammers of varying sizes, chisels, a hand drill. Her eyes alighted on the screwdrivers. All different sizes, displayed in order from the smallest to the largest. She took the largest from its hook, looked at it. The wooden handle was worn, the paint flaking, b
ut still solid. The metal shaft was rusted but intact. She checked the end. Flat and sharp. Used often. That would do.

  She held it in her hand, clutching it hard. She looked round again. There was no way out from where she was; the only way forward was down the tunnel that the light was coming from.