Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate

by Carver, Tania

  Her heart was hammering in her chest. There were still pains in her stomach but she didn’t dare think about the baby, whether there was anything wrong with it. All she knew was that it needed protecting. And as a mother, it was her job to do it.

  A mother. That was the first time she had ever thought of herself in those terms.

  Clutching the screwdriver as hard as she could, she slowly began to creep down the tunnel towards the light.

  The circus was on the move again.

  Phil and Anni were in the lead car on the way to Wrabness. Other cars and vans followed, creating a heavy police presence on the road. They had used the sirens and lights to get out of Colchester, moving the remains of the rush hour to one side. But on the smaller roads just their sheer number had been enough to get other vehicles to move out of the way.

  Phil sat in the back seat. He ignored the satnav, looked at a map of Wrabness, tried to focus his mind on the task ahead. Trying not to think about Marina. He sighed, unable to concentrate. It was always the same in situations like this. He was supposed to be trained for what was to come, to evaluate matters on the spot and take appropriate action according to what was needed. But every situation was different. He could look at the map, prepare all he wanted, but he knew it would be pointless. He had to wait until he was there, actually in the thick of it, before a course of action would present itself.

  He looked across at Anni sitting next to him. She had been silent since they got in the car. No doubt psyching herself up in the same way he was.

  ‘You okay? Up for this?’

  She looked at him, startled, as if pulled out of a trance or a power nap. ‘Yeah. Fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  She nodded. Phil sensed there was more, so waited, still looking at her.

  ‘I’m just trying to . . .’ she said. ‘Trying to get my head round it all, I suppose. Clayton; now this.’

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘Utterly shagged. Caffeine, sugar and adrenalin, that’s all I am now. But that’s not what I meant, boss. It’s just . . . everything’s fine now. But tomorrow, whenever, when the comedown hits, what happens then?’

  Phil shrugged, tried to show nonchalance. He had been asking himself a similar question. ‘That’s why we have counsellors, I suppose.’

  She nodded, seemingly satisfied, and fell silent again.

  Phil couldn’t think about tomorrow. He couldn’t think about the rest of the night or what they were about to do. He tried not to think about Marina.

  But failed.

  He had once read a story, in a comic when he was a boy, about a supervillain who had all the powers you could think of. When the hero thought of a particular power, the villain ceased to have it. That was how he felt about Marina. He tried to imagine all the fates that she could be undergoing. No matter how horrible or upsetting. He hoped that, like that superhero, if he could imagine it, it wouldn’t happen.

  He couldn’t think of the comedown or the day after. All he could think of, all his world had come down to, was catching a killer, making sure Marina and Caroline Eades’ baby were safe. And Marina’s baby. But that wasn’t due for months. A shudder ran through him. Maybe Hester had already taken her away, absconded to somewhere they couldn’t find them. He hoped not. He couldn’t . . . He just hoped not.

  It was a hope he clung on to as the angry procession approached Wrabness.

  78

  Hester picked the baby up. Looked at it. Eyes screwed up. Still wailing.

  ‘Time to go to sleep,’ she said.

  She held the baby girl almost tenderly, rocking her from side to side. Shushing her as she rocked. Talking all the while.

  ‘Yes,’ she said to the baby, her voice low, ‘sleep. Sleep. That’s right . . .’

  The baby’s wailing began to subside slightly. Hester looked at it, at her, smiled sadly. ‘You’ve got to go to sleep, little one. Yes . . . Because my husband won’t come back while you’re here. No . . . he won’t . . .’ Shushing her again. ‘So I’m afraid you’ve got to go . . . got to go . . .’

  The baby was quietening down. Listening to Hester’s words, or at least the tone of her voice, allowing herself to be calmed by them.

  ‘Ssshh . . . that’s it . . .’

  Hester smiled as the baby became still, settled.

  ‘Good, good baby.’ She remembered its sex. ‘Good girl . . .’

  She smiled again, pleased she had remembered that.

  The baby began to close her eyes.

  ‘That’s it, good girl . . . go to sleep . . . everything will be easier once you’ve gone to sleep . . .’

  Hester began to stroke the baby’s neck.

  The baby’s eyes shut.

  ‘So this is Wrabness, then,’ said Anni, looking round. ‘Drabness, more like.’

  Phil gave a tight smile. ‘Bet they’ve never heard that one before.’

  They couldn’t see much in the dark, but Phil doubted it looked better in the daytime. It was flat, bleak. Fields and trees stretched away behind them, back to the horizon. In another place those features might have seemed bucolic, but here they just made the few houses that sat on the lane look abandoned, cut off.

  They had followed directions to Hillfield, the Croft house. It had taken them off the main two-lane road and on to a single-track one. They had parked at the side of the road, blocking access if anyone or anything wanted to get past. Uniforms had already started stringing up tape at either end of the road, erecting barriers.

  Phil joined Anni in looking round. The trees were winter bare, the fields desolate in the darkness. He could see the river and, beyond, the lights of Harwich port burning far away on the other shore, looking as distant and unreachable as a mirage. A sign by a five-bar gate gave directions down a dirt track to the beach.

  ‘House is down there,’ said Phil. ‘That’s our route.’

  Everyone was piling out of cars and vans. The firearms unit were good to go, guns ready, body armour in place. Everyone had been briefed. Everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing, where and when. The night was cold and sharp, yet hot and alive with adrenalin and testosterone.

  ‘Right,’ said Phil to the assembled team, ‘we all ready?’

  Grunts and nods of assent.

  ‘Everyone know what they’re doing?’

  More grunts and nods.

  ‘Good. Come on, then.’

  He went to the gate, opened it. Started to walk down the dirt track. It sloped downwards towards the beach. It was unlit. The further they got from the streetlights, the darker it became. They had been issued with torches and, loath though Phil was to use them for fear of giving themselves away, he had no choice. He switched his on, still leading the way.

  Down past an old house with so much junk collected in the back garden that it looked like a contemporary art installation, then past a series of brick walls, overgrown with moss, lichen and ivy. A gate at the end. Phil shone his torch in. A caravan site. Small, the vans old, at least thirty years, he would have said. Most of them were well maintained, but one in particular stood out. Even older, mildewed and rusted. He wondered briefly what kind of person came to Wrabness for their holiday. Kept going.

  At the bottom of the track they came to the beach. He stopped.

  ‘When we reach the beach,’ said Anni next to him, ‘it means we’ve gone too far. It’s before that.’

  Phil looked around. He made out the silhouettes of stilted beach houses against the starless sky, looking like marauding misshapen aliens from a fifties sci-fi film. The beach was dotted with old, rusted boats sitting marooned on the dirty wet sand. Chained and abandoned, it looked like they had come there to die. He squinted back up the track. On the opposite side to the caravan site was a field. Beyond the field was what looked like a large shack or barn. Black slatted wood, partially derelict in appearance. He turned to Anni.

  ‘Think that’s it?’

  ‘I reckon so,’ she said.

  He turned to the assembled team. ‘There’
s the target,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

  He stepped into the field.

  ‘Now remember,’ he said when he had the attention of the whole team. ‘According to the witness, we’re dealing with someone who has a separate identity. The name is Hester, she’s a transsexual. But there’s another identity she calls the husband. And that’s the one we have to watch out for. The murderous one. She might be Hester at the moment, she might not. But whatever we do, we don’t want to deal with the husband. So let’s do this quickly and cleanly, right?’

  The team followed him, as carefully and quietly as they could.

  79

  The baby’s eyes closed.

  ‘That’s it . . . good girl, that’s it . . .’

  Hester held the baby with one hand, stroked her neck with the other. So fragile, so small, the difference between life and death. Like a toy, a child’s toy.You could play with it for years but then one day you decide to burn it, or hack away at it. Just to see what happens. And you do see what happens. But after that moment’s gone, you’re left with a melted lump of plastic, or something broken and useless. Only good for throwing away.

  And that’s what the baby was now. It would only take a moment, just a few seconds, less than a minute, even. And it would all be over. Then things could go back to normal. Her husband could return and they could be together again.

  Just one moment.

  The baby’s breathing changed. She was asleep. Hester smiled again. She had done it. She had talked to the baby, rocked her, got her to sleep. Like a real mother would do.

  She sighed.

  A real mother.

  But it didn’t matter. Not now. She had a plan. She had to follow it through. She had to make things happen.

  She placed the baby back in her cot, careful not to wake her. Covered her with the blanket. Looked at her. Then knelt beside her, placed her hands gently round the baby’s throat.

  And something sparked within her. Stopping her.

  She. She had called the baby she. Not it. She. Like a mother would do.

  Maybe that meant something. That she was a proper mother after all. That she didn’t hate the baby; she was capable of looking after it.

  She closed her eyes, her head starting to hurt. No. She had to do it. Had to kill it. It was the only way for her husband to return. He wouldn’t come back so long as the baby was there, she knew that. Whatever else she felt, she knew that.

  So she had to do it. Had to.

  She placed her hands round the baby’s neck again. Tried to speak. Couldn’t get the words out. Noticed for the first time that she was crying. It stopped her.

  ‘Buh-bye bye, buh-baby . . .’

  Still sobbing, but as quietly as she could so as not to wake her, she placed her hands tenderly around the baby’s neck.

  And began to squeeze.

  80

  The house was surrounded.

  Phil couldn’t believe anyone actually lived there. His initial impression had been right. It looked almost totally derelict, with black plastic sheeting and hardboard patching up holes and rotting areas in the wooden cladding. Tiles were missing off the roof and the yard outside was so full of junk it looked like a health and safety officer’s worst nightmare.

  It was the right place. He was sure of it.

  The team were in place. Phil was standing beside what he supposed was the front door, next to a team armed with a battering ram, ready to break it down. He spoke into his radio.

  Gave the signal.

  The battering ram was in place.

  The door was smashed off its hinges.

  They charged in.

  Hester’s hands were round the baby’s neck when she heard the noise.

  It was a huge crash, like an explosion. At first she wondered if it was an earthquake or a bomb. And her immediate thought: she hoped it didn’t waken the baby.

  But then she heard movement behind her. Shouting, running, lights, bodies.

  In her home. In her home.

  She turned, shocked, tried to take in what was happening. Couldn’t. Didn’t know what was going on. All she knew was that she was scared.

  There were men. And women. Some holding fearsome guns. All shouting at her. Telling her to do things. Step away, lie down, things like that. She looked from one to another in turn, trying to make out what it was they wanted her to do. Lie down, step away. Pointing their guns.

  Her heart was beating like it was ready to burst. She didn’t know what to do. She turned away from them, heard them shout even louder, move closer to her. She looked at the baby. She was starting to wake up. They had made so much noise they were waking up the baby.

  In desperation, she grabbed hold of her and pulled her out of the cot. She had to rock the baby back to sleep. Couldn’t have her awake, not now. She clutched the baby to her chest, turned round again.

  They had taken a step back. Still shouting at her, but there were more words in the orders now. Put the baby down, step away, lie down, put your hands on your head. It was like a game she didn’t know the rules for and that she couldn’t keep up with.

  So she clutched the baby to her.

  The baby started to cry.

  She closed her eyes. Tried to will them all away.

  Anni focused on the scene before her. She saw Phil at the front of the team, commandingly issuing orders. She quickly took in her surroundings. First she checked for exits and entrances, anywhere they could be attacked from. Task-force members had positioned themselves there. She looked round.

  She had seen squalor before, but this place was one of the worst. It looked like someone had been squatting in a dilapidated garage or outhouse. There were attempts at homeliness: armchairs and a settee with antimacassars draped over them. But the furniture was worn and old, like it had been salvaged from some tip. A rusted old tin bath had been set up as a cot; there was an attempt at a kitchen area, but Anni wouldn’t have wanted to eat anything prepared there.

  The most frightening thing was the person holding the baby. She had expected something, or someone, out of the ordinary. But she hadn’t been prepared for the sight of the figure that greeted her. Tall, over six feet, wearing a faded flowered sun dress over what looked like at least two layers of vests and T-shirts, with filthy old denims and boots. A badly fitted wig had slipped back to reveal a shaven head, and make-up had been applied as if without a mirror. There was also facial stubble where this person hadn’t shaved for a day or two.

  Anni tried to hold her revulsion in and concentrate. She thought instead of Graeme Eades, and the last time she had seen him as he lay sobbing in the cheap chain hotel, thoroughly repentant and guilt-eaten, begging them to return his baby, the only link to his dead wife. That sharpened her concentration.

  She looked at Phil, standing in front of her, using the calm and reasonable voice he used in interviews to make suspects open up. The earlier shouting and gun-brandishing hadn’t worked, just made Hester cling even tighter to the baby. So he had changed his approach. He was asking her to put the baby down, to move away. But his words, no matter how softly spoken they were, didn’t seem to be having any effect either. Anni thought she knew why.

  She softly placed her hand on Phil’s sleeve. He looked at her, stopped talking. She gestured with her eyes: let me try. He nodded. She stood alongside him.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘My name’s Anni. Is your name Hester?’

  Hester’s eyes were all over, roving about, trying to take in what was happening. Fluttering round the room like a swallow trapped in a barn. Her hands were back on the baby’s neck. Anni knew that the slightest application of pressure could kill the baby.

  ‘You are Hester, aren’t you? That’s your name?’ Anni tried to keep her voice soft, but had to raise it to be heard over the crying of the baby. She kept looking at Hester, willing her to look back.

  ‘Hester . . .’

  Hester’s eyes stopped fluttering round the room, began to focus on Anni and her softly spoken words.

/>   ‘Your name is Hester, isn’t it?’

  Hester held her eyes, blinking rapidly. She nodded.

  ‘Good. Listen, Hester, I’m not here to hurt you. Nobody wants to hurt you, okay? We’re just worried about you. You and the baby.’

  Anni waited, hoping the words had sunk in. She kept on talking, still using that soft, soothing tone.

  ‘Look, Hester, why don’t you put the baby down, yeah? Then we can talk. Talk properly.’