The Surrogate

by Tania Carver

  She had thought about the best way to deal with it, and had given him the chance to say something. He hadn’t taken it; in fact he had lied to her, looked scared that she might have found him out.

  Anni turned, walked towards the double doors, her mind made up. She would say something, but not yet. First she was going to find out everything she could about possible links between Clayton and Sophie Gale.

  Phil looked round the room. The Birdies were there, Clayton; even uber-geek Millhouse had torn himself away from his computer screen, his eyes red-rimmed behind his black-framed glasses. Anni sat at her desk, Marina at hers. His gaze lingered on her a beat too long.

  No sign of Fenwick.

  The room was exactly as it had been the previous day. The board still dominated in front of the bar, the TV/VCR/DVD set up next to it. Phil scanned the room once more. Already the strain was beginning to show on his colleagues’ faces. It wasn’t so much that they were tired but that they were all feeling the collective responsibility of having to come up with a positive result, and quickly. And in the intense spotlight glare of the media and the public. Not to mention the police themselves. Catch the killer, find the baby alive. No pressure there, then.

  ‘Okay,’ he said with energy, trying to inject some adrenalin and focus into his group, ‘let’s make this quick and get out there. What have we got?’

  ‘CCTV,’ said DC Adrian Wren. He crossed to the TV, turned it on. Slipped a disc in, took the remote, sat down in the nearest seat. ‘Came through first thing. Watch.’

  The TV screen showed a grainy image of Claire Fielding’s block of flats. It was night-time.

  ‘Night before last,’ said Adrian. ‘Here’s the time we want.’ He froze the frame. It showed a figure moving up by the side of the apartment block. A tall, stocky figure wearing a buttoned-up overcoat and a hat pulled down, disguising its face. Adrian let the footage move again. The figure walked purposefully towards the entrance of the block, looked round, waited. Adrian froze the frame once more.

  No one in the room spoke or moved. Their attention was focused solely on the TV. Phil was no different. He was thinking exactly what everyone else in the room was thinking: This is him.This is our first glimpse of the murderer.

  ‘Big bloke,’ said Clayton, the first to speak. He was voicing what everyone in the room was thinking: it could be Brotherton. A few nods, grunts of assent in return. They waited for the footage to resume once more.

  ‘Time here?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Just after seven thirty,’ said Adrian. ‘Now look. He wants to get in but can’t find a way. No key. So he waits.’

  He clicked and pointed with the remote once more. The figure tried the double doors, then moved away and disappeared round the corner. A slight fast-forward, then he returned carrying three bags of shopping.

  Phil frowned. ‘We didn’t find any shopping anywhere…’

  The figure stayed around the side of the building. Eventually a woman approached the double doors, took out a key to enter. The figure detached himself and struggled towards her, making the bags look as heavy as possible. The woman turned, her hand keeping the door pushed open.

  ‘It looks like he’s calling to her,’ said Adrian, ‘asking her to hold the door.’ He looked at the screen again. ‘And she is, look. There. She’s smiling.’

  The woman held the door open for him. He seemed to be bobbing his head in thanks. The door swung shut behind the pair of them.

  ‘And he’s in,’ said Adrian.

  ‘Who’s that woman?’ said Phil. ‘Have we spoken to her? Has she given us a description?’

  Adrian gave him a look that managed to be both elated and exasperated. ‘We’ve seen her. But we haven’t spoken to her.’ He paused the recording, rewound until she reappeared on the screen. ‘Look again.’ He pressed play. They all moved forward, staring intently.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Clayton.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Phil. ‘Julie Simpson.’

  It was like a collective sigh of exasperation had been heaved in the room. Phil shook his head. ‘She let her own murderer in…’

  ‘If it was Brotherton, she’d have recognised him,’ said Clayton.

  ‘Not if he was disguised,’ said Anni. ‘His face hidden.’

  The room fell silent as they watched the screen.

  Phil held up a hand. ‘Shopping bags? We didn’t find any in Claire Fielding’s apartment… Have we checked the stairs, everywhere else in the flats?’

  ‘He’s going to reuse them,’ said DS Jane Gosling.

  ‘Very eco-friendly,’ said Clayton.

  ‘Right,’ said Adrian, bringing the focus of the room back to him and the TV. He restarted it. ‘So he’s in. At seven thirty-eight.’

  He fast-forwarded again. Stopped it when the double doors were opened.

  ‘Nine ten,’ he said. ‘Chrissie Burrows going home. Fast-forward again…’ He stopped the footage. Geraint Cooper was seen walking out. ‘Nearly twenty-five to ten.’

  ‘So we don’t know what he does or where he goes,’ said DS Jane Gosling, ‘but we know he’s in the building all the time. Biding his time. If he gets stopped, he’s got his carrier bags as cover. He can look like he’s making his way up the stairs.’ She looked at the screen again. ‘Probably on his way to the flat by this time. Probably inside. Doing what he set out to do. Let’s see what happens when he comes out.’ She ran the images through until she found the one she wanted. The double doors opened, the figure emerged. He was dressed exactly the same, still carrying the shopping bags from earlier.

  ‘He must have had his equipment in the bags, his tools, disguised by groceries,’ said Jane. ‘And something to wrap the baby in.’ Her voice dropped. ‘There’d be an awful lot of blood.’

  ‘But he must have put the set dressing somewhere,’ said Phil. He noticed Marina look up, smile slightly at his choice of phrase. He felt his cheeks reddening, looked round. No one else had noticed. He continued. ‘I still want Claire Fielding’s flat checked for groceries. And see if we can find which supermarket he was in beforehand. Check their CCTV.’

  They returned their attention to the screen. The figure was moving briskly but unhurriedly round the side of the building and away down the street. They watched as he faded from view.

  ‘We got any more footage?’ asked Phil.

  Jane pointed the remote at the screen once more. ‘This. Taken from the camera on Middleborough, just past the roundabout.’

  They all looked at the screen as the same figure hurried past on the pavement.

  ‘Now watch.’ She pointed the remote again, slowing the picture down. ‘He turns round. Here.’ She stopped the image.

  They all leaned in closer to the screen. Phil, like the rest of them, stared hard at the image. Willed it to take shape as Brotherton, assume Brotherton’s features, close their case for them. But it was grainy, indistinct. He sat back. Tried not to sigh aloud in frustration.

  ‘Can we get this sharpened up?’ he asked.

  ‘We can try,’ said Millhouse. ‘Might take some time to do it properly. And money.’

  Adrian turned the TV off.

  ‘Thanks for your hard work,’ said Phil. ‘Appreciate it. What about phone records? Claire Fielding’s? Brotherton’s?’

  ‘We’re still waiting,’ said Jane Gosling.

  ‘Right.’ Phil rubbed his chin, noticed where he had missed an area shaving this morning. ‘Well it’s not conclusive, ’ he said, ‘but-’

  The doors opened. Fenwick entered.

  34

  Phil stopped talking, stared at his superior officer.

  ‘You’ve seen the CCTV, then?’ Fenwick said, not moving forward.

  ‘Just now,’ said Phil.

  ‘Then you should be in no doubt. You know what to do next. So get a move on.’

  Marina stood up, turned to him. ‘It’s not Brotherton,’ she said. All eyes were focused on her. The room held a collective breath.

  Fenwick gave a bitter smile. ‘Well it blood
y well looks like him. Maybe he’s got a twin brother. Has that shown up in the profile?’

  Marina’s face burned. ‘I’m sure a few interesting things would show up in your profile.’

  Fenwick took a step towards her. Phil moved between them.

  ‘Sir, I’m the CIO here. Not you. Please leave.’

  Fenwick didn’t hide the anger in his eyes. ‘Don’t order me around.The Super wants Brotherton brought in. And so do I.’

  ‘Brotherton is a liar and a manipulator,’ said Marina, anger in the ascendant now. ‘He’s a bully who preys on women weaker than himself. But he is not a killer. He wants his victim alive so he can keep hurting her. And he would never kill his own child.’

  ‘Really?’ said Fenwick, shaking his head.

  ‘Really,’ said Marina. ‘You want reasons? Here they are.’ She spoke quickly, getting as much information out as she could in as short a time as possible. ‘As I said before, and clearly you didn’t listen, this type of abuser is essentially narcissistic. And childish. On the one hand he would resent the fact that his woman, or object or property or however he likes to think of her, is carrying something that will take the focus and attention away from him. But on the other hand, he wouldn’t harm it because it’s a part of him. And by extension, he wouldn’t hurt the woman while she is carrying it.’ She looked round at the faces staring back at her. ‘Check with Claire Fielding’s friends. I’m sure you’ll find that the abuse stopped once she was pregnant.’

  ‘Well perhaps he killed her accidentally,’ said Fenwick.

  ‘And what about the other three murders?’ said Marina. ‘Did he accidentally commit them too?’

  Fenwick stared at her. Phil stepped forward, ready to physically remove the senior officer if necessary. Or to get in his way if he made a move on Marina.

  Instead Fenwick managed another smile. ‘We’ll ask him when we bring him in.’

  ‘He’s speeding up. The time in between murders is getting shorter.’

  ‘All the more reason to get a move on, then.’

  Marina moved over to Fenwick, stared him right in the eyes. Fenwick flinched but remained where he was. ‘So if there’s another murder while you’ve got Brotherton in here, that’s all right is it? You’ll take responsibility for that?’

  ‘Psychology’s one thing, Marina,’ Fenwick said, his voice as patronising as possible, ‘physical evidence is another. Get him.’

  He turned and left.

  The silence that followed was louder than their arguing.

  ‘And while that’s happening,’ said Marina, her voice thrown into the silence like a rock down an abyss, ‘the killer’s still out there.’

  Her voice died away but it was clear her anger remained. All eyes turned from her to Phil. He was aware of their stares, knew he had to do something. Regain charge.

  ‘Let’s bring Brotherton in,’ he said.

  Marina turned to him. ‘But Phil…’

  ‘We’ve no choice. We’ve got reservations, but we’ve got nothing else at the moment. We bring him in.’

  Marina turned away from him.

  ‘But I want you working on him with me, Marina. If it’s not him, I want him eliminated as soon as possible.’

  Her back still to him, she nodded.

  Phil sighed. Ignored the band round his chest. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go get him.’

  35

  Hester looked round the house, pleased with what she saw.

  She had tidied away the tools, hung the scythes on their wall hooks by the double doors, polishing and oiling their blades before doing so to keep them keen. She had then swept the living area and put the old tin bath central to the room so it was the first thing the baby saw when it entered its new home. She had done the dishes and tidied the kitchen area too. She had even got up on the ladders and restapled the black plastic sheeting over the rotten wood around the front corner of the house, to stop the wind and rain from getting in. Everything was in readiness.

  She sat down on one of the old armchairs.

  ‘A woman’s work is never done,’ she said, smiling to herself.

  Everything was going to be fine. Her husband would be out soon, finding the next surrogate. Then he would bring her new baby back home. She giggled. Wasn’t that a song? Sounded like a song. If it wasn’t, it should be.

  She put her hands in her lap. She didn’t think about the baby that had died. Didn’t allow herself to. It was buried now, out in the garden beside the pigs. She hadn’t marked the grave. Didn’t want anything to remind her. That was the past. And it didn’t pay to dwell on the past. She knew that from bitter experience. Every time she started to think of the past, she started to feel sad. If she thought about the dead baby she might feel sad for it too. And once she started to feel sad for that, who knows what she would start thinking about next? Herself before the… before she became who she was; her sister…

  Her sister. She tried not to think about her sister. Ever. She still missed her. They used to be close. But she was gone now. Long gone.

  Hester stood up, knocked her fists against her temples to clear her mind, to stop her thoughts from wandering down that path again. Grunted with each punch. She needed to do something to take her mind off… off… off that.

  She opened the side door, went outside into the yard. It was as she had left it. The axe lay next to the chopping block. Wood was piled by the side of the house, a tarpaulin stretched over it. Rusting engine and body parts from several old cars sat on the hard red earth, flaking away. Two old fridges, a magazine rack, a waterlogged sofa, some plastic crates, a pile of bricks. Scavenged items to be cannibalised and put to use. In their wired enclosure at the side by the fields, the chickens pecked. Further along, fenced off from the yard, were the pigs. She breathed deep, the scents mingling in her lungs. That was what home smelled like.

  The day was cold and sharp, the wind like a shower of ice needles against her face. She stood at the back of the house, looked across the river. She saw the familiar sights of the port where the ships came from Europe and disgorged their cargo. Huge they were, the containers. She didn’t know what was in them, had never given it a thought. Just watched them pull in, unload, pull out again. Back home to another country. Hester had never been to another country. She had never even been across to the port. Anywhere that wasn’t her home was like a foreign land. But then a woman’s place was in the home. It was her husband who went out and about.

  She looked across the beach. The tide had gone out, leaving stones, mud and moss along the waterline. Small boats were left anchored and landlocked in the silt, their chains dripping seaweed and debris, their hulls mildewed and algaed.

  Hester knew the beach. Knew where it was safe to walk, knew the spots where you could be pulled under. She had seen it happen. Someone walking a dog, throwing a stick. The dog, too fat, too slow, had run too far out, wouldn’t listen. The mud and sand and water got hold of it, wouldn’t let it go. By the time its owner turned up, there was nothing left of it. Hardly a mark to show it had ever been there. Just a muddy stick lying on the ground.

  The beach had secrets. And it held them. Hester liked that. Because she had secrets too. And she knew how to hold on to them.

  The houses that edged the marsh grass and sand looked sad and lonely. Made of wood and built on stilts, they looked like they had been left stranded when the tide went out. Like it had promised to come back for them but never had. So they stayed there, gently rotting.

  Along from the beach houses, reached by a muddy dirt track, was the small caravan park. The vans were stationary, unchanged for at least the last thirty years. There had been houses there before, big old ones, but they had been knocked down, their foundations and outlines still visible where the grass had grown over them. Hester hadn’t seen many people come to the park, whatever time of year it was.

  The beach was bleak. And depressing. In weather like this it was windswept and cold. But to Hester it was home. The only home she had ever known. Eve
r would know.

  She started to feel the cold then, creeping into her bones. She didn’t mind it that much, was used to it really. But she still went back inside.

  Because there was something she had to do. Before her husband appeared, before the baby arrived. Something she had to do alone.

  She closed the door behind her and crossed to the stairs.

  Unbuttoning her clothes as she went.

  36

  The rain had started while they were on the A120 on the way to Braintree. Freezing and pounding. Phil was pleased to be in the car and not doing door-to-door legwork like the uniforms were still engaged in. That was something. Next to him, Clayton was unusually quiet. Phil didn’t think anything of it. He had enough to worry about. He didn’t even play any music.

  ‘D’you think,’ said Clayton as they approached the Braintree roundabout, ‘that what Marina said was right?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘What Brotherton did to Claire Fielding, he’s been doin’ that to Sophie?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Phil. ‘Might not have started yet. But she works for him and lives with him, so it sounds like he’s well on the way.’ He turned, looked at Clayton. ‘Why are you so bothered?’

  Clayton shrugged. ‘M’not. Just wondered.’

  Phil smiled. ‘Got a little thing for her, have you?’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Clayton, not laughing. He looked out of the window, said nothing more.

  The rest of the journey passed in silence.

  The scrap metal yard looked just the same but the pounding rain lent it the air of a black and white photo. Something grim and depressing from a sixties documentary, thought Phil as he drove the Audi through the gates. He was expecting the place to be deserted because of the weather, but men were still working out in the yard, unloading trucks and lorries, filling containers with metal.