The Surrogate

by Tania Carver

  He kept eye contact with her for perhaps longer than he should have done. His voice softened slightly when he spoke. ‘I know you won’t.’

  He saw the ghost of a smile on her face. They both looked away at the same time.

  Anni came to join them, similarly attired.

  ‘Right.’ Phil pulled his hood up, fastened his boots. He was ready. ‘Let’s go.’

  54

  Phil had been right, thought Marina. It was hell.

  She had hoped that seeing Claire Fielding’s apartment would have prepared her for this, but it hadn’t. Nothing could have done. She had seen the flat after it had been cleared, the bodies removed. She had looked at the crime-scene photos, tried to imagine the two together. It still wasn’t enough.

  She had a flashback to when she was little and her mother used to wash her hair over the sink, rinsing it through with jug after jug of warm water. The school announced they were taking her year to the local swimming pool for lessons. Marina had never been swimming in a swimming pool before. She imagined it would feel like jug after jug of warm water over her head. But that gentle feeling was nowhere near the experience of plunging head first into the pool: the sheer weight and pressure of the cold, chlorinated water bearing down on her, pushing her under. She had felt like she was going to freeze and drown simultaneously.

  Walking into the house had felt exactly the same. Viewing the photos, going round Claire Fielding’s had just been a dry run. Now she saw first-hand the way an ordered, regular life had been torn apart and destroyed in the most horrific manner imaginable. She could feel the violence, the hatred and – there was no other word for it – the insanity in the atmosphere of the house. It was like an indoor fog had descended and refused to move. Her legs weakened and she stumbled. Phil looked at her, concern on his face.

  ‘You okay?’

  She nodded, kept her eyes away from his. The hall was carnage. The wallpaper, beige with gold designs, had bloodied handprints smeared down the length of it, showing signs of a desperate struggle, one she had no trouble imagining. The crunch of broken glass underfoot, a smashed light fitting helped her see it. But it was the bloodied spray over the walls, floor and ceiling that brought it to vivid life. The slaughterhouse decoration caused her to see the knife enter, break skin, slice muscle and tendon, watch as the bright arterial blood fountained and geysered out…

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her throat was hot and dry, her voice cracked.

  He didn’t move for a few seconds, so she went on ahead of him. ‘Let’s… let’s see the rest.’

  He looked at her once more, decided he had to take her at her word and moved on. ‘Must have been a struggle here,’ he said aloud. ‘She answered the door, he… what? Takes a swing at her? Cuts her?’ He looked down at the carpet. The bloodstains had been flagged, samples taken for analysis.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Anni said. ‘Why, though? That’s changing what he did last time.’

  ‘Serial killers…’ Marina took a deep breath. ‘Serial killers will do that sometimes.’

  ‘We’re saying that?’ said Phil. ‘Calling this the work of a serial killer?’

  ‘You think there’s any doubt now?’ said Marina.

  ‘And there’s no chance Brotherton could have done this before we brought him in?’ said Anni.

  ‘Highly unlikely,’ said Phil.

  ‘So why’s he done it like this?’ said Anni, getting them focused once more. ‘This serial killer? To throw us off? Make us think it’s someone else?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Marina. ‘They do that. Or they might find a… a different way of working. Something that… that… suits them better.’

  ‘Let’s find out where he cut her,’ said Phil. ‘Might give us more of a clue.’

  Phil leading, they followed the bloodied trail into the living room. And stopped dead.

  ‘Oh God…’ said Marina. ‘Oh Jesus…’ She screwed her eyes tight shut, but not before the image had seared itself on to her retinas.

  What was left of Caroline Eades’ body lay in the centre of the room, on the floor. Her stomach had been slit in a crude circle from her groin to beneath her breasts. The baby had been removed. That was horrific enough, but whoever had done it hadn’t stopped there.

  ‘Throat cut,’ said Phil.

  ‘Not just cut,’ said Anni. ‘He’s nearly taken her head off.’

  The cut went right through her neck. Marina could see the glistening white bone of the woman’s spine in amongst the gore.

  ‘Maybe she started to scream,’ said Anni. ‘Had to keep her quiet. That accounts for the amount of blood in the hall.’ She looked again at the body. ‘What’s… what’s he done with her arms and legs?’

  ‘Broken them,’ said Phil, trying to sound as neutral as possible, failing to keep the revulsion out of his voice. ‘Then… held them down…’

  Caroline Eades’ arms and legs were splayed out at impossible angles to her body. Heavy objects from around the room held them in place. Hardback reference books. A vase. The DVD recorder. The coffee table.

  ‘Oh God…’ said Marina again. ‘Oh God…’

  Phil turned to her, grabbed her by the shoulders. Eye-to-eye contact. ‘Marina, look at me.’

  ‘But, but I… I know her…’

  Anni joined Phil in staring at Marina. ‘How?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Oh God…’

  ‘How?’ Phil asked again, his voice managing to be both soft and firm.

  ‘Yoga… she was at yoga… She… she asked me to go for a coffee…’

  Phil needed Marina to concentrate. He couldn’t allow her to slip into emotional memories. ‘Marina, that’s awful. Horrible. But I need you to focus now. To put that to one side and focus. I want to know what you see.’ His voice was calm, solicitous. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  She glanced at the body again, then quickly back to Phil, her lip trembling.

  ‘What Marina Esposito the trained psychologist sees. What this means to our investigation. What you see on that floor that’s going to help us catch whoever did this.’ His voice dropped even lower. ‘Look again. Tell me what you see.’

  She took a deep breath, steeled herself. Looked again. Tried to take in the scene dispassionately, clinically. Put aside her feelings, her emotions, work analytically. Put those years of theory into practice.

  ‘He’s… I say he, I don’t…’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll leave that one for now. The perpetrator came in through the front door; she… she answered it; he wanted to silence her. Maybe she started to scream… maybe he didn’t want to take that chance. So he did it fast. He’s… he’s in a hurry. On a schedule? Wants it over quickly?’ She shook her head. ‘No.’

  Another look at the body on the floor, the bloodstained walls. ‘He’s here to do a job. He wants that baby. No time to mess about. He’s escalating again. More ferocious this time, less focused.’

  She then did something that she wouldn’t have believed herself capable of doing. She knelt down before the body, peered at the stomach wound. ‘He knew what he was doing. This is controlled. The cutting isn’t frenzied or hurried. The rest of the attack is.’

  She let her eyes rove over the other injuries. ‘He didn’t have time to tie her down, to control her as he did Claire Fielding. The restraints, the spreadeagling. I bet there’s no drugs, either. Maybe he couldn’t get them in time. Maybe he’d run out.’ She looked again. ‘Or maybe he doesn’t want to use them any more. Maybe he’s really getting a taste for this. He’s doing a job, but he’s starting to enjoy it. Really, really enjoy it…’

  She checked the position of the body. ‘Right. So he pushes her down…’ She saw the action on her mind’s eye. ‘Not content with that, he smashes her arms, her legs. She’s not going anywhere. Then he… he wants her to stay still, be controlled. No drugs, so he improvises. Finds what’s at hand to do the job of keeping her in place. Then he gets to work.’

  ‘What does that tell us?’ asked Phil. ‘What’s your
impression? ’

  She kept staring at the body, thinking. Phil and Anni waited. ‘I don’t think it’s an escalation in the sense of him getting out of control,’ she said eventually. ‘But this is a fierce attack and it’s come right after the last one. Usually in cases of this nature there’s some time between them. The perpetrator likes to rest up, let his lusts die down, play with his trophies until the urge builds again. There’s nothing like that here.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Phil.

  ‘Because…’ An idea struck Marina. She felt cold and empty as it took hold of her. ‘The baby’s dead. The last baby he took. Claire Fielding’s. That’s it. That’s why he’s back again so quickly. He wants a replacement.’

  ‘And this baby could still be alive?’ said Anni.

  ‘Not my department. But I hope so. I’d guess so.’

  ‘And the position he’s left the body in?’ said Phil.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Marina, staring at the body. ‘I don’t think there’s any significance. He’s got what he wanted and he’s off.’

  ‘So this confirms things,’ said Phil. ‘That it’s not the woman who’s the target; it’s the baby.’

  ‘Right,’ said Marina. ‘She’s just a… a husk, a carrier. He doesn’t care what happens to her. Like you don’t care what happens to an eggshell when you crack it and take out the egg.’

  Phil and Anni stared at the body, taking in what Marina had said.

  Eventually Marina turned to Phil. ‘Can we step outside now, please?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  They did so. Marina was surprised at what she saw. Teams of white-suited police were going about their jobs in what was once a peaceful suburban street. Now it looked like it was the centre of a chemical attack. Nothing had been spared. Fingertip searches were taking place. The house and surrounding area were being examined in forensic detail. She saw door-to-door inquiries being carried out. A mobile police station had been set up by the end of the turning for anyone to give information anonymously. Nick Lines and his pathology team had arrived.

  The press were behind the barriers at the end of the road, erected to stop them actually seeing anything, their cameras and lights adding to the police lights, creating an unreal film-set atmosphere. They were getting restless, hovering, hoping for that one glimpse, that overheard remark, the mistake that would provide them with their story.

  Phil stopped walking. Spoke to the other two. Started to take charge once more. ‘Anni, chain of evidence. Follow the body to the mortuary. Get Nick Lines over here now. I want timelines established for Graeme Eades, for Caroline Eades and for this Erin woman. I want her found and questioned. See if she wanted a baby and he wouldn’t give it to her. I want Forensics working overnight, I want everything double-checked. He must have left some trace here, he must have done…’

  ‘Who’s going to do all this?’ asked Anni.

  Phil sighed. ‘I wish we still had Clayton. The Birdies should be here soon. I’ll make a couple of calls. Get all available ranks here and working on it.’

  Marina looked over at the press once more. Flashbulbs popped in her direction as she did so. ‘Should have brought Ben Fenwick after all,’ she said to Phil. ‘He could have kept them quiet.’

  ‘I suppose he does have his uses,’ said Phil.

  ‘We’re going to need to tell them something,’ said Anni.

  Phil nodded. Looked up. ‘Would you two do it?’

  Anni and Marina exchanged surprised glances.

  ‘Aw, boss,’ said Anni, ‘that’s not my thing. Come on…’

  ‘You’ve had media training, you can do it,’ said Phil, warming to his theme. ‘Both of you. Together. Say what’s happened – don’t give details – then if you, Marina, could look at the camera and make some kind of plea to…’ He shrugged. ‘Whoever’s got the baby. Ask them to give it back, ask them to come forward and we’ll help them, that kind of thing.’

  ‘You think that’ll help?’ asked Marina.

  ‘It won’t hurt.’ Phil sighed, and Marina saw just how much stress he was under. ‘I know it’s not what you signed up for, but if anyone knows the words that’ll hit this person’s buttons, it’s you.’

  She just looked at him.

  ‘Please.’ He glanced over at the news crews, then back to Marina and Anni. ‘It’s national now, not local. We need as much help as we can get.’

  Marina shook her head, looked at Anni. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘I will if you will,’ said Anni.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Phil.

  The two women walked over to where the press were waiting, Anni complaining that if she’d known she was going to be on TV, she would have remembered her make-up. Phil watched them go. He couldn’t hear what they said, but the audience seemed to lap it up. Anni was surprisingly poised, he thought. And Marina sincere. He noticed that she kept touching her stomach as she spoke, in that new nervous habit of hers. Then they were finished and walking back towards him. Flashbulbs popping once again.

  ‘Well done,’ he said.

  Marina smiled. ‘Thank you. I can now add media star to my CV,’ she said with a grim smile.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Anni. ‘Judge on X Factor next.’

  Marina smiled once more. It covered the weariness and the tension.

  Phil looked away, but she kept scrutinising him. His hand went to his chest, clutching it as if in sudden pain. She knew he was hiding it from Anni and his team, but she caught it. She knew what it was too. A panic attack.

  She felt suddenly protective of Phil as he stopped rubbing, took a few deep breaths.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said, turning back to them. ‘Let’s get started. Time’s running out for that baby.’

  He turned, walked away towards the mobile incident room. Marina caught up with him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, keeping his eyes straight ahead, his jaw set. ‘I owe you one.’

  Marina didn’t reply. Just smiled.

  55

  The baby was quiet. Finally. Hester had picked it up, held it, shushed it. Rocked it from side to side. The motion must have made it sleepy. It closed its eyes. Eventually it had woken up and wanted feeding. She had given it milk. It had taken it. Hester felt good. Proud. Like she could cope.

  Now the baby was sleeping in its cot. Hester had the TV on. Hester loved the TV. Especially the adverts. The stuff in between them she often didn’t understand. She saw people doing things and heard laughter at the result but didn’t know what was supposed to be funny. She watched people being serious with each other but couldn’t work out what they were so worried about. She heard singers and dancers getting whooping applause and failed to see what the audience was getting excited about. You had to phone in and vote for the best one. She couldn’t work out who that was. But sometimes it was the other way round: things that were supposed to be serious she laughed at. Things that were supposed to be funny she found serious. But the singers and dancers she still didn’t get, still didn’t know what was supposed to be good or bad.

  She was watching the news. She had started watching it when her first baby arrived. And got hooked. Photos of happy women on the screen would cut to a reporter standing in front of a crime scene. She knew it was a crime scene because the police were always there. And the reporter said so, in a voice that didn’t smile.

  Hester knew better. They weren’t crime scenes. Birthing rooms, her husband called them. Where the surrogates – her surrogates – had given up their babies for her. So she could be a mother. She felt a tingle inside herself when she watched. She picked a word that the reporter used – random. She frowned. It wasn’t random, it was her list. Pinned to the kitchen wall, the ones already used crossed out, the ones still to go unmarked. And there were lots more to go. She shook her head, frowned again. Some people…

  She expected to see the same policeman again. The tall, smooth-looking one, with his good suit and his neat hair. Handsome, she thought, in a way. Then felt guilty at the thought: there should be n
o other man for her but her husband. She never listened to his words, just watched the shape of his mouth as he spoke. It had lines at the sides, tense little lines that seemed to be increasing every time she saw him. She smiled. It was becoming a familiar little ritual. Comforting, in its way.

  But this time was different. He wasn’t there. Hester stopped smiling. She didn’t want that. Instead there was this black girl with a harsh voice that Hester instinctively didn’t like, and someone with her. Another woman. Young, attractive. The black girl stood back and let her speak. Hester felt anger build within her. Who was this woman? What did she want? Where was the smooth policeman with the nice voice? She was talking, leaning forward and saying something serious. Hester was too angry to listen to the words.

  But the woman kept going, talking and looking. And Hester felt she was looking right at her.

  ‘What are you lookin’ at?’ she shouted.

  At the other end of the room, the baby made a noise.

  Hester didn’t care. She felt uncomfortable with the woman staring right at her. ‘Why are you lookin’ at me?’ Her voice was louder. The baby moaned, thrashed.

  Hester wasn’t stupid. She knew the woman wasn’t really looking through the TV at her. She knew they couldn’t do that. Or thought they couldn’t. But it still didn’t feel good. She tried to calm down, listen to what the woman was saying. Maybe when she did that, when she heard the words, she could get the woman out of her head.

  ‘… implore you. Please. If you have this baby or if you think you know the person who does, then get in touch with us. We urgently need to talk to you. We have professional care waiting. Please. We just need to talk to you.’

  The woman’s face got even more serious. Like she was saying something and she desperately wanted to be believed. Like when Hester told a lie and knew it was a lie but knew it would be worse to admit it.

  ‘Please.’ The woman hardly blinked. ‘For the baby’s sake. For your sake. You must be hurting. Please. Come forward. And let us help you.’

  Then it went back to the reporter.