The Surrogate

by Tania Carver

  Well she couldn’t have that. Couldn’t be left alone. It would kill her. She needed him. She had to find him.

  She called for him, shouted as loud as she could.

  Nothing.

  And again.

  Nothing from her husband. But the baby began to stir. Crying in exploratory little gasps, getting louder and bigger as it got more air into its lungs, felt more confidence in doing so.

  And there were those old emotions again, welling up inside Hester, waiting to break.

  The baby kept crying.

  She dropped to her knees, unable to stop those old, horrible emotions. They had to come out. She put her head back and screamed as loud as she could. Pounding her fists on the floor until her knuckles ached, beating her head against it too. Screaming all the while.

  Eventually she stopped, but there was still screaming inside her head. She opened her eyes, expecting the screaming to stop, but it didn’t. That was when she remembered that the baby was there with her.

  More emotion welled up inside her. Easier to identify this time. Hatred. If it wasn’t for the baby, she wouldn’t have got into this mess. Her husband would be here and they – whoever they were – wouldn’t be after her. After them. The baby. It was all the baby’s fault.

  She got up, crossed over to it. Stood before the tiny, wailing figure. Looked hard at it with tear-filled eyes.

  It screamed. She screamed back. It screamed louder. Hester screamed louder still. Whatever she did, it wouldn’t shut up.

  So she bent down, pulled it out of the cot, held it in front of her face, screaming at it, her mouth fully open, like she was about to swallow it. Screaming, screaming…

  Eventually it stopped. Hester was surprised. She looked round, not wanting to believe her luck. But yes, it had stopped screaming. She smiled to herself. That wasn’t in the parenting books. She had invented that one.

  She placed the baby back in the cot, still pleased with herself. And then that black feeling began to return. Her husband absent. Them after her.

  She tried not to give in. She had to hold on, had to think. Do something.

  She looked at the baby again, fought down the rising hatred within her, the urge to blame it for everything going wrong. Because it was the baby’s fault. She was sure of that. The rage inside told her so.

  She could kill it. That was what she could do. Place her hands round its neck and squeeze. Wouldn’t even have to squeeze very tightly, it was so small. Bones would snap like firewood kindling. Easy.

  She placed her rough, callused hands round its smooth throat.

  It looked up at her. Big blue eyes. Vivid and bright, fully rounded in an unformed face.

  Her hands dropped away. She couldn’t do it. Not when it was staring up at her like that. No matter how much she might hate it.

  She watched it, kicking in the cot, stretching its arms and legs, clenching and unclenching its fists. Her expression was blank.

  When it’s asleep, she thought. Its eyes closed.

  That’s when I’ll get rid of it.

  And then run.

  73

  ‘ We’ve checked,’ said Anni in the observation room. ‘I flagged that up. Wrabness she seemed to stumble on, so I went for that. Nothing. Gail Johnson, Sophia Gale, Sophia Johnson, nothing.’

  Phil sighed, looked through the glass. Sophie had sat back in the chair, legs spread out, arms on the table, in sharp contrast to the rigid, upright person he had encountered on first entering.

  I’m getting through to her, he thought. I’m breaking her down.

  The observation room was full of bodies. Just about everyone who was involved with the investigation was there, Anni, the Birdies and as many other officers and uniforms as could fit. They were all waiting, watching, desperate to see the killer of one of their colleagues, their friend, break down and crack. Phil was well aware of the pressure that placed on him.

  ‘Keep trying,’ he said. ‘I’ll try and get a proper surname from her.’ He sighed. ‘Even if I do, there’s no guarantee the baby’ll actually be there. But it’ll be a start.’

  ‘Just get a name,’ Anni said. ‘Something I can go on.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And we still don’t know who the figure in the photo is. Brother? Father?’

  ‘I’ll get there,’ Phil said, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded. He looked at Sophie again, picked up a mug of tea to take in to her.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ he said.

  Anni wished him luck. His DC looked almost beyond tiredness. She seemed to have aged a year for every hour of the day. He gave her what he hoped was a confident smile and left the room.

  He stood in the corridor outside the interview room. Leaned against the wall, mug of tea in hand. He took a deep breath, let it go. Another. Let it go.

  Right, he said to himself, go in there and do the interview of your life.

  Phil switched the tape on.

  ‘Interview resumed at…’ He checked his watch, gave the time and the other formalities. Slid the tea across the table to Sophie, sat back. She took it, cupping her hands round it. She drank, closing her eyes as she did so.

  ‘Right,’ he said, once she had placed the mug on the table, ‘where were we? Oh yes. You were telling me about your brother. And your father.’

  The ghost of a smile disappeared from her face, replaced by something altogether darker.

  ‘Heston, was it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Johnson?’

  She frowned, looked slightly confused.

  ‘Johnson.Your surname. Does he have the same surname as you?’

  She shook her head. ‘My surname’s not Johnson.’

  ‘Gale, then.’

  She became thoughtful. Deciding whether to lie or not, thought Phil. ‘No.’

  ‘So what’s your real name?’

  She paused, a look of cunning entering her eyes. ‘If I tell you, you’ll go straight there. I can’t tell you.’

  Phil shrugged, tried to make out it wasn’t important. ‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll find out one way or another. Anyway, I want to know more about your father. And your brother.’ His voice dropped to the lower, compassionate register he had used previously. He leaned forward across the table as if it were just the two of them talking conspiratorially, sharing secrets. ‘You were telling me about what your father did to your brother. And how much he hated it.’

  He watched her face, the pain and anguish on her features. Asking her to relive the events was like forcing a child into a room that contained their worst nightmare. His heart was breaking for her in that instant. Then he remembered that she had murdered his DS and felt that familiar surge of hatred excise the compassion. He held on to it, worked off it.

  ‘He… hated it…’

  ‘You said. So what did he do about it? Fight back? Walk out?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. He couldn’t do either. He wasn’t strong enough. He just… took it.’ She sighed. ‘Until… until he couldn’t take it any more.’

  ‘He killed himself?’

  She shook her head. ‘Would have been easier if he had. No. He… he was in a dress. He’d just had… just taken care of our father’s needs. He wanted to please him. Our father kept hitting him, beating him, hurting him. Saying all sorts of stuff, horrible stuff…’

  She looked at the tea. Didn’t raise it to her mouth. Phil waited.

  ‘He told me this. He crawled into the kitchen. He couldn’t walk. He was bleeding from… from what our father had done to him. Crawled. And he took a knife. One of the big ones. For killing the hens.’

  Phil flinched, hoped she didn’t see it. But Sophie was back in her story.

  ‘He took it and… he…’ Her voice dropped away. ‘Cut his own cock off.’

  74

  Phil said nothing. Her words had hit him almost physically. He felt light-headed, his legs shaking, his breathing difficult. He hadn’t been expecting that. Nothing as bad as that.

  ‘Oh my God…’ H
e couldn’t help it. The words just slipped out.

  Sophie nodded, as if agreeing with him. ‘Cut his cock off,’ she said in a hushed, almost reverent tone. ‘Wanted to be a woman. Wanted to be loved…’

  ‘Did he… survive?’

  Sophie nodded. ‘Lost a lot of blood. Nearly died. Our father found him, helped him.’

  ‘Took him to the hospital?’

  She shook her head, gave a bitter laugh. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Cauterised it.’

  ‘With what?’

  She shrugged. ‘Something hot. Metal. Some tool.’ Her voice matter-of-fact.

  Phil still felt short of breath. He didn’t know what to ask next. Thankfully, Sophie kept talking.

  ‘After he was well again, I helped him. On the quiet. Said if he wanted to live like a woman I would make him one. Found people to do stuff.You know, procedures.’

  ‘What kind of people?’

  ‘Extreme body modifiers.’

  ‘How did you find them?’

  She shrugged again. ‘Few contacts from work.’

  ‘And what did they do?’

  ‘Made him a woman. Changed his body. As much as they could.’ Sophie frowned, thinking. ‘But I think something happened to him. To his mind.’

  ‘What, he lost it?’

  ‘He was never the same again. In any way.’ She took another mouthful of tea.

  ‘So did he move out then? Or stay with your father in the house in Wrabness?’

  ‘Stayed with him in Wrabness.’ She stopped talking, looked at him. ‘How did you know that? I didn’t tell you that.’

  She sat back from the table, angry. Phil kept looking at her, his gaze level, his voice steady. He knew Anni would be trawling through documents right now.

  ‘You told me yourself.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Maybe not in so many words. But you told me.’

  She still looked angry. He shrugged.

  ‘There’s no point in being mad at me, Sophie. It’s all going to come out, so you may as well tell me. What’s your surname?Your real surname.’

  The anger dissipated, to be replaced by a cunning smile once more. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you about my brother.’

  ‘Okay.You keep telling me about him, then. He was living in Wrabness.’

  She nodded.

  ‘With your father, still?’

  She opened her mouth to answer, stopped herself. Smiled once more. ‘No. He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  She shrugged. ‘Just gone. And Heston’s not Heston any more. He’s Hester. My sister.’

  ‘Right. Hester. And he – your sister, she lives alone?’

  Again that crooked, sick smile. ‘No, she’s not alone. She’s got a husband now.’ She laughed.

  Phil was confused. ‘Why is that funny?’

  Another shrug. ‘Just is.’

  ‘And he’s there with her?’

  Another laugh. ‘Always.’

  ‘Right.’ Phil had to move on. ‘So… Hester wanted a baby, is that right? And you went and got one for her… for them?’

  Sophie looked at her fingernails. They were painted, but broken and chipped. She sighed. ‘Yeah.’

  He sensed he was losing her. He had listened to her story and he was sure she felt better for putting it on to him. With that done, she could revert to type. But he was not going to let that happen. It was time for him to ramp things up, he thought, get the answers he wanted.

  ‘So tell me if I’m right. Hester and her husband want kids. But they can’t have them. So they ask you to find pregnant women so that they can rip the babies out of them and claim them as their own?’

  Sophie kept her eyes on her nails. ‘Yeah. That’s it.Yeah.’

  ‘Ones that were nearly full term. Ones you knew.’

  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 stil
l 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.