The Surrogate

by Tania Carver

  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, but 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.

  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?’