Текст книги "The Surrogate"

Автор книги: Tania Carver

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

81

‘We’ve searched the whole house, sir,’ said one of the uniforms. ‘No sign of Marina Esposito. No sign of anyone. But we found this.’ He handed Phil a piece of paper. ‘It was nailed to the wall in the kitchen.’

Phil looked at it. Couldn’t believe his eyes. They were all there. Lisa King, Susie Evans, Claire Fielding, Caroline Eades. Other names followed them. Beside each name was a date. Due dates, thought Phil. But it was the name at the bottom of the list that concerned him most.

Marina Esposito, it said in handwriting different from but no better than the earlier entries. And next to it, from the coppers.

Phil tried to keep panic, desperation from his voice. He addressed the uniform again. ‘You’ve looked everywhere. What about basements? Lofts? Anything like that?’

The uniform shook her head. ‘Nothing. We’ve checked.’

‘Outbuildings?’

‘Checked them too. Apart from some chickens and pigs, there’s no one else here.’

‘Keep looking.’

Phil moved swiftly outside. Hester was just about to be escorted away. He ran to the van, confronted Hester. The policemen holding her didn’t let her go.

‘Where is she?’ he said. ‘Where’ve you put her?’

Hester just stared at him, mouth hanging slackly open, fear in her eyes.

Phil brandished the list before her face. ‘Here,’ he said, stabbing the name with his finger, ‘Marina Esposito. Here. Her name. Now where is she? Where’ve you put her?’

Hester tried to back away from him, terrified. She started whimpering. Phil kept going.

‘Where is she? Where is she?’

Hester cowered away from him, turning her face into the arms of one of the officers holding her. ‘No . . . no . . . don’t, don’t hurt me . . . go away, go away . . .’

‘Where is she . . .’ Phil realised that his words weren’t working. Hester didn’t know.

It wasn’t her. She didn’t know.

He turned away. ‘Oh God . . .’

They bundled her into the police van.

Phil stood there watching her go, his heart as black, dark and heavy as the Wrabness night.

He was lost.

Marina crept along, bent low, walking slowly. The light was getting brighter as she reached its source, the shadows lengthening, flickering as they came round the corners. It was accompanied by noise. Rhythmic pounding. Hammering.

She pressed herself in tight against the wall, gripped the screwdriver firmly in her hand. Risked a look round the corner.

The walls were lined with shelves containing canned food, cartons of milk, bottles of water. It was like a survivalist’s larder. In the centre of the space, a figure was kneeling down, hammering nails into wood. Marina looked closer, tried to work out what was being made.

There were huge squares of wood, metal mesh. The wood was being turned into frames, the mesh covering the frames. Marina was chilled by something more than just cold. She knew what was being made.

A cage. A cage for her.

She gave a gasp. Involuntary, unplanned. Cursing herself for doing it.

The figure stopped hammering, looked up.

He smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

82

The baby had been taken to hospital in an ambulance. The paramedics had given her a cursory examination and decided she was quite well, considering, but really needed full nursing care. Graeme Eades would be contacted.

Anni was sitting on the step, looking out towards the beach, her coat pulled tight round her, a blanket over that.

Phil sat down next to her.

‘Hey,’ he said.

She nodded, kept staring straight ahead.

‘Well done in there,’ he said.

She sighed. ‘I lied.’

‘You did what you had to do. What was best.’

She shook her head. ‘I lied to a vulnerable, damaged human being. I just made someone who’s lonely and fucked in the head feel even worse about themselves.’

‘You did your job, Anni.’

She didn’t reply, just continued to stare.

‘You coming back inside?’

She didn’t reply at first. ‘I think I’ll stay here a bit longer. If you don’t mind, boss.’

‘Okay.’ Phil stood up, looked round. Took in the desolation of the place once again. He looked across the field the way they had come, passing his eyes over the caravan site. Who would want to come here for their holidays? he thought, not for the first time.

Something jarred within him.

The caravan site.

‘Anni . . .’

She looked up.

‘When you checked the details on the Croft family, didn’t it say something about owning a caravan site?’

Anni looked up, startled out of her reflective mood. ‘Yeah, yes it did . . .’ She stood up, joined him in looking. ‘D’you think . . .’

‘Worth a try,’ he said. ‘Tell the rest of them where I’m going. If I find anything I’ll come back, let you know.’

He picked up his torch, started hurrying across the field.

Marina started to back away from the man. She held the screwdriver out in front of her.

‘Don’t . . .’ Her throat felt dry, parched. Her voice small, croaking. ‘Don’t come any nearer . . . I’ll . . . I’ll stab you . . .’ The words sounded unconvincing, even to her.

The man smiled again. Shook his head. ‘No you won’t.’ His voice sounded like he looked: rough, callused, feral and powerful. He was tall, his body thick-limbed and bulky. Dressed in old suit trousers, braces and a once-white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he was sweating and dirty. Work boots on his feet, an old, festering overcoat on the floor beside him. He was bald, but his thick, powerful arms were covered in hair. He had a large stomach protruding over his trousers and straining his shirt buttons, but it looked as solid as granite. He turned, giving Marina his full attention. His eyes looked like dark, stagnant, treacherous pools, his unshaven face red like bad blood. He smiled, his teeth yellow and stained.

‘It’s . . . it’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one who’s been taking all the . . . all the babies . . .’

‘That idiot bitch of mine. She wanted them. Wouldn’t fuckin’ shut up about it. On an’ on . . . so I had to. Kept her quiet.’ He smiled again. It reached those stagnant eyes. ‘Can’t say I didn’t enjoy it, though.’

‘So . . .’ She kept backing away as she spoke. ‘Why . . . why am I here?’

He pointed to her stomach. ‘What’s that you got growin’ inside you? Eh?’

Marina felt her legs weaken.

He laughed. Deep and rough, it sounded like the prelude to an animal roar. ‘Can’t keep goin’ with her any more, can I? Not when your lot are on to me.’ His voice dropped, became cold and sharp. ‘An’ I’m not givin’ up. I might have to hide for a bit. Go underground. Keep out of their way.’ Another smile. ‘An’ I’ll need some company down here. Then when the kid’s born we’ll go up again. Find somewhere else.You an’ me an’ the kid. Bring it up properly.’

Marina shook her head. She could barely comprehend what she was hearing. It seemed so unreal. A nightmare. ‘But . . . but why me?’

‘’Cause I saw you.’

‘On TV?’

‘Yeah. An’ outside the leisure centre. Filed you away. I’ve had my eye on you. Knew you’d come in handy.’

‘They’ll . . . they’ll be looking for me . . .’

‘Look all they want, they’ll never find you.’

Marina stopped moving, stared.

‘An’ you won’t escape neither. There’s no way out for you. Not down here. So get used to it.You’re gonna be here for a long time.’ He picked up the hammer. ‘I’m gonna get this done. Your new cage. Then you an’ me are gonna get to know each other properly.’

And with that he turned his back to her, knelt before the frame, started hammering.

Marina’s heart was beating so fast she felt it could grow wings and escape her body. That was it, she thought. That was it. No Hollywood rescue. No escape. And Phil. No Phil. Despite his promises, despite what he’d told her. How he would never let her down again, always be there for her. He wouldn’t be. This was it. For the rest of her life.

She crumpled into a heap.

Started sobbing.

83

Phil reached the brick wall, shone his torch past it into the caravan site. He stepped off the dirt track, on to the grass. Looked round.

There weren’t many vans. And each of them was in darkness. He stood still, listening. He could hear distant movement from his team in Hillfield, but there was no movement from the site. He shone the torch round again, settling on the caravan tucked in behind the gate nearest the wall. It was the one he had looked at on the way down. Filthy, old, rusted and mildewed. The others didn’t look like anything special, but this one was completely uninviting.

Phil stepped nearer to it. And tripped over something.

He dropped the torch, beam shining back at him, bent down to pick it up. As he did so, he tried to see what had caused him to trip. He ran the beam along the ground, found a raised edge that he traced back to the brick wall. He knelt down, examining it. It was the remains of another wall, knocked down but not completely.

He turned in the other direction, followed the raised line with the torch. It led to the middle of the site, turned left. He walked along it, following. There were raised areas all the way up the field. Like the grass had grown over foundations of houses that were once there.

Phil thought. Something about owning houses . . . He remembered. Laurence Croft had owned a row of houses that had been knocked down and the land turned into the caravan site. It figured, he thought. Judging from Croft’s DIY legacy in the house, he would have expected a job like this.

He turned back to the mildewed caravan. Something wasn’t right about it. The others had their Calor Gas bottles hooked up outside; this one didn’t. The others had their curtains open; this one had them closed. And he really couldn’t imagine anyone coming to stay in it. So why was it there?

He moved in closer, shone the torch over it. He bent down to look at the step beneath the door. There were tracks in the grass, muddy tracks, like someone had been dragging something. Or someone. The tracks led up the step and into the caravan. Heart thumping, Phil turned the handle. It opened.

He pulled the door open slowly, kept his head back, his body out of the way, not knowing what might jump out at him. He shone the torch in. Held himself ready to fight.

Nothing. He swung the torch round. Dirt everywhere, seating with rotting covers, work surfaces with chipped and peeling Formica, a table with a broken leg, filthy curtains. But nothing else. No one else. The caravan was empty.

Phil stepped inside. It wasn’t just the dirt, it was the smell. Like something that had been closed up too long. A tomb. He looked round, swinging the torch, taking it in. It definitely wasn’t a holiday home. But it had some purpose, he was sure of that. He just had to find out what it was.

He shone the torch round the cupboards, under the table, on the chairs, on the floor. And found it.

The muddy track marks led to a square in the centre of the floor. It was of matching carpet to the rest of the van, but had been cut out. Phil knelt down, rolled it back. A square had been cut out of the floor, hinged, then replaced. A trapdoor.

He knew what he should do. Call the others. Get a team over here, get that trapdoor open. See what was in there. But he couldn’t leave it to them. He had made a promise to Marina. If she was here, then it didn’t matter. He would have found her, one way or the other.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the trapdoor.

It wasn’t what he had been expecting. It wasn’t a crawl space or a shallow grave. It was a tunnel leading downwards. A wooden ladder was clamped to the side, a thick black cable fastened to the opposite side of the shaft. Electricity, Phil thought. Whatever – whoever – was down there, they had rigged up power.

He shone his torch along the floor, found a ridge in the carpet where the cable snaked in. Must be a hidden generator somewhere, he thought.

He looked down the hole again. It was dark down there, pitch black.

He should call the others over, let them lead the way.

He looked down again.

And swung his legs over, began climbing down.

84

‘Shut up! Fuckin’ shut up! If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a whingein’ bitch!’

Marina’s kidnapper was standing over her, anger blazing in his eyes. He had walked towards her, exuding an almost primal energy, bent down and smacked her across the face.

It stopped her crying immediately. It also hurt like hell. The blow had been so fierce she had felt like her head was coming off.

She had no doubt that he was more than capable of killing her. And she realised that, even with everything that had happened to her – Martin Fletcher, finding Tony on the floor of their house – until now she had never truly experienced fear.

He bent down again. She tried to get to her feet, but couldn’t. Still sitting, she scuttled away from him.

He reached her quickly. She pushed herself back into the wall. He stood over her, bearing down. She began to whimper.

Then remembered the screwdriver, held it out in front of her with both hands, point towards him. Hoped he wouldn’t notice how much her hands were shaking.

‘Don’t . . . don’t . . .’ Her voice was failing her.

He looked down at her. ‘You gonna use that? Eh?’

She kept pointing the screwdriver at him, her hands still shaking.

‘You gonna use that on me?’ He laughed. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘You’d better. You do that again, pick up somethin’ and point it at me, you’d better be ready to use it. ’Cause baby or no baby, I’ll stop you.’

He moved in towards her, his hand outstretched again.

Marina started to cry once more.

Then the lights went out.

‘Bastard . . .’

The darkness was all-enveloping. Phil was trying to use the torch as he went down, hoping to see how far he had to go, but he was finding it difficult to hold on to it and the ladder at the same time. He missed his footing and the torch fell from his grasp. The light bounced and swung as it dropped down to the bottom of the shaft.

He put his arm out, tried to grab it, and lost his balance, almost following it. Desperately he cast around for something to grip on to and found the black cable attached to the other side of the shaft. He grabbed at it, hoping it would steady him, but when he pulled, transferring all his body weight to it, it came away in his hand.

He flailed around in the dark, trying not to fall. Luckily, his other hand managed to get a grip on the ladder once more. He clung to it, steadying himself. Took a few deep breaths, continued his descent.

As he neared the bottom, he noticed a dim light shining upwards. His torch. Thank God it was still working, because he was sure he had pulled out the power cable. He stepped off the ladder, picked up the torch. Looked round.

He quickly worked out that he was in the cellar of the house that had once stood above him. A quick examination of the walls bore that out. Bare brick with overhead rafters and a hard-packed dirt floor. He swung the torch’s light into every corner. No sign of Marina.

He looked round again, saw a door set into the wall. Heavy and old, made of solid timber. He almost ran to it, trying the handle. Locked. He tried pulling it. Too thick to budge.

‘Shit . . .’

Then something caught his eye. Against one wall was an alcove. He assumed it must have been a fireplace at one time, with a chimney leading up to the rest of the building. Someone had customised it. Bricks were piled at one side of the opening and it looked as if a tunnel had been hollowed out through the fireplace.

He examined the hole with his torch, making mental measurements. There was no other opening in the room, no door in or out, so this must be the only way through. Phil hated confined spaces. Tried to avoid lifts, even, whenever possible.

But he got down on his hands and knees, the torch clenched in his teeth. He really should go back, tell the others, get them down here. Send them into the tunnel. He tried to look along it, see if there was any light, hear if there was any sound.

Then came a scream.

‘Marina!’

And he was on his knees and into the tunnel, his fear of enclosed spaces on hold.

In the sudden darkness, Marina could feel her assailant in front of her. She didn’t think something like this would stop him getting hold of her. Stop him hurting her. Using the wall behind her as a brace, she pulled herself up to a standing position. Adrenalin kicked in. It was either do something or submit. And she wouldn’t give in without a fight.

‘Bloody generator,’ he mumbled. ‘Bloody power cuts . . .’

It was now or never. She gripped the screwdriver tightly in both hands and thrust it forward as hard as she could.

It connected. She could feel it hit something solid. She kept pushing, hard. Harder.

He screamed. In anger or pain, she couldn’t tell.

She put all her weight behind the screwdriver, drove it in as far as she could, letting it take her body with it. Then, when she could push no further, she let go of the handle.

‘Bitch . . .’

She closed her eyes, tried to remember the layout. Turned right, away from where he had been building the cage, and, keeping as low as she could, moved quickly away from him.

‘Fuckin’ bitch . . .’

She could hear him thrashing about behind her, coming for her.

Her heart felt like it was about to burst as she felt her way along the wall. Her fingers came to a corner. She followed it round. It was some kind of alcove, a recess. An old fireplace, perhaps? Something like that. She didn’t care. It was somewhere she could pull herself into, curl up and hope he wouldn’t find her.

She squeezed inside, aware that the baby was stopping her from getting any further in. She hoped the baby was still all right. There was nothing she could do if it wasn’t. She had to save her own life first.

She made herself as small as she possibly could, held her breath.

Prayed to a God she had long since ceased to believe in, that he wouldn’t find her.

Prayed that she would just survive.

85

Phil crawled.

Using his elbows to propel him, he worked his way through the tunnel. The torch was heavy in his mouth, his teeth gripping it as hard as he could, his jaw cramping up. He wanted to let it drop, take a rest, but he knew if he did that he would never get it back between his teeth again. There wasn’t room in the tunnel to move his arms, get his hands to place it back there. So he kept moving.

He was committed now. He couldn’t go backwards. There was just enough space for him to keep moving forward. The walls and ceiling of the tunnel were right in on him. Brick, stone and dirt all around, with what looked like prop shafts keeping the ceiling up. It didn’t look too sturdy. If he disturbed it in any way, pushed too hard, it could all come down on top of him at any second.

He was starting to feel light-headed. Air was in short supply. He tried to keep calm, not panic, concentrate on moving forward. The only alternative he had was to stop. And that was no alternative at all.

And then it started. A panic attack. He felt his chest constrict, his breath come in ragged gasps.

‘No . . . not now . . .’

He screwed his eyes up tight. Willed it to pass quickly. It wouldn’t. He had to fight against it, keep going. But he had no strength in his arms, no power in his body. He couldn’t move.

He had to. He didn’t have the luxury of staying still. He had to fight it, work through it. Not give in to it. He pushed, pulling himself along with his arms, taking huge breaths in between. And again. And again. Good. He was doing it, he was fighting it, he was winning . . .

Then the tunnel began to narrow.

‘Oh God . . .’

And it was on him even more. He closed his eyes, kept going. Felt tears begin to run down his cheeks. Ignored them. Just kept going.

The air changed. Became slightly less stale. And he knew. He had done it. He had come through to the other side.

He pulled himself out of the tunnel and lay on the ground, on his back, panting like he had just run a marathon. His legs felt weak, his chest ablaze, but he didn’t care. He had made it.

Then there was another scream.

‘Bitch, sow . . .’

He had found her. Marina screamed as he grabbed her hair, pulled her out of the alcove.

‘Come ’ere . . . thought you would escape, eh? From me? I built this place, bitch, I know every corner of it . . .’

He dragged her free. The pain shot through her head and down her neck. She struggled, screamed, fought. No good. He was too strong for her.

‘You hurt me, bitch, you pissin’ well hurt me . . .’

‘Well don’t hurt me,’ said Marina, ‘because if you hurt me you’ll hurt the baby. And then I’ll be no good to you, will I?’

He paused, seemingly thinking about what she had said. Then resumed pulling her. ‘I can still have fun with you, though . . . don’t you worry ’bout that . . .’

He was breathing heavily, his grip not as strong as she had expected. She felt a small elation. She had hurt him. Good.

But it didn’t make things any better.

Without her realising, tears were running down her face as he dragged her back to the cage.

Phil shone the torch around quickly, trying to find where the scream had come from. He took in his surroundings. A workbench against one wall, an ancient collection of tools above it. Some kind of survivalist’s store room, he thought. Crossing to the workbench, he picked up a heavy claw hammer and moved in the direction he thought the sound had come from.

Marina was kicking her legs out behind her as he dragged her along the passageway. Her hands were on her head, trying to release his grip, or at least make it less painful for herself. He was walking slower, his wound affecting him now, but still strong. Too strong for her to deal with.

As he dragged her, Marina started to be able to see.

At first she thought it was just her eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, but after blinking a couple of times, she realised that there was a light coming towards her.

Her heart began to beat faster; hope rose inside her. This was it, she thought, this was the rescue. But then just as swiftly as it had arrived, that same hope plummeted within her. What if he had an accomplice? What if there was more than one of them?

She didn’t know what to do. But she had to do something.

She took a chance.

‘This way,’ she shouted. ‘I’m here . . .’

Her assailant grunted, turned. Saw what she was looking at.

Then paused for a few seconds, dropped her and ran.

Phil rounded the corner and stopped dead. At first he thought the light and lack of oxygen was playing tricks on him. He blinked. Again. No tricks. There was Marina. Lying on the ground ahead of him.

His face split into a grin as relief flooded his body. He ran to her, dropping down beside her, laying the hammer down, taking her in his arms.

‘Oh God, oh Marina . . .’ He held her tightly to him. ‘I told you I wouldn’t leave you . . .’

But he sensed that Marina didn’t share his relief.

‘He’s here, Phil, he’s around here somewhere . . .’

Phil sat back, looking at her. About to ask more questions, but they were stopped in his throat. Because Marina’s assailant was on him.

‘Phil!’

He felt hands round his throat, choking him. A feral roar accompanied the action. Phil felt himself go light-headed. He put his hands to his neck, tried to pull the hands away. No good. The grip was too strong.

He dropped the torch, tried to scrabble around for the hammer, couldn’t find it.

The beam of the torch etched the whole thing against the wall in a grotesque shadow play. He saw the man behind him, his shadow making him look seven or eight feet tall. He had to fight back.

He pushed his elbow back as hard and as fast as he could. The man grunted in pain, loosened his grip. Phil pressed the advantage, did it again. The grip round his throat loosened. He grabbed the man’s thumbs, twisted them away from the rest of his fingers as hard as he could.

The man shrieked in pain. Howled like a wild beast. Phil kept pulling until he heard them snap. Then he let go, wriggled away from him. Turned and faced him.

The man was older than Phil had expected, tall, well built and bald. He looked like an older, meaner version of Hester. Phil knew straight away who it was. Laurence Croft. Hester’s father. Hester’s husband.

Sophie had been wrong. Or she had lied to him.

Croft lunged at him. Phil tried to dodge out of the way, but Croft’s right hand came down as a fist, crashing into his face. Phil spun away, lost his footing, the blow was that strong.

He hit the ground on his back and was winded. He spat out blood, felt a tooth amongst it.

Then Croft was on him, aiming another punch at his face. Phil tried to move, but was too slow. He felt his nose break as the knuckles connected. Felt blood spurt out of his battered face.

Croft knelt over him. Phil tried to sit up, fight back, but his head was spinning.

Croft laughed, brought his fist back for a blow that would cause Phil serious, if not fatal, damage.

Then stopped.

His eyes went wide, his head jerked to the side. His arms fell to his sides.

Phil opened his eyes, confused.

Croft’s head jerked again, his eyes once more widening.

Then again.

Then his eyes rolled to the back of their sockets and he fell over sideways, hitting the ground with a huge, echoing thump.

Phil looked up. There, standing over the inert body of Laurence Croft, was Marina. Holding in her hand the hammer he hadn’t been able to find, the head coated with blood and other matter.

It dropped to the floor. Phil stood up, went to her.

Had her in his arms before the tears started.

Both hers and his.