Текст книги "The Surrogate"

Автор книги: Tania Carver

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

‘And that’s important, isn’t it?’ said Phil. ‘Knowing who you’re dealing with.’

Brotherton just stared at him.

‘Why were you out on the crane if you’re the boss of the company?’ asked Phil, frowning. ‘Don’t you pay someone to do that?’

Brotherton’s chest puffed out with pride. ‘Good to keep your hand in. Keeps you fit, strong.’

‘Never know when that’s going to come in handy, do you?’

Brotherton turned to Phil, his muscles flexing, hands balling into fists. Clayton looked between the two, spoke.

‘So you were no longer seeing her?’ he asked. ‘Claire Fielding?’

Another snort, attention diverted from Phil. ‘Why would I?’ He looked around, smiled triumphantly. ‘I’ve got Sophie now, ain’t I?’

Sophie returned the smile with all the warmth and animation her Botoxed features would allow.

‘So why would you still be described in her diary as her boyfriend?’ asked Phil.

‘Bollocks.’

‘It’s true, Mr Brotherton. Her address book still has your name in it too, and she carried a photo of you in her wallet.’

‘You know what birds are like,’ he said, trying to remain cocky. ‘Can’t let go, can they?’ But his features didn’t mirror his words. And something unfamiliar entered his eyes. Fear?

‘Mr Brotherton, where were you last night between the hours of ten p.m. and two a.m.?’

‘What?’ Brotherton looked between the two policemen.

‘You heard the question,’ said Clayton.

‘I was . . .’ He looked to Sophie for support.

‘He was with me,’ she said, picking up on his visual clue.

‘Where?’ said Phil.

‘At my place,’ she said quickly.

‘Doing what?’ said Clayton.

‘What business is that of yours?’ she said, her face finding animation at last.

‘This is a murder inquiry; answer the question, please.’

‘Watching a DVD. Bottle of wine, takeaway.’

‘What film?’

‘What?’ she said.

‘What film were you watching?’ Phil said again.

‘We . . . had a couple,’ Brotherton said.

‘What were they?’ Clayton’s voice was calm and emotionless.

‘Something . . . something Sophie wanted and . . . and something I wanted.’ Brotherton looked at her again, willing her to speak.

‘Which was?’ Phil’s voice was also flat and emotionless. A question machine.

‘Atonement,’ said Sophie.

‘No Country for Old Men,’ said Brotherton.

‘Is that out on DVD yet?’ said Clayton.

‘Got a pirate.’

Phil allowed himself a small smile. ‘Want us to do you for that as well?’

‘Look, just . . . fuck off. You’ve got what you wanted, we’ve told you what we were doin’. You’ve got your information, just . . . leave. Now. I’ve got a business to run.’ Brotherton was talking himself into confidence again. ‘And you’re bad for it.’

Phil and Clayton exchanged another look, the purpose of which was to rattle Brotherton and Sophie even more than their questioning had. Leaving them with that, they made their way to the door.

Phil stepped through first, Clayton following. As he came abreast of Brotherton, he turned.

‘What did you think of Romola Garai?’

‘What?’ he said, startled.

‘Briony,’ he said.

Brotherton’s face was blank. He looked to Sophie for help, but she was as lost as he was.

‘Romola Garai,’ Clayton continued. ‘She played the adult Briony. The lead character in Atonement.’ He smiled. ‘Thought you might have remembered that. I mean, you only saw it last night.’

He left, following Phil across the yard to the car.

‘That’s my boy,’ said Phil when Clayton caught up with him.

‘Thank you, boss. Everythin’ I learned, I learned from you.’

‘You like Atonement, did you?’

Clayton smiled. ‘Never seen it. Saw some pictures of that Romola Garai in Nuts. Thought she looked hot. Remembered what film she was in.’

Phil’s turn to smile. ‘So there is some value in those magazines after all.’

They reached the Audi, got back in.

‘So what d’you think, boss? Dirty?’

‘Hard to say. Something’s not right. He’s big enough to do it and he’s got previous. And from the way he responded, there seemed to be some unfinished business between him and Claire Fielding.’

‘He didn’t seemed too upset about her death,’ said Clayton.

‘He didn’t.’

‘And he was lyin’ about where he was last night.’

‘They all lie to us, Clayton. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’ He put the car into gear. ‘Back to Colchester.’ He thought of Marina. She would be at the station by now. He felt butterflies at the thought, tried to immediately tamp them down. He had work to do.

Clayton looked back at the office, then round again. He groaned. ‘Not Glasvegas again . . .’

‘No,’ said Phil, thinking. ‘About time you developed some taste, I think.’

Clayton’s eyes brightened. ‘Yeah?’

‘How about some Neil Young?’ Phil knew his DS would have never heard of him, but after the last admonishment he wouldn’t dare to argue. ‘A classic. Something to get the old brain cells working.’

Clayton shook his head. ‘Kill me now,’ he said under his breath.

Phil took a perverse and childish satisfaction in putting Clayton in his place.

They drove back to Colchester as fast as they could.

11

Marina bent over the washbasin and vomited again. One hand on the porcelain, one holding her hair away from her face.

‘Oh God . . .’ Her voice broken, riding out the waves of nausea, crying as she spoke. ‘I can’t . . . can’t do this . . .’

She gasped, breathed hard, waiting to see if there was to be any more. A deep breath in. Held and let go. And again. She sighed, eyes closed, listening to her body. That was it, she felt. No more. There was nothing left inside her to come out.

Opening her eyes, she ran the cold tap, splashed her face, the water disguising the tears, and straightened up, running her fingers through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes more haunted than ever. More fearful.

And with good reason, she thought.

Her hands went automatically to her stomach as she tried to control her breathing, will herself to calm down.

So, she thought. She was one of those women who were sick. And she knew the cause: the photos. She had been shown into reception at Colchester’s main police station on Southway. The duty sergeant had rung through; DCI Ben Fenwick had come down to greet her. He looked exactly the same. Smart suit, hair greying but neatly cut. His features were symmetrical and pleasing to look at, but somehow avoided being handsome. Marina assumed this was because he was too bland.

He came towards her, hand outstretched, smile in place, reminding her once again of the overeager head boy, welcoming newcomers to the sixth form. She felt sure he had done that.

‘Marina,’ he said, shaking her hand, moving her forward. ‘Welcome back. Come through. Let’s walk and talk.’

They went through the double doors, Fenwick striding urgently. ‘You know,’ he said without breaking stride, ‘we could never have reached a successful conclusion in the Gemma Hardy case without you.’

‘Thank you.’ And we know what happened with that, she thought, almost running along behind him.

Fenwick must have picked up her thought telepathically. ‘Of course, what happened afterwards, none of us could have predicted. And for that I am most deeply, deeply sorry. I am just so pleased that it was concluded successfully.’

And that I never sued the department, she mentally added.

‘I’m fine now.’ She was glad he wasn’t level with her, couldn’t see her eyes.

‘I’m delighted to hear it. Delighted.’ His voice changed, the pitch deepening. Through another set of double doors. ‘Of course, there will be nothing like that this time. Nothing. You have my personal word on that.’

King Cliché, she thought. Of course. How could she forget?

‘Thank you. Heard you on the radio on the way in, Ben,’ she said. ‘A double murder? Two women?’

Fenwick nodded, rounded a corner. ‘A flat in that new development. Parkside Quarter. Neither showed up for work today. Both stabbed to death. Nasty. Very nasty.’

Marina nodded, already processing the information, making quick assumptions. Women, stabbing. The blade a surrogate sexual organ. Since her specialisation was psychosexual deviancy, that was obviously why she had been called in. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘What else have you got?’

‘Well . . .’ Fenwick stopped walking, looked at her. She instinctively pulled her coat close around herself. A specially bought swing-cut coat to hide the baby bulge. And something told her she should disguise it. Despite numerous diversity training courses, she still believed that the police as an organisation remained not only institutionally racist but sexist too. And always would be: a brick house is always a brick house and no amount of beechwood cladding is ever going to change that, she thought. It was just something she had to accept if she wanted to work alongside the police. But she didn’t want any of her findings being dismissed as the misguided thinking of a hormonally overcharged woman.

Fenwick sighed. And she saw beyond his politician’s bonhomie a worried, weary man. ‘We think it ties in with another two murders we’ve had,’ he said. Marina could clearly see the stress lines etched on his face. ‘It’s a biggie. A real biggie. Under a lot of pressure on this. A hell of a lot. We’ve got to come up with a result, and soon.’ Another sigh. He rubbed his eyes, then, aware that she was watching him, rallied. ‘Come on. I’ve got the case files ready for you. And a desk too, come to that. This way.’

She was led through more corridors. She tried to remember the layout from the last time, but this time she was being taken somewhere different. Fenwick opened the door to the bar. She frowned, followed him in. The pool tables were covered over, turned into desks with computers and phones on them, likewise the tables, banquettes and booths. Filing cabinets next to fruit machines. And there were plenty of people working. More than she had seen last time.

‘Bit unorthodox,’ said Fenwick. ‘Major Incident Squad is usually based up at Stanway, but they’re having asbestos removed in the interview rooms. Plus we need a lot of space for this one. Lot of space.’

The shutters were down over the bar, whiteboards placed in front, dominating the room. They kept the team focused, reminding them all what they were working towards; the desks, tables and chairs in the bar were in satellite formation to them.

She looked at one of the whiteboards, saw photos of four women’s faces. All smiling, anyone else cropped, leaving them the centre of attention, all unaware through their smiles that they would one day end up here. Names were attached: Lisa King, Susie Evans, Claire Fielding, Julie Simpson. Ordinary names, extraordinary deaths. Marker-pen lines linking them together like a grisly dot-to-dot. Other names, dates, locations beneath them. Nothing yet linking them. Marina knew there wouldn’t be. She wouldn’t be here if there were.

Fenwick gestured from a table at the side of the room. She crossed to him.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Not much, I’m afraid, but there’s a computer and a phone. And these.’ He tapped a set of files sitting by the keyboard. ‘All yours. Photocopied this morning. If you could keep them on the premises we’d be grateful. But if you can’t, you know, be discreet.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Can I get you anything?’ said Fenwick, a smile playing on his lips as he gestured to the shuttered bar. ‘Gin and tonic? Wine? Beer?’

Marina smiled. ‘Coffee would be good, thanks.’

Fenwick arranged for a junior officer to fetch her a coffee. Marina sat down at the desk, took her notebook and pen from her bag, ready to read.

‘There you go. I’ll leave you to do your . . . whatever it is you do,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘But I should warn you. The photos . . . they’re pretty upsetting. And if I’m saying that, they must be. So be warned.’

She nodded and he left her to it. She opened the first file, marked Lisa King, and began to read. She hadn’t reached the photos before she felt her stomach start to lurch. The uniform placed the coffee down on the desk and she took a mouthful. It tasted bitter. She felt it swirl around in her stomach. She kept reading.

Her head began to swim. She swallowed hard, blinked. Picked up the next file: Susie Evans. Read on. It became harder to breathe. Despite the room being large and open, it felt stuffy and hot. She needed air. Her stomach lurched and a heaving sensation began working its way up her chest. Her hand went to her throat, tried to hold down the rising acid and bile. She looked again at the photos.

And knew she was going to be sick.

12

Phil Brennan pulled the Audi into the car park, switched off the engine.

‘Come on,’ he said to Clayton, unfastening his seat belt and swinging open the door. ‘Report to write. Let’s see if Anni’s back yet.’

Clayton didn’t move. ‘You go on without me, boss. Just got something I need to do.’

‘What, put in a harassment claim because I made you listen to Neil Young? Again?’

Clayton managed a polite smile. It had sounded like the same three-note song all the way back. He had hated it. ‘Just got an idea,’ he said. As he spoke, his eyes darted round, looking anywhere but at Phil. ‘Thought someone in that scrapyard looked familiar.’

‘Who?’

Clayton began to get out of the car. ‘Not sure. Give me a couple of hours.’

‘Don’t take too long,’ said Phil.

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Clayton, turning and walking away. ‘First twenty-four hours and all that.’

Phil bit back the retort, tamped down the irritation he felt at his junior officer. Let him go, he thought. Give him his head. He entered the building, pushing through the doors, swiping his pass. He felt tense, on edge.

Nothing to do with seeing Marina again. All to do with the clock ticking, he said to himself.

He made his way up to his office.

Marina stood outside the bar, trying to pluck up courage to enter once again. She knew what they must be thinking of her.

Civilian. Can’t stand the heat. Can’t take the pressure. Shouldn’t do it, then. And a woman, what can you expect?

She knew. Was sure they were saying it out loud. Normally she would be in there, confronting them, facing down anyone who dared to question her fitness for the job. But not this time. This time she didn’t blame them. This time she even agreed with them.

She put her hand beneath her coat, cradling the baby growing inside her. It might not have been planned, but she didn’t want anything to happen to it. To her. Not like in those reports, those photos. Dead mothers. Dead babies.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to the bar, walked back in. A few heads turned in her direction, then went back to what they had been doing. She walked over to her desk, sat down again, picked up a report.

‘You okay?’

She looked up. Fenwick was standing over her, concern in his eyes. She gave a quick look round the room. Saw only sympathetic looks in her direction, nothing judgemental.

She nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s just . . .’

‘Don’t worry. Nobody blames you for your reaction. I told you this was a bad one. I mean, I’m sure I’ve dealt with worse, but I really can’t remember when.’

She nodded again.

‘There’s something else,’ said Fenwick, leaning over her. ‘Now that you’ve had a look at the files I should tell you. In the first murder the baby was cut up in the mother’s stomach. In the second it was removed. The baby in this morning’s murder is missing.’

‘Oh God . . .’

‘So work your magic, the quicker the better, please.’

He laid a hand on her shoulder that could have been either comforting or patronising and walked away, leaving her to it. She watched him go into his office, close the door.

She looked at the reports in front of her, then to her notebook. She opened the Susie Evans report again, began to read once more. She was here to do a job.

She became engrossed, didn’t notice someone standing at her side until they spoke.

‘Hey.’

Her breath caught in her throat. She stopped reading. She wanted to look up but didn’t dare until she was ready.

‘Hey yourself.’

He looked good. A bit thinner perhaps but that was no bad thing. She found a smile for him and sat upright in her chair. ‘You still here, then?’

‘They tried to get rid of me, kept coming back.’

‘Bit like me,’ she said.

Phil smiled, then looked round the room, as if aware that people might be staring. Marina was unsure how many people knew of their relationship or its ending and she felt herself blushing. She picked up the coffee mug to cover it, put it to her lips. Cold. She made a face, replaced it on the desk.

‘I’ll get you some fresh,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t matter. I doubt it’ll taste any better.’

Silence. She saw Phil’s mouth move, as if rehearsing what he wanted to say. But knew he wouldn’t say it.

‘Ben Fenwick been looking after you?’ he said eventually.

‘My every whim catered for.’

Phil gave another smile. ‘Is that right. You got everything you need?’

She nodded.

‘Good.’ Another look round, then back to her. ‘How’s . . .’ He paused.

She knew he was only pretending to forget the name.

‘Tony,’ she said, prompting him.

‘Tony. Right. He okay?’

‘Fine.’ She looked into the coffee mug. ‘Everything. Fine and Jim Dandy.’ She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, breathed in, her stomach suddenly feeling enormous.

‘Whoever he is,’ said Phil. ‘Well, you look like you know what you’re doing. I’ll leave you to it, right?’

‘Okay.’

‘Right.’

‘You said that already.’

He laughed. ‘Right.’ Laughed again. ‘Well . . . I’m sure I’ll see you later.’

‘Later.’

He moved away, walking towards his desk. She kept her eyes on him the whole time, then shook her head. No, she thought, that’s the last thing I need right now.

She put her head down, looked again at the paperwork in front of her but couldn’t concentrate. There had been too many things left unsaid between her and Phil. Things they should talk about. If she decided she wanted to. But they would have to wait.

She went back to the reports. Concentrating this time.

Because lives depended on it.

13

Emma Nicholls sat down behind her desk and gave DC Anni Hepburn a smile intended to convey confidence and professionalism but which instead screamed tension and barely suppressed emotion.

She was dressed as if for a normal day at work as a head teacher: black two-piece trouser suit, light-coloured blouse, hair cut into a long bob. But the day was no longer normal. Two of her teachers had been murdered and now the school had been invaded by police.

DC Anni Hepburn had been a detective long enough to develop a detachment that enabled her to do her job effectively while still retaining sympathy for the victims of violent crime. She hoped she always would. Human debris, was how she often secretly referred to them. Broken remains needing – and hoping for – repair. But she had also been a detective long enough to know that that wouldn’t always happen.

Emma Nicholls, she thought, would be all right eventually. She hadn’t seen what Anni had seen earlier that day in Claire Fielding’s flat, smelled what she had smelled. And, as the headmistress kept stressing, her relationship with Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson had been mainly professional.

‘Please understand,’ Emma Nicholls said, tipping her head back and appearing to audition words in her head before trusting them to leave her mouth, ‘that my primary concern is for this school.’

‘Of course.’

‘By that I mean everyone. The welfare of the children and the staff I consider to be equally paramount.’

‘Right.’

Words chosen, she continued. ‘Having said that, I seldom interfere in the affairs of my staff unless they are personal friends or they ask for help.’

Anni nodded, knowing a disclaimer when she heard one. ‘Okay.’

Emma Nicholls’ office managed to be both professional and welcoming, with achievements and diplomas on the walls alongside schedules, year planners and pictures the children had made especially for her. She seemed to be popular and well thought of. It was how Anni thought a primary school head teacher’s office – and a primary school head teacher – should be.

The school was old but had been modernised. Clean, bright and bursting with positive energy, and with children’s work and achievements decorating the walls, it was clearly a place where the children were valued and well taught. But then, thought Anni, this was Lexden. An affluent suburb of Colchester. She would expect it to be like that.

The children, or at least most of them that Anni had come into contact with since she had arrived there, seemed so full of hope, of life, of potential and enthusiasm for the world. They had seemed thrilled by the arrival of the police. Something different, something exciting to break up the routine. But as Anni and her small team of junior officers and uniforms had gone about their business of interviewing staff and explaining what their procedures would be, the children, she knew, no matter how discreet her team or how careful the teaching staff in explaining things, would soon find out. There was no way the murder of two teachers – well loved, if the comments she had overheard were anything to go by – could not affect them. And then they would see what the police were really there for. And begin to understand that the world wasn’t like they saw on TV; that it could be a horrible, cruel place. That was why Anni had never wanted kids herself. Because no matter how hard you tried to protect them from the world, the world would eventually claim them.

‘So,’ she continued, her notebook open, ‘were Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson personal friends?’

Emma Nicholls seemed about to answer but instead sighed, her eyes drifting off, her forced pleasantness slipping away to be replaced by a dark, depressive air. Like a cancer victim who had momentarily forgotten their predicament.

‘This is just terrible,’ she said.

With nothing to add, Anni nodded.

‘Oh my God . . .’

The dark, depressive air was increasing. Anni had to take control. ‘Ms Nicholls,’ she said. ‘I’m most terribly sorry about what’s happened. I realise this is an awful time, but I really do need to ask you some questions.’

Emma Nicholls pulled herself upright. ‘I know, I know. You’ve . . .’ Her mind drifted again, her features taking on the appearance of approaching tears. She managed to pull herself together. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s all right.’

The head teacher allowed a small smile to cross her face. ‘At times like this I wish I still smoked.’

Anni gave a small smile. ‘I’m sure you do. Right. Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson. Friends?’

Emma Nicholls nodded.

‘Julie was Year Six, Claire Year Four, right?’

Emma Nicholls nodded again, her hands fidgeting as if an imaginary cigarette was there.

‘And Claire was pregnant.’

Another nod.

‘How long did she have to go until maternity leave?’

‘A couple . . . a couple of weeks.’

‘Was it planned, d’you know? Was she happy about it?’

Emma Nicholls frowned. ‘Is that important? She’s dead.’

‘I know. But we have to ask these questions. Helps us find out who did it.’

‘Right.’The frown slowly disappeared to be replaced by a sigh. ‘She seemed happy about it, from what I could gather.’

‘We believe she had friends round last night.’

‘Yes. A baby shower.’ Her lip trembled again.

‘Ms Nicholls, we’re trying to track down anyone one else who may have been there. Could you give me any names?’

Emma Nicholls didn’t have to give the matter any thought. ‘Chrissie Burrows. Geraint Cooper. They were talking about it this morning.’

‘That’s it? Just those two?’

‘Just . . .’ Tears threatened her eyes again.

Anni waited until the head teacher was once more under control.

‘Ms Nicholls, I’ll need to talk to them too.’

Emma Nicholls nodded. Anni looked at her notes. ‘What about Claire’s boyfriend? Did she ever mention him?’

The frown returned to Emma Nicholls’ face, along with a guarded look in her eyes. ‘Her boyfriend.’

‘Ryan Brotherton,’ said Anni, looking at her notes once more. ‘At least that’s what we’re assuming. His name crops up a lot in her diary. Dates, that sort of thing. Did she ever mention him at all?’

‘Well, Claire didn’t have a very . . . easy relationship with him from what I could gather. As I said, it was none of my business. She was an excellent teacher, very professional, and the children adored her. Whatever else went on in her life, as long as it didn’t impinge on work I couldn’t get involved.’

Anni said nothing.

Emma Nicholls continued. ‘Claire had recently split up with her partner.’

Anni frowned. She hadn’t received that impression from the notebooks in Claire’s flat.

‘You look surprised.’

‘I am. I was given to understand that the relationship was still ongoing.’

Emma Nicholls shook her head. ‘Again, I must stress that I seldom interfere, but my staff know my door is always open for them. A few months ago Claire was looking very despondent. I asked her if she wanted to talk. She didn’t. Julie . . .’ Again the dark cloud descended as she spoke the name. ‘Julie . . . told me that Claire and her partner had split up. And that Claire was taking it very badly.’

‘When would this have been?’

Emma Nicholls thought. ‘About . . . when she announced she was pregnant. Five months ago? Six months. Something like that.’ Her fingers fidgeted again. ‘Everyone rallied round, as I said. And she got over it eventually.’

‘Do you think she wanted him back?’

Emma Nicholls looked surprised at the question. ‘Of course. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes. I suppose I would,’ Anni said, trying to smile.

‘Yes. Even him.’

Anni leaned forward. ‘Even him? What d’you mean?’

Emma Nicholls did her auditioning thing once more. ‘He . . . I don’t think he did her much good. Not just running out when she was pregnant, but . . .’ She put her head back. Anni felt as if she was about to impart something important. Then she leaned forward, waved her hand. Whatever it was she was going to say, the moment had passed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. You wanted facts. Anything else I could say would be conjecture.’

Anni realised this would be as much as she was going to get on Claire Fielding. She checked her notes once more. ‘What about Julie Simpson?’

‘What about her?’

‘Anything happened to her recently that strikes you as out of the ordinary?’

Emma Nicholls frowned in thought. Shook her head. ‘Nothing . . . No. Nothing.’

‘Any enemies?’

‘Enemies?’ Emma Nicholls looked round the room as if unable to believe what she had just heard. ‘She was a primary school teacher, not a . . . an international terrorist.’

‘No,’ said Anni, ‘but she’s also just been murdered.’

Emma Nicholls’ face fell. Her head nodded forward. ‘No,’ she said to the floor, ‘no enemies. She was liked in this school. Well liked.’

‘No . . .’ Anni tried to be tactful, ‘liaisons? Anything like that? Something that could go wrong?’

‘No. Nothing at all. Nothing.’

Anni nodded. There were at least two people she thought would be able to help her more than the professionally guarded Emma Nicholls. ‘Chrissie Burrows, Geraint Cooper,’ she said. ‘Where could I find them, please?’

Emma Nicholls made arrangements for Anni to see them. Anni put her notebook away, rose to go, thanked the head teacher for her time.

‘Not at all. I just wish I could have been more help.’

‘You’ve been fine.’

Emma Nicholls put her hand on Anni’s arm, stopped her from leaving. ‘There is one more thing. Perhaps you were right.’

Anni frowned. ‘About what?’

‘Ryan Brotherton. I know I said it was over between them. But I got the impression . . . and again this is just conjecture, not fact . . . I got the impression that it may have been over but it wasn’t quite finished. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I do. Some people are like that,’ said Anni.

‘Men in particular,’ said Emma Nicholls.