Текст книги "The Surrogate"

Автор книги: Tania Carver

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

18

‘Thanks for doing this,’ said Phil. ‘Really appreciate it.’

Nick Lines shrugged; one case was much the same as another to him. ‘Not my decision to make. Those on high deem it high priority; I just act accordingly.’

Phil had done a background check on Ryan Brotherton, and with Clayton still not back and everyone else out on jobs, he phoned Nick Lines. The cadaverous pathologist had been as good as his word, doing both post-mortems in record time. Phil had wasted no time coming straight to the mortuary at Colchester General, where he had released DC Adrian Wren to take care of other duties.

Nick Lines’ office was, in contrast to the clean, sterile, stainless-steel efficiency of the cutting room, a mixture of professional clutter and personal effects. Newspaper articles pinned up on the wall, both serious and jokey, alongside schlocky film postcards, fifties sci-fi and horror. Superhero action figures struck ridiculous poses on shelves. Surprising things, Phil thought. But then it was that kind of profession. Nick Lines was clearly a surprising man.

As they spoke, a CD played in the background. Something gothic and baroque, Phil noted, yet tuneful. He couldn’t place it.

‘What’s this we’re listening to, by the way?’ he asked.

‘The Triffids,’ said Nick, throwing a CD case across the desk, pleased that Phil had asked but hiding his pleasure. ‘Calenture. Brilliant album.’

‘Right,’ said Phil, as he listened to lyrics about sewing up eyelids and stitching up lips. He didn’t ask any more. ‘The results?’

Nick nodded, opened a yellow file, sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers before him. Like a Bond villain about to explain his plan for world domination. ‘The same blade was used on both victims,’ he said, the words drawling, as if his findings had thrilled him to the point of inactivity. ‘About seven inches long, smooth, very sharp edge. Probably a hunting knife, something like that. Quite a heavy blade judging by the size and shape of the incisions.’

‘Could this knife have been used in the previous two murders? ’ asked Phil.

‘I think so,’ said Nick, nodding. ‘Of course I’ve only made a preliminary re-examination of the other two cases at this stage, but I think it’s fair to assume.’ He went back to his explanation. ‘The knife was actually used in different ways. Julie Simpson, the first victim, was stabbed with a sharp slash to the throat. Death wouldn’t have been long in coming.’

He paused for dramatic effect. The Triffids were singing about being blinder by the hour. That just reminded Phil that time was running out.

‘The second victim was dispatched in a completely different way. Physically restrained while a drug was administered.’

‘What drug?’ asked Phil.

‘Tests aren’t back yet, but my guess is introcostrin. It’s a neuro-muscular blocking drug. Controls spontaneous muscle movement during surgical procedures, usually given in very controlled doses.’ He sounded almost regretful. ‘However, this was administered in a much larger dose.’

Phil frowned. ‘How big are we talking?’

‘Very big,’ said Nick. ‘Paralysis would have been almost instantaneous.’

‘So that was for . . . what? To stop her moving?’

‘Larger than that,’ the pathologist said. ‘It would have stopped her breathing.’

‘Shit,’ said Phil. ‘Can we trace the drug? How easy is it to get hold of?’

‘It’s worth a try. If it’s local, you may be able to find it. But it won’t be easy. If someone’s taken it from a hospital, they’ll have likely covered their tracks. And if they got it from the internet, a counterfeit . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Phil made a note.

‘Was it accidental, d’you think? Giving her that much? Or did he mean to?’

Nick smiled. Like he had set a secret test and Phil had passed it. ‘That, in the rather overused and clichéd words of the Bard, is the question. My guess, and it’s only that, is that he didn’t mean to. He wanted her compliant. He then tied her to the bed. It was clear the drug had kicked in by then because there was very little abrasion on the skin against the restraints. She didn’t – or rather couldn’t – struggle. Then he got to work cutting the baby out of her. For that he used the same knife he dispatched Julie Simpson with.’

‘Could he have drugged her to keep her silent? Block of flats, people home . . .’

‘Very possible. Not easy to keep that kind of thing quiet.’

Phil thought for a moment. ‘How fast d’you think he worked?’ he asked.

Nick frowned.

‘Would there have been time for the drug to have spread to the baby? Would it have been removed still breathing?’

‘Speculation only, I’m afraid. There was very little finesse about the incisions. They were made quickly, which would suggest he was working towards a purpose. I’d say there’s a chance that the drug hadn’t reached the baby by then.’

‘So we can assume it’s still alive?’

Nick shrugged. ‘That would be my assumption.’

‘How skilled were they? I mean medically? Surgically trained?’

The pathologist mulled over the question. ‘Trained . . . no. Skilled . . . perhaps. They might have had a rudimentary grasp of what they were doing. They knew where to cut. But not a professional. An enthusiastic amateur.’

‘And Lord preserve us from them,’ said Phil. ‘What about DNA? Anything back yet?’

Nick shook his head. ‘Too early. Could be anything up to a week, even more.’

‘What about sex?’

Nick gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘It’s a kind offer but I’m afraid you’re not my type.’

Phil shook his head. ‘I’ll bet you’re a wow at the Christmas party.’

Nick raised an eyebrow, gave a small smile. Phil didn’t want to think about it.

‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘No evidence of sexual activity. Forced, consensual or otherwise. With either body.’

‘Thanks.’ Phil was digesting what he had heard. ‘Right. Well, if that’s it, I’ll be off.’ He moved to pick up the file.

‘Couple of things,’ said Nick. Phil stopped, waited. The pathologist slid another sheet of paper across the desk. ‘Took the liberty of speaking to a colleague in Ob/Gyn. She factored in the variables: traumatic delivery, premature by four weeks – I checked Claire Fielding’s records; she had a Caesarean booked for four weeks’ time – drug administered to the mother . . .’ He sighed. ‘If the baby receives fortifiers along with plenty of milk and is kept warm, it might be all right.’

‘Where would you find these fortifiers?’

‘Anywhere. That’s the good news. But if it doesn’t receive constant quality care or it develops breathing difficulties, I think we’re talking hours rather than days.’

Phil took the paper. Felt the familiar band tighten round his chest. ‘Thanks. I think.’ He ignored the pressure building inside him, made his way to the door.

‘Something else. This was all done with some force. I think that that, along with the angle at which the blade entered Julie Simpson, would rule out the possibility of it being a woman. Unless that woman was a six-foot, sixteen-stone bodybuilder.’

Phil nodded. Thought of someone who fitted that description perfectly.

‘Go get him, Phil,’ said Nick.

Phil nodded. Left as fast as he could.

19

‘Okay,’ said Phil, striding into the bar. ‘Gather and pool. What have we got?’

Everyone looked up.

‘Just briefly,’ he said, ‘before we go home.’

It didn’t look like anyone was about to go home. In fact the bar looked like his team had moved in for the duration and had no intention of leaving until the killer was caught and the baby found. Anni was writing up reports at her desk, Marina next to her. The Birdies, DC Adrian Wren and DS Jane Gosling, sat at their desks, Adrian tall and rake-thin, Jane round and squat. They looked to Phil like an old music-hall double act, but they were two dedicated coppers.

Ben Fenwick entered.

‘Come and join us,’ said Phil.

The overhead lighting compensated for the evening darkness outside, keeping the room unnaturally, even depressingly, bright. The whiteboard in front of the bar displayed grisly before-and-after shots of Claire Fielding, Julie Simpson, Lisa King and Susie Evans: one from life, one from death. Before: smiling, displaying contentment or the hope that being alive held. After: lifeless and soulless. Arrows pointing outwards from them, bloodied husks reduced to components and clues. To the right, a map of Colchester, the scenes of death highlighted. Below that, a photo of Ryan Brotherton. A marker invited anyone to fill the remaining white space with facts, supposition, hypotheses. Make links, illuminate secret, occult connections, bring order to chaos, provide answers. Next to the board was a TV on a stand with a VCR/DVD combination underneath.

‘Where’s Clayton?’ asked Anni.

‘Following something up,’ said Phil. ‘He should be with us shortly.’

‘Glory-hunter,’ said Anni, just loud enough for Phil to catch. He knew Clayton had his eye on bigger places than Colchester, higher rank than DS. This was probably the perfect case for him to move up on the back of. If they got a result.

Phil fixed her with his eyes, chastised her, but let her words go. This wasn’t the time or the place.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘it’s roughly seven hours since the bodies of Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson were discovered, and that baby’s still out there. Let’s go. Anni?’

Anni checked her notes, told the team about her findings at All Saints Primary. Chrissie Burrows, Geraint Cooper and Julie Simpson, celebrating Claire’s pregnancy. How they were more than friends, a support group for Claire Fielding. Because of Ryan Brotherton and what he had threatened. Phil stepped in.

‘Ryan Brotherton,’ he said, ‘previous for ABH, assault. Done time in Chelmsford for it, too. Domestic-abuse-related, all directed against women.’

Marina put her head down, started writing.

‘And he threatened to kill the baby if Claire didn’t have an abortion?’ asked Fenwick.

‘With his own hands,’ said Anni.

The sides of Ben Fenwick’s mouth twitched as if they wanted to smile but weren’t yet allowed and his eyes lit up. ‘Looks like we have an early front-runner,’ he said.

‘We’ll see,’ said Phil. ‘We paid him a visit.’ He told the team about the trip to the metal yard, Brotherton’s response and his new girlfriend covering up for him. ‘She was clearly lying.’

‘Do you know why?’ asked Fenwick.

Phil shook his head. ‘Habit? First response? I don’t know. I’d like to talk to them both again, separately. But I’m sure he’ll be keeping her on a short leash at the moment. I’ve got the post-mortem from Nick Lines.’

He shared it with them. The blade used, the drug, the size and build of the attacker.

‘I’m liking this Ryan Brotherton more and more,’ said Fenwick.

Phil didn’t answer him. ‘But Lines did say we have only a limited window to find the baby alive. If it’s not being looked after, it could be just hours. A day at the most.’

Silence as his team took in the words.

Phil turned. ‘Adrian, Jane. CCTV? Door-to-door follow-ups? ’

‘Nothing as yet from CCTV,’ said DS Jane Gosling, ‘but we expect the tapes from the block of flats and the streets by tomorrow morning. We’ve looked into possible sex offenders in the area, anyone known to us with any kind of deviant behaviour that might overlap with this. Nothing. There was this, though. A couple of residents in the flats reported seeing a large figure dressed in a long overcoat and hat in the area last night. No sign of them after what we assume to be the time of death.’

‘Brotherton?’ said Anni.

‘Could be,’ said Fenwick. He had a hunter’s gleam in his eye.

‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘I think we can assume that this was done to get Claire Fielding’s baby. Julie Simpson’s husband has been interviewed, and while we can’t be entirely certain, I’m pretty sure she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘Like Claire,’ said Anni.

‘Absolutely. But if it’s all about Claire, then that’s one thing. However if this is the same person who murdered Lisa King and Susie Evans, it could be the baby they’re after. Either way, that doesn’t necessarily rule out Brotherton.’

‘What d’you think, Phil?’ said Fenwick. ‘ Gut feeling. Is it him?’

Phil frowned. ‘If it had just been this one incident, these two murders, then I would have said yes. Case like this, it’s almost always the husband or boyfriend. Well, nine times out of ten. But because of the other two . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s lying to us, but I think we need something more definite. We need to find a connection.’

‘We need to find the baby,’ said Anni.

‘Let’s pull him in, then,’ said Fenwick, balling and unballing his fists. ‘Get him in the box, sweat him. See what he has to say then.’

Nods all round the room.

‘Good,’ said Fenwick. He stood, impatient to be doing something. ‘That’s a plan, then. First thing in the morning, Phil, get him in. Get him talking. Get him singing.’

More nods, more assents. The team were buoyed, focused on their target. A voice cut through their thoughts.

‘There is one thing you haven’t fully considered.’

All heads turned to Marina. She was looking up from her notebook, waiting until she had all their attention.

‘What?’ said Fenwick, clearly irritated at the interruption.

‘That it isn’t him.’

20

‘Stop it, stop it, stop it . . .’

Hester clamped her hands over her ears and stomped round the room, angrily shaking her head. No good. The baby’s wailing still penetrated. She clamped her ears harder, opened her mouth.

‘La, la, la, I’m not listening . . . no, no, no, I can’t hear you . . .’ Shouting at the top of her voice, stomping all the harder, her eyes screwed tight shut, flinging her body round, letting all the impotent rage out.

‘La, la, la . . .’ Screaming now.

But it was no good. She could still hear the wailing, no matter how hard she screamed.

Hester slammed to a halt, turned to look at the baby, the thing that had promised so much happiness and contentment but which was bringing nothing but trouble. It lay in an old rusted tin bath with a none-too-clean blanket underneath it and another one covering it. The cot that Hester herself, the whole family, had used as a baby. She should have been sentimentally attached to it – after all, it was a family heirloom – but she wasn’t. Her mind didn’t work that way. Perhaps as a baby she had felt safe and secure in her cot. But she didn’t know. Couldn’t remember that far back, she told herself, had blocked it out. Those memories belonged to a different person. And she never wanted to be that person again. She couldn’t be.

She took her hands away from her ears. The baby was still making that noise. It wasn’t the same crying as earlier, strong and loud; this was more like one unending cry of pain. If anything, it was worse than the shouting. She stomped back to it, picked it out of the cot, held it under its arms, looked right into its mewling, shrieking, stupid little face.

‘Shut up!’ she screamed. ‘Shut up! I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’ She shook it hard. The movement just made the sound vibrate. It sounded funny. She would have laughed if it wasn’t so annoying. ‘Shut up! Or I’ll fling you against the wall! Yeah, that’ll keep you quiet . . .’

But the baby didn’t seem to understand her. It just kept on wailing. Hester looked between the wall and the cot, then, with an angry exhalation, flung the baby back down into the tin bath. It bounced on the blankets, looked startled for a few seconds, stopped wailing in surprise. She scrutinised it. Smelled that smell.

‘You stink . . . urgh . . .’

The baby was thinking about wailing again. She could tell. She had to do something quickly. Maybe that was it. Maybe it needed its nappy changing. It was still wrapped in the blankets her husband had put it in when he brought it home. Wasn’t even in a proper nappy. Not yet. That was okay; she had seen them get changed on TV. The babies always lay on their backs kicking their legs and laughing while the pretty young mums smiled and wiped their bottoms with a special cloth and put a new nappy on them. Well, that was easy. She could do that. And if she did, the baby would smile again and she could smile again. Easy.

She cleared space on the workbench by sweeping the tools out of the way with her thick, muscled arm and blew any sawdust or iron filings off the surface before hefting the baby out of the cot and placing it down. It remained silent, startled at being moved. Hester smiled. This was what a mother would do. Good. It was working.

She unwrapped the blankets one at a time, pulling them off as quickly as she could, throwing them on the floor. The silence encouraged her to speak in baby talk again, like she was supposed to. She took a nappy out of the bag and picked up a cloth to wipe the baby with.

‘Be prepared,’ she gurgled in an approximation of baby talk. ‘Mummy’s got to be prepared . . .’

She looked at its body. All pink and blue blotches, like its face. But there was yellow in there too. Was that right? She didn’t think so, but it was still moving so it must be. And it was cold as well. Were they supposed to be cold? She had thought they would be warm. Something else the TV and books had got wrong.

Hester smiled to herself. Maybe she should write a book on babies. Or go on TV to talk about them. Tell the truth about what they were really like. She grinned at the thought and began to undo the final blanket. What she found there wiped the smile off her face.

‘Urgh . . . no . . .’

She didn’t know what to do. She had the cloth ready but didn’t want to touch it. She wished her husband was there to help, but knew he wouldn’t do anything.

Lookin’ after babies is women’s work, he always said. Don’t mind gettin’ you one, but you’re lookin’ after it yourself after that.

And she had accepted that. So it was down to her.

She took the cloth and set to work, holding her breath all the time. She did it eventually, throwing the soiled cloth in the pile of blankets. She brought out the wipes that came alongside the nappies. When they were wiped with these, the babies smiled. She wiped it. It didn’t smile. Or laugh. But it didn’t wail. That was something. She wiped it again. That was better. Getting it clean. She threw the wipe after the cloth and the blankets. Looked at the naked baby lying there.

It had a thing sticking out. Little and wrinkled, but with quite a big bump underneath. It was a boy baby.

‘Oh.’

She reached out, got its little thing in her big fat hand. Tiny. Felt a sadness build within her. A tingling somewhere in her body to accompany it. The sadness increased.

No. That was in the past. She was what she was. She was Hester. She was a wife and a mother. She was happy. Happy.

She let go of its thing, started to put a nappy on it. It couldn’t be that difficult. She looked at the picture on the packaging, tried to copy it. While she worked, she thought. About the baby’s little thing. She hoped her husband wanted a boy. He should do. They did, didn’t they? Fathers wanted boys. Another shudder of sadness rippled through her. Most fathers. Some wanted girls. Some made them girls.

She looked again at the baby as she covered its thing up. Smiled.

‘Let’s hope he wants a son,’ she said, baby-talking again, ‘or he’ll have that thing off you quicker than you can say . . .’ She thought. There was a phrase she should use but she couldn’t think of it. ‘Well, quick, anyway.’

She pulled a one-piece suit on to it.

‘There. Don’t you look handsome?’

It just lay there, kicking its legs slightly. Eyes still screwed tightly shut. But at least it wasn’t screaming.

She checked her watch. Her husband had been back and gone out again. Should be back soon. She could usually feel when he was going to return. Time to feed the baby in the meantime.

She crossed to the fridge, took out a bottle of milk. She knew she couldn’t feed it from her body; that would be stupid. So she got milk from the shop. Full fat. She had read that it should be given powdered milk and something called fortifiers. But she didn’t know what they were. And the powdered milk she didn’t like the sound of. Better off with proper milk. From a cow. Full fat was good; that would have all the fortifiers and stuff in that it needed. That was being responsible, because she had read that children shouldn’t be given diet things. Coke was all right when it was older, a few months maybe, but not yet. She knew that. She wasn’t stupid.

She squirted the milk into her own mouth. Cold. Too cold. Pop it in the microwave. She did, waited for the ping, watching the baby all the while. It lay on the bench, kicking its legs again. She smiled. She liked it like that, when it was quiet. That’s how she’d imagined it would be.

The microwave pinged. She took the bottle out, squirted milk into her mouth. Bit hot. But that might be good. It was cold in here, warm the baby up a bit. Put a bit of colour in its cheeks, make it smile.

She crossed to the bench, shaking the bottle in her hand to cool it a little. She scooped the baby up in one meaty, powerful arm, held the bottle to its mouth. Looked at it, just lying there, its face twisted into a permanent scowl, like a miniature gargoyle. Not what she’d imagined at all. It looked weak, too. Weak and yellow. Like a very old and wise Chinaman in a temple from a martial arts film. She smiled, looked again. No. It just looked tired, like it wanted to sleep. Well, it could. After it was fed.

She ran the bottle along its lips, moistening them. It moved slightly. She took advantage of that, put the bottle in. It jumped.

She laughed. ‘Ooh, almost opened your eyes there.’

She jammed the bottle all the way in. Let it suck. It was good for it.

The sadness was still within her. She forced it away, along with the earlier rage. This was a time for mother and baby. A time for contentment. She had read that somewhere. She sat down in a chair. Sighed. It wasn’t like she had expected it to be. But then she had also read that it never was.

This was her new life, she told herself. She was a complete woman now. Wife. Mother.

‘This is me,’ she said out loud to the baby. ‘This is me. And look . . . I’m complete.’

The baby didn’t reply. Just lay there, slowly taking in milk but too weak to swallow , letting it run down its sickly yellow face.

Hester didn’t notice. Just smiled.