Текст книги "The Surrogate"

Автор книги: Tania Carver

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21

‘It’s all wrong,’ said Marina. ‘Nothing fits.’

Phil joined the others in looking at her. He knew what they would be thinking: the profiler should stick to her day job, leave the police work to the professionals. He suppressed a smile at her nerve.

She continued, ‘I know I’m running to catch up at the moment. I haven’t visited the crime scene yet or spoken to anyone concerned. All I’ve done is read the case notes this afternoon. And I still haven’t delivered a profile.’ She waited. No one interrupted. ‘But based on what I’ve read about the previous deaths and what I’ve picked up about Ryan Brotherton, he’s not the killer.’

‘Why not?’ said Fenwick, his irritation palpable.

‘Because he’s a spousal abuser, not a killer. They’re two different things.’

‘He could be both,’ said Fenwick.

‘I’ll explain,’ said Marina. ‘For a spousal abuser, it’s all about isolating their partner, keeping them locked away from the rest of the world in order to control them. He’d want to injure her, yes, but not kill her. What good would she be to him dead? He wants her alive to keep tormenting her.’

The silence in the room became very uncomfortable.

‘Now, the baby . . .’ Marina paused. ‘And we’re assuming here that Claire Fielding, or rather Claire Fielding’s baby, was the subject of the attack . . . Well, most spousal abusers wouldn’t be happy that their partner was pregnant in the first place. They’re childish and needy and want attention. A baby will take that attention away from them.’

‘Wouldn’t that make them angry?’ said Anni.

‘Not that angry. Because the baby is still part of them. They’ll be jealous that the woman is carrying it, but they won’t try to harm it. And there are another couple of things. No links with the two previous murders—’

‘That we know of,’ said Fenwick. ‘Yet.’

‘That you know of,’ Marina said. ‘But there’s the fact that he drugged her first.’

Phil understood what she meant. ‘He would have wanted her to scream,’ he said. ‘Wanted her to suffer. The drug would have taken that away from her.’

Marina looked at him, smiled. Phil couldn’t help but return it. Then straight back to business.

‘Or he didn’t want her to wake up the whole block,’ said Anni.

‘There is that,’ said Marina. ‘Now, putting aside the baby for a moment, let’s look at what actually happened.’ She pointed to the photo of Claire Fielding’s body without actually looking at it. ‘Here is Claire Fielding. Tied to the bed, spreadeagled. Why?’

‘Ritual?’ suggested Phil.

‘That was my first conclusion,’ she said, almost looking at him once more. ‘But it seems to be more about control. She’s been injected with a drug to induce paralysis. As the post-mortem report said, whoever did this is not a professional. Therefore they didn’t know exactly how much of the drug was needed. If they got the dose wrong, the victim might scream or struggle. Kick. Hence the ropes.’

‘So . . .’ said Phil, ‘it wasn’t ritual, it was . . . what? Expedience?’

Marina nodded. ‘It could well be. And her legs had to be open because . . .’ She took a heavy breath.

‘He enjoyed it?’ said Phil.

‘Perhaps,’ said Marina. ‘It could be as simple as that. But it’s still an aspect of control, of subjugation.’ She checked her notes again. ‘Now what were the restraints made of?’

Phil consulted his own notes. ‘Rope. Thick, heavy-duty. We’re waiting on DNA.’

‘So he came prepared,’ said Marina. ‘He brought the knife and the rope.’

‘And the drugs,’ said Phil.

‘And the drugs.’

‘Well, what about the sex aspect?’ Fenwick’s voice was rising in pitch, getting clearly agitated. He looked to Phil like someone who had been told their birthday party had been cancelled.

‘Post-mortem states there’s no evidence of sexual activity.’

‘This still doesn’t rule Brotherton out, though,’ said Fenwick. ‘If he wanted to, I don’t know, show her who’s boss, couldn’t he do it by ripping the baby out of her? Wouldn’t that show her who’s in charge?’

The attention of the room turned back to Marina. ‘Put like that, I suppose it sounds plausible, yes,’ she said.

Fenwick held his arms up as if in triumph. ‘Well then.’

‘But it doesn’t sound likely. And then there’s the fact that it might not be a man at all.’

‘What?’ said Fenwick. ‘A woman?’

‘Why not?’

That was too much for Fenwick. ‘Because a woman isn’t physically capable of doing what this person did. And someone answering Brotherton’s description was seen in the area.’

‘Look at it logically,’ said Marina. ‘Who wants babies? Not men, women.’ She paused, continued. ‘I’m generalising. But you get what I mean.’

‘So it could be a big, angry woman,’ said Anni. Behind her, Fenwick shook his head.

‘It’s possible,’ said Marina. ‘There are a few documented cases of this kind of thing happening, but mainly in the States and always with some kind of personal connection. Partner leaves, takes up with a new woman, gets her pregnant. The spurned girlfriend takes revenge by cutting out the new baby.’

The room flinched en masse.

‘Could be a man,’ said Phil, almost thinking aloud, ‘doing this for a woman. Getting a baby for her.’

‘Brotherton,’ said Fenwick. ‘Doing it for his girlfriend.’

Marina sighed. Fenwick picked up on it. ‘Something to say?’

Marina said nothing, just kept her head down.

Fenwick nodded. ‘Good.’

Marina looked up. Phil saw the redness in her cheeks, the fire in her eyes. Knew she was about to unleash her Italian temperament. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do have something to say. You asked me here to give my professional opinion and you’ve done nothing but talk over me and attempt to belittle me.’

Fenwick shrugged. ‘Yes, but a woman. I mean, please.’

‘I was brought here to provide a profile—’

‘Which you haven’t done yet.’

‘I’ve had less than a day here.’

Fenwick strode over to Marina. ‘We have a suspect.’

‘I was not brought in to rubber-stamp whatever you say.’

‘Don’t you want us to catch him?’

Marina looked him straight in the eye, didn’t back down. ‘I want you to catch the right person.’

Fenwick opened his mouth to say something else, but Phil was on his feet. ‘Sir.’

Fenwick turned.

Phil looked round to the others in the room. He didn’t want to do this but Fenwick’s actions had left him with no choice. ‘With all due respect, sir, I’m running this investigation and your comments aren’t helpful.’

Fenwick stared at Phil as if he wanted to punch him, but managed to control himself. He put his hand on Phil’s shoulder, steered him towards the door. ‘Come with me.’

The two men walked out into the corridor, leaving the rest of the team staring after them.

Once outside, Fenwick turned to Phil. ‘I brought her in to provide a profile, to help us catch a killer, which she hasn’t done yet. Instead she comes out with all that, trying to undermine the investigation.’

‘She’s got a valid point. I’m listening to her.’

‘We’ve got a suspect ready to bring in and she’s trying to talk you out of it.’

‘We should listen to what she’s got to say.’

Fenwick gave an ugly snort, all vestiges of the training course designed to produce politically correct modern policemen gone. ‘Oh yeah. She can say what she likes to you, get away with anything. Twist you round her little finger. And we all know why, don’t we?’

Phil felt his hands ball into fists. His breathing came harsh and fast; his turn to struggle for control.

He managed it. ‘Like I said. This is my investigation, sir. And I’ll conduct it the way I see fit. Your comments aren’t helpful. In fact, you’re way out of order, superior or not.’

Fenwick said nothing.

‘I’m going back inside,’ said Phil, ‘to continue the meeting. Will you be joining us?’

Fenwick held Phil’s stare for a second or two before turning and walking away.

Phil watched him go, then, taking a deep breath and expelling it slowly, walked back into the bar.

22

‘I’m afraid DCI Fenwick won’t be rejoining us for the moment,’ said Phil, his voice as light as possible. ‘So let’s finish up here and we can go home. Shall we continue?’

His team looked at him, eyes wide. He knew what they were thinking – had he punched out a senior officer? Had a senior officer had a go at him? Whatever, it would be round the station in minutes.

‘Marina?’ said Phil. ‘You were saying?’

Marina looked at him, her face unreadable. Was that admiration he saw? Irritation? She looked down at her notes, began scanning.

‘Erm . . . Yes. Here. What was I saying? Yes. Right. Escalation. Look at all these women. Lisa King, Susie Evans, Claire Fielding . . . with the unfortunate exception of Julie Simpson, you see a clear escalation.’

‘Trial runs or unsuccessful attempts,’ said Phil, getting back into the rhythm as quickly as possible. ‘Technique refining.’

Marina nodded, picking up speed as she did so. ‘This person wants a baby. A live one. And if that’s the case, to the killer, these women are just breeders. Surrogates.’

‘Why not just snatch one from somewhere? A maternity ward or outside Mothercare?’ said Phil.

‘Perhaps the risks are too great. I don’t know, they think that a baby taken from the womb will be easier to bond with. Now,’ Marina said, pointing to the map, ‘the geographical aspect might be worth looking at. Usually you can put together a profile of the perpetrator from the area in which they’ve operated. Fix their position, their home, from where they’ve committed their crimes. But looking at the map, I can’t find any kind of pattern.’

‘Where does Brotherton live?’ asked Anni.

Both Phil and Marina looked at her.

She blushed. ‘I’m only asking.’

Phil checked his notes. ‘Highwoods,’ he said.

‘Right in the middle of it,’ said Anni, looking at the map. ‘Well, almost.’

‘Yes,’ said Marina, ‘that’s true. But these women have different backgrounds, social classes, they come from different areas. There doesn’t seem to be any kind of geographical overlap in terms of Brotherton meeting them.’

‘Perhaps he bought a house,’ said Phil. ‘Used Lisa King’s estate agency. Might be worth a look.’ Jane Gosling made a note.

‘Maybe he used prostitutes,’ said Anni. ‘Met Susie Evans in New Town.’

Jane made another note.

‘I don’t think we should rule Brotherton out,’ said Phil. ‘Let’s investigate him further. See if we can find a connection between him and the earlier victims. And we’ll get his phone records checked too. But he shouldn’t be the only avenue we explore.’

‘What if he’s not living or working where he targets and kills?’ said Anni. ‘How’s he picking his targets? Hospitals, antenatal clinics, that sort of thing. Could he have access to a database with pregnant women on it?’

‘It’s being looked into,’ said Jane Gosling.

‘And also,’ said Phil, ‘we still need full background checks on both Julie Simpson and Claire Fielding. They’re both as important as the other. I want their last weeks traced, where they went, who with, who they spoke to, everything. Nothing is unimportant. If someone has asked them the time in the street, find out who. Find out when. Jane, can you do that?’

Jane Gosling, scribbling, nodded without looking up.

‘D’you mind if I take a look at the murder scene?’ said Marina. ‘Might help.’

‘I’ll run you over there when we finish.’

He watched her nod; their eyes caught once more, then away.

‘Right,’ said Phil, ‘that seems to be as much as we can do for now. Uniforms will continue to collate the door-to-door and CCTV stuff, Ben Fenwick can talk to the media again, give them an update. In the meantime, those who are going home get some rest. We’ll need it.’

‘Before we go, can I just ask,’ said Adrian Wren, ‘this serial killer—’

Marina cut him off. ‘Please don’t use that term. As soon as you say the words “serial killer”, everyone goes all FBI and CSI. It’s not helpful.’

‘So, this person who kills more than one person sequentially, ’ Adrian Wren said, and got a few polite smiles as a response. ‘Don’t that sort usually try to communicate with us, or to leave clues to show off how clever they are? Taunt us? Or is that just in films and books?’

‘No, in real life too, sometimes,’ said Marina. ‘Killers of that nature are often of low self-esteem and want to parade their intelligence. Sometimes it’s a cry for help. They actually want, subconsciously, to be caught. That’s one kind of serial killer, yes. But I don’t believe we’re dealing with that kind here. This one seems to be fixated on a very specific goal.’

‘The abduction of the baby?’ said Phil.

She nodded. ‘To the exclusion of everything else. And the end, in their mind, justifies the means.’

‘Well, if they’ve got the baby now,’ said Anni, ‘and it’s alive, that might be a good thing. They’ve got what they wanted.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Marina.

‘Why perhaps?’ said Anni.

‘Because we’re assuming this baby’s alive,’ said Phil. ‘And being well cared for.’

‘Precisely,’ said Marina. ‘What if, God forbid, this baby dies and they need a replacement? Or even worse, what if they get a taste for what they’ve done and want to continue?’

‘Start a family,’ said Phil.

Marina looked right at him and he at her. They held their look. Connection made. ‘Exactly.’

‘Jesus,’ said Anni.

The whole room sat in silence for a few seconds, taking that information in.

The silence stretched on. Outside the window, people were making their way home from work, coming out for the evening. Life was going on in that other, separate world.

The door to the bar opened. Fenwick walked in, a look of triumph on his face.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Been on the phone to Chelmsford. They’ve sanctioned twenty-four-hour surveillance on Ryan Brotherton. Overtime in place. I’ll leave you to draw up a rota for the uniforms, Phil.’

Phil stared at him.

‘I said, and the Detective Super at Chelmsford agreed with me, that Brotherton should be brought in for questioning tomorrow.’ He turned to Marina. ‘Of course, I think you should be there to take a look at him from the observation room. See what impression you get.’ He looked round, gestured to Phil. ‘All yours.’ Then he strode out.

The silence his absence created was louder than a bomb.

The door opened again. They all turned.

‘So,’ said Clayton, ‘what have I missed?’

23

DS Clayton Thompson drove slowly down the narrow New Town road, cars parked on both sides allowing only one vehicle at a time. The rows of dark, dirty red-brick terraced houses just added to the closed-in, claustrophobic feeling. The only people around in New Town after dark either lived there, or were trying to get out of there. Or had business there. It wasn’t somewhere most people went by choice.

Colchester might have been Britain’s oldest recorded town, the capital of England during Roman times. It had the wall round the town centre and the grid-like road system to prove it. It also had an old castle, a theatre, open spaces and parks, lots of old buildings. The University of Essex was based there. It had boutique shops, good restaurants and bars. As big as a small city with the feel of a market town. No concrete tower blocks or sink estates to spoil the view.

But a town didn’t need tower blocks to have their associated problems. It still had areas where poverty and deprivation gave way to rage and criminal activity. New Town was an area of warren-like Edwardian terraces running from North Hill at the fag end of the town centre down to the river’s edge at the Hythe. Where Clayton was headed was bad enough, but there were parts of it that even he wouldn’t visit after dark. At least not without back-up. And people here he never wanted to meet again, at least not without bars between them. Developers had recently tried to smarten the place up, building expensive gated apartment blocks in amongst the terraces. The locals had responded well, giving these new developments the highest rates of burglary, theft and criminal damage in the whole town.

Clayton parked the car in front of the street-corner pub, amazed that there was a parking space, but worried because he had to leave his ride unattended. He loved his 5-series BMW. Expensive to run and maintain, not to mention the monthly payments he made on it. But that was okay. He just compromised on other stuff. It was worth it.

He had been brought up in a house of women. A mother and two sisters, his father dying when he was six years old. His mother had wanted him to work in a bank, an office, do something with money, something steady. Much as he loved his mother and wanted her to be proud of him, he hadn’t wanted that.

Whatever sense of masculinity he had came from films, TV, games. If the man had the car, he got the woman. The fact that he was well dressed and handsome didn’t hurt either. So the police force had been natural for Clayton. And then the car.

He had planned it for years. Spent days fantasising about what he would do when he could eventually afford it. Lower the chassis; what rims and exhaust to fit, what sound system to give it, the whole nine-yards pimp job. All those teenage years spent devouring car magazines, especially Max Power. His favourite. That presented him with the lifestyle he wanted, showed him which cars to idolise and which girls too, come to that. And which girls would go for which car. Now, at twenty-nine, when he could actually afford the ride he wanted, he discovered that it didn’t need any extra pimping. It was perfect as it was. That upset him slightly – he felt that a part of his childhood, and with it his adolescent fantasy, had died. But something stronger had been put in place. The mature, confident young man. The one who was actually able to live out that life, to make that fantasy a reality. A DS at twenty-nine; he was going places. And his mother was proud of him. Nothing would hold him back, no one. He would make sure of that.

He sat there a moment, engine idling, hip-hop on the stereo. The Game. Cool, hard stuff. Gave him the right kind of swagger. He pulled down the sun visor, checked his eyes in the mirror. This meeting was important. Thing had to be said. But more importantly, things had to be kept quiet. He had to be full-on for this; no doubt, no insecurity. Took a deep breath, then another. He wasn’t going to lose his car, his lifestyle and most importantly his career over this. No way. So. Keep it firm, keep it strong. And if that failed, use any means necessary. Another deep breath. Another. Checked his eyes again. Flipped the visor back into place, took the key from the ignition, got out.

He opened the door to the pub, stepped inside, letting it swing closed behind him. The interior looked as bleak and depressing as the exterior. Tired red faux leather ran the length of one wall, old, scarred tables and battered wooden chairs before it. A carpet whose pattern had surrendered to age and various kinds of darkness covered the floor. A TV was mounted above the bar, the brightness and colour showing the few drinkers what they were missing elsewhere in the world.The bar was a semicircle curved round the centre of the pub. A lone barman stood at one end, chatting to an old man who might not have lived there but who certainly belonged there. Clayton saw a couple of men sitting at a corner table. He knew them. Brothers, supposedly builders, they were in fact behind most of the criminal activity in the area. Drugs, prostitution; they probably took a percentage of whatever was taken from the posh cars parked in front of the new flats. Clayton stared.They looked away. He did the same. A mutual thing: they wouldn’t bother him if he didn’t bother them.

He saw who he wanted, sitting at a table, alone. A glass of something clear, half drunk, before them, bag by the chair leg, workout gear sticking out. They saw him. Waited. He sat down opposite. Found a smile.

She flicked a smile in return. Sharp, practised. ‘Hello, stranger.’

‘Hello, Sophie,’ he said.

Before he could answer, the smile was dropped. She looked quickly round, checking no one was listening or watching. ‘You took your time,’ she said.

‘Briefing,’ he said. ‘And traffic.’

‘Yeah. Well I haven’t got time to sit around here all night, have I?’

Clayton smiled at her. ‘Sorry.’ She didn’t respond. ‘Anyone bothered you in here?’

She shook her head. ‘Told them I was waiting for someone. Told them in a way that made them leave me alone.’

‘Right.’ He ran his eyes up and down her body. She had changed out of her working clothes. Jeans, trainers and a pale, tight, translucent blouse, her dark, lacy bra clearly visible through it, a generous amount of cleavage on display. Her hair was down, accenting her heart-shaped, make-up-caked face. ‘You’re looking good.’

‘Not good enough, apparently. Haven’t heard from you in ages. Years.’ She leaned forward. He couldn’t help but stare down her cleavage. ‘But you only call when you want something. And I expected you to call after today.’

‘Bit of a shocker, that,’ he said. ‘Didn’t expect to find you there.’

She shrugged. ‘And what was all that fuckin’ DVD crap? What did you come out with that for?’

‘Just doin’ my job.’

‘Yeah. Well I know what that involves, don’t I?’

His smile disappeared. He felt edgy, uneasy. She was gaining the upper hand. He had to stop it. ‘Yeah, well. That’s in the past. And it’s going to stay there. It’s the present I want to talk about.’

She allowed herself a smile, adjusted her top. ‘I’m sure.’

Clayton stared at her, his features hardening. He felt his control slipping. Wouldn’t allow it to happen. ‘And you do too, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Would you?’

Uncertainty flickered across her eyes. He tried not to smile. He had her. Yes, she could make things difficult for him, but he could do the same for her too.

‘I must admit, I was surprised to see you when you came into the yard.You did a good job of not letting on you knew me. Really good. Should be an actor, you know.’

‘You hid it well too,’ he said.

She gave a sharp laugh. ‘Nothing wrong with my acting skills.’ Her turn to look him up and down now. ‘You dress better than you used to. On more money?’

‘More money, new job.’ He swallowed hard. ‘New me.’

Another laugh. ‘Doubt it,’ she said. ‘Leopards and all that.’

He leaned forward. ‘Listen, Sophie . . . do I have to call you that?’

‘It’s my name. Sophie Gale.’

‘You used to have a different one.’

‘Only for professional purposes. And anything that went on between us was always strictly professional.’

‘Yeah, but that was after. I knew you before all that, remember? When you used your real name. Gail Johnson. When I busted you in that New Town brothel raid. You’ve grown up since then. Done all right.’

‘And I suppose I’ve got you to thank for that, have I?’

‘Amongst others.’

‘Yeah. Well I think I’ve thanked you enough times.’

‘Listen.’ Clayton’s voice dropped to a low, harsh hiss. ‘I still remember when we dragged you in. Just a poor little teenage prossie runaway, terrified. Who would do anything not to go to prison.’ His voice dropped further. ‘Anything. So we made a deal, didn’t we? You said you had intel on all the major drugs gangs operating in the area.You would provide us with that intel. As long as we looked the other way and kept you out of trouble.You were happy for our help then.’

‘Yeah. And I gave you plenty of stuff. It put people away. But that wasn’t enough, was it? You wanted something more.’

‘So I took a few freebies.’

Her eyes hardened. ‘You took more than that.’

He stared at her. Tried not to let her words scare him. Got himself under control. ‘You want me to tell your new boyfriend all about it? About your old life?’

‘Fuck off.’ There was real anger behind Sophie’s hissed words. Then she sat back. Smiled. ‘Wonder if your new boss would be interested to hear about what you used to get up to? What you used to do to me instead of paying me the money you owed? What I had to do for you?’

Clayton’s eyes hardened. Fear gave way to the promise of violence. ‘Don’t.’

‘Then don’t fuck me about, either. Just as long as we both know where we stand.’

They sat there in silence, staring at each other.

‘What made you pick this place?’ said Clayton eventually. ‘Old times’ sake? Didn’t figure you for the sentimental type.’

Her eyes flashed with a dark fire. ‘You don’t know anything about me at all.’

Another silence. Sophie looked at her watch.

‘Can’t sit here all night,’ she said. ‘Got to go home soon.’

‘Bet he doesn’t like you being out on your own. Seems like the controlling type.’

Sophie said nothing. Clayton knew he had hit a nerve. He pressed on. ‘Right. We’ve been doing some diggin’. Want to know what we found?’

Sophie shrugged.

He struggled to conceal his excitement at what he was about to say. Back in control again. ‘I found out that when you used to be on the game, working for us, you knew someone we’re interested in.’

‘Who?’

‘Susie Evans.’

Sophie shrugged again. ‘So? Lots of working girls knew Susie Evans. I didn’t know her very well. She was low rent. I always aimed higher.’ She adjusted her top. ‘Besides, I’m out of the life now.’

‘So is she. She was murdered, remember? Course you do.

It was in all the papers.’

Sophie looked away, not wanting to match her eyes with his.

‘And there are similarities between her murder and Claire Fielding’s.Your boyfriend’s ex. Coincidence?’

‘Yeah,’ said Sophie. ‘Ryan never knew her.’

Clayton sat back. ‘How long have you been with Ryan?’

‘Couple of months. Went for a job at his firm.’

‘Really? Strange career progression. Why’d you do that?’

‘Had this boyfriend who was a metal merchant. Told me there was a vacancy. Put me up for it. Got the job, met Ryan, the boyfriend got the push.’

Clayton said nothing. The boyfriend was probably a client. He doubted Sophie was totally out of the game. ‘So you get the job and this boyfriend of yours gets an inside eye into another firm’s dealings.’

‘Except I started seeing Ryan and dumped him.’

‘The old boyfriend mustn’t have been very happy. What did he do? Go back to his wife?’

‘He never left her.’

Clayton allowed himself a small smile of triumph.

‘So now you’re with Ryan. And his girlfriend—’

‘Ex-girlfriend.’

‘All right. Ex-girlfriend, then. She winds up murdered. Same way as an old mate of yours.Your new boyfriend has a history of violence towards women, and with you in the middle there’s a connection between the two.’

Sophie said nothing.

‘Not only that . . .’ Clayton leaned forward, ready to play his ace. ‘You lied for him. He was out when the murder happened, wasn’t he? And you lied to us and told us you were with him.’

Sophie again said nothing.

Clayton sat back, pleased with himself, but slightly put out that she hadn’t responded. ‘So where was he?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

Clayton studied her face. She wasn’t just holding out on him; there was something else. ‘You’re scared of him, aren’t you?’

He thought she would sit in silence again, but eventually she nodded.

‘You know what he’s done to other women and you’re scared he’ll do that to you.’

She nodded again. ‘Yes.’

Clayton’s voice carried a greater degree of warmth and concern than was perhaps professionally necessary. ‘Then why are you with him?’

‘He’s . . . a good bloke. Looks after me. Never want for anything.You know.’

Clayton knew.

‘And he’s . . . he’s not that bad. I know all that stuff with Claire, that got him down. But he’s over it now.’

Her voice sounded thin, her words hollow. ‘No he’s not, Sophie. And you don’t believe that either. You’re worried. I’m guessin’ he’s still obsessed with her. He was out when she was being murdered. And he won’t tell you where. Is that it?’

Another nod.

‘And that’s why you agreed to see me.’

‘Yes.’ She sighed.

‘So what happened? Where do you think he was?’

Sophie leaned forward. Clayton got a great view of her cleavage, but he wasn’t interested now. This was more important. This was work.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He went out saying he had to meet someone. That it was business. When he got back, I was in bed. I heard the shower, then he came and joined me.’

‘Does he often go out on business?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘That late at night?’

She said nothing.

‘And does he always need a shower when he comes back?’ Silence.

‘And that’s what he said when you asked him about it? That it was business?’

She nodded. ‘I thought it was Claire at first. Because he’s . . .’ She sighed. ‘He’s not over her. The baby and everything. ’

‘He wanted her to get rid of it.’

‘So he said. But . . . I think it just scared him. The whole thing.’

‘He didn’t say anything else? About the baby? Give you . . . give you anything to go on?’

She frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

He didn’t know whether to tell her. The fact of the baby’s disappearance had been kept out of the media. And she didn’t seem to know what he was talking about. He decided to leave it at that.

‘So you thought that’s where he was?’ he said, continuing with the questioning. ‘With Claire?’

‘I didn’t want to think that.’

‘Course not. What d’you think now?’

She didn’t answer. Instead she looked at her watch. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go. Take me home. We’ve got to go now.’ She stood up, grabbed her bag. Clayton stood also, placed a restraining hand on her arm.

‘Look, you don’t have to go. We can help you. Keep you safe if anythin’ happens.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘Yeah, heard that one before. Thanks.’

‘We can.’

‘Just take me home. And keep my past out of this.’

‘I’ll try, but—’

She turned to him, eyes alight with angry fire. ‘You’ll fuckin’ do it. If I’m keepin’ you out of this, you can do the same for me.’

Clayton sighed. ‘All right. I will.’

‘Good. Come on.’

She led him to the door. The barman watched them leave, eyes on her buttocks, lewd imagination written all over his face. Outside, the air had turned cold. Clayton pointed out his BMW to her.

‘Nice,’ she said. ‘Always thought you’d do well for yourself. ’

Clayton smiled, got in, Sophie beside him. He drove off as fast as he could.