The Surrogate Page 2

  Phil stared with renewed horror at the slit stomach. He didn’t dare voice the question that all three of them were thinking. ‘Shit,’ was all he could say.

  ‘Quite,’ said Lines, his voice like Nick Cave’s more miserable brother. ‘She was pregnant. And before you ask, the answer’s no. There’s no sign of it. Anywhere in the flat. Once we realised what condition she had been in, that was the first thing we did.’

  Phil felt his heart beating faster, his pulse racing; tried to calm it down. He would be no good to the investigation in that frame of mind. He turned to the pathologist, his voice urgent.

  ‘What have you got, Nick?’

  ‘Well, as I said, this is only preliminary; don’t hold me to any of it. The obvious stuff first. Broken nose, bruising. She was punched in the face. Hard. It looks like she’s been injected with something at the back of her neck. Then again at the base of her spine. Obviously I don’t know what it is yet but I’d hazard a guess that it was something to paralyse her.’

  ‘And the… the cutting?’

  Nick Lines shrugged. ‘Carried out with a modicum of skill, it would seem. The one in the hall, they knew which arteries to go for. Likewise here. They had a fair idea of what they were doing.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Hard to say at present. Late last night. Eleven-ish? Sometime round then. Between ten and two, I’d say.’

  ‘Any sign of sexual activity?’

  A faint smile played on Lines’ lips. Phil knew it was his way of displaying irritation at being asked so many initial questions. ‘As Chairman Mao said when asked how effective he thought the French Revolution had been, it’s just too early to tell.’

  ‘Any clues as to who could have done this?’ said Clayton.

  Lines sighed. ‘I just tell you how they died. It’s up to you to find out why.’

  ‘I meant what kind of person,’ Clayton said, clearly hurt by the response. ‘Build an’ that.’

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘How far gone was she?’ asked Anni.

  ‘Very well advanced, I’d say.’

  ‘But how far?’

  He gave her a professionally contemptuous look, clearly getting irritated. ‘I’m a pathologist, not a clairvoyant.’

  ‘And we’ve got jobs to do as well,’ said Phil, matching Lines’ irritation with his own. ‘Would this baby be dead by now, or is there a chance it could still be alive?’

  Nick Lines looked back at the body on the bed rather than directly at Phil. ‘Judging from the condition of her womb, I’d say almost full term. Only weeks away.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning yes. There’s every chance that this baby is still alive.’

  3

  Marina Esposito stepped slowly into the room, looked around. She was nervous. Not because of what she was about to do particularly, but because of the public admission. Because once she had taken that step, her life would be changed, redefined for ever.

  The room was large, the walls painted in light pastels, the floor wood. It had that warm yet simultaneously cool feel that so many fitness centres had. She had tried to slip quietly into the changing room, not engage anyone with eye contact and certainly not in conversation, get changed as quickly as possible, hoping her body wouldn’t mark her out as one of them. She had heard them and seen them, though, talking and laughing together, and knew instinctively she would never be part of that. Never be one of them. No matter what circumstances dictated. Now she saw the same women in here and her heart sank. Hair piled up or tied back, trainers or bare feet. All wearing brightly coloured, almost dayglo leotards and co-ordinated joggers. Full make-up. Marina was wearing grey jogging bottoms, a black T-shirt, old trainers. She felt dowdy and dull.

  Someone stopped behind her. ‘You lost?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, turning. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t emerge.

  ‘Pre-natal yoga?’ the woman said, seeing the mat under Marina’s arm.

  Marina nodded.

  The woman smiled. ‘That’s us, then.’ She patted her stomach. It was much bigger than Marina’s. Taut and hard, the bright orange leotard stretched tight across it. It protruded proudly over the waistline of her rolled-down joggers. Marina could see the distended navel through the material, like the knot of a balloon. The woman smiled like being that size and shape was the most natural thing in the world. She looked at Marina’s stomach.

  Oh God, Marina thought. Looking at stomachs. That’s how I have to greet people from now on.

  ‘How far gone?’

  ‘Just… three months. Four.’

  The woman looked into the room. ‘Starting early, that’s good.’

  Marina felt she had to reciprocate. ‘What… what about you?’

  The woman laughed. ‘Any day now, from the size of it. Eight months. I’m Caroline, by the way.’

  ‘Marina.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. Well, come on in. We don’t bite.’

  Caroline walked into the room, Marina following. Marina sized the other woman up, looking at her face rather than her stomach for the first time. Mid-thirties, perky, cheerful. Probably a housewife from somewhere like Lexden. Kept herself in good shape, filled her days by lunching with friends, going to the gym, the hairdresser’s and the nail salon, shopping. Not Marina’s type of person at all. Caroline stopped to talk to other women, greeting them like old friends. All of them scooped from the same mould as her. Brightly coloured and round. Giggling and laughing. Marina felt she had walked into a Teletubbies convention.

  She wanted to turn round, walk out.

  But at that moment the instructor arrived and closed the door behind her, cutting off her escape route.

  ‘See we have a new member…’ The instructor beckoned Marina into the room.

  Caroline waved her over and Marina, trying to disguise her reluctance, crossed the room, unfurled her mat and waited for the session to start.

  There. She had done it. Admitted it in public.

  She was pregnant.

  4

  Phil couldn’t speak.

  He looked at his two junior officers. They seemed similarly dumbstruck as the enormity of the statement sank in.

  There’s every chance that this baby is still alive…

  ‘Shit…’ Phil found his voice.

  ‘Quite,’ said Nick Lines. He looked back at the bed. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me?’

  Phil nodded and ushered his team away from the bedroom, leaving the pathologist to carry on with his job. The three of them still didn’t speak.

  He felt his chest tightening, his pulse quickening. He could hear the blood pumping round his body, feel the throb of his heart like a huge metronome, marking off the seconds, a ticking clock telling him to get moving, get this baby found…

  He called over one of the uniformed officers in the living room. ‘Right, I want this whole-’ He stopped. ‘Liz, is it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Right. Liz.’ He spoke fast but clearly. Urgent but not panicking. ‘I want this whole block of flats searched. Everyone questioned, don’t take no for an answer, draft in as many as you can on door-to-door work.You know what I mean: did anyone hear anything, see anyone suspicious. Someone must have done. Use your instincts, be guided by what they say. I noticed the flats have all got video entry-phones. If someone got in, they must have been buzzed in. And seen. And I want the area combed. Do it thoroughly but do it quickly.’ He dropped his voice. ‘You know what we’re looking for.’

  The officer nodded, went away to begin the search.

  ‘Boss…’

  Phil turned, looked at Anni. She was the highest-ranking woman on his team and he had requested for her to be there. She was trained to deal with rape cases, abused children, any situation where a male presence might be a barrier to uncovering the truth. But that wasn’t why Phil wanted her. She had an intelligence and intuition that he had rarely encountered. And despite the ever-changing hair and the impish smile, she could be tougher tha
n the best when needed to be. Even tougher than him. For all of that, he could forgive the affected way she spelled her first name.

  ‘Yes, Anni?’

  ‘What about Julie Simpson?’

  Phil looked around, mentally trying to think through what must have happened. ‘If it’s all about…’ he gestured towards the bedroom, ‘then I’m afraid she was just wrong place, wrong time.’

  Anni nodded, as if he had confirmed her thoughts. Then frowned. ‘Shouldn’t we keep an open mind?’

  ‘Course.’ He felt the blood pumping once more, his internal clock telling him time was running out. ‘But…’

  ‘So was this party a baby shower, then?’ said Clayton.

  Anni looked at him. ‘You’d know about them, would you?’

  Clayton reddened. ‘My sister. She had one…’

  Despite the situation, Anni smiled.

  Phil cut their repartee short. ‘Right. Let’s think. So Claire Fielding was having a baby shower. If she, or her baby, was the one deliberately targeted, then whoever did this must have thought she was alone. Maybe they miscounted or something.’ He sighed, trying to control his heart rate. ‘But just in case it’s anything to do with Julie Simpson, get the Birdies to follow up on her. Talk to the husband. See if he knows who else was here.’

  The Birdies. DC Adrian Wren and DS Jane Gosling. Inevitable they got paired together. But no one was laughing about their names at the moment.

  ‘You think it’s about the baby, boss?’ Anni again. ‘He’s taken it, hasn’t he? Whoever did this.’

  ‘Like I said, not jumping to conclusions, it seems the likeliest explanation.’

  Anni looked into the bedroom once more. ‘D’you think it’s still alive?’

  Phil sighed. ‘Nick reckons it is, so we have to assume the same; bear that in mind.’

  ‘Until we find out otherwise,’ said Clayton.

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Dr Doom.’ Clayton had the potential to be an exceptional police detective, Phil knew. He had made no secret of his ambition, but despite what he thought and told people, he wasn’t the finished article yet. And sometimes his comments, as well as irritating Phil, betrayed the fact. ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘Putting aside how fucked up this is,’ said Anni, stepping between them, ‘I think there’s another possibility we should consider.’

  ‘That it’s him, you mean?’ said Clayton.

  Phil knew what they were both talking about, glanced round to see who was in earshot, bent in close to them. ‘Not here. You know what walls have got, and it’s not ice cream.’ He sighed, ordering his thoughts, willing his training to kick in, take over. He could still hear his heart beating, each beat signalling inactivity that took him further away from catching the perpetrator.

  ‘Right. A plan. Anni, chain of evidence. Accompany the bodies through the post-mortems. See what you can find there. Get Nick to prioritise. Don’t let him fob you off. I’m sure the budget for this one’ll get upgraded.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Now. Claire Fielding’s background. Who loved her, who hated her. Friends, family, work colleagues, the lot. Her boyfriend, Clayton, what was it? Brian…’

  ‘Ryan. Ryan Brotherton.’

  ‘Right. Let’s see what we can get on him, then you and me will pay him a visit. See what he has to say, where he was when he should have been here.’

  Clayton nodded.

  ‘Now-’

  Whatever Phil was about to say was cut short by the sharp ringing of a phone. Everyone stopped what they were doing, looked around at each other. An eerie stillness fell, disturbed only by the insistent sound. Like someone had just broken through at a seance. The living trying to contact the dead.

  Phil saw the phone in the living room and motioned to Anni. Whoever it was would be expecting a female voice. Anni crossed the room, picked it up. She hesitated, put it to her ear.

  ‘H-hello.’

  The whole room waited, watching Anni. She felt their stares, turned away from them.

  ‘Can I help you?’ She kept her voice calm and courteous.

  They waited. Anni listened. ‘Afraid not,’ she said eventually. ‘Who is this, please?… I see. Could I ask you to stay on the line, please?’

  She held the receiver to her chest, cupping it with her hand. She called Phil over. ‘All Saints Primary. Where Claire Fielding worked. They’re wondering why she hasn’t turned up for work.’ She mouthed the next words. ‘What should I tell them?’

  Phil didn’t like handing out death messages to work colleagues before close relatives had been informed.

  ‘Have they spoken to Julie Simpson’s husband yet?’

  ‘Don’t think so. He would have told them what was going on.’

  ‘Good. Tell them we’ll send someone round to talk to them this morning. But don’t say anything more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I think next of kin should know first.’

  Anni nodded, went back on the phone.

  Phil turned to Clayton, his voice lowered so it wouldn’t carry down the phone line. ‘Okay. Like I said, the Birdies can follow up on Julie Simpson. Now, the media’ll be here soon. Before we go, I’ll call Ben Fenwick. Get him down here to deal with them.’

  ‘King Cliché rides again,’ said Clayton.

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Phil, not irritated by this comment of Clayton’s, ‘but he’s good at that kind of stuff and they seem to like him. Plays well on screen. They’re going to be on our side with this one – at least for now – so we’ll sort out our approach in the meantime. And find out if Claire Fielding’s parents live in the area. Get someone over to talk to them.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we get the DCI to deliver the death message, boss? All PR to him.’

  ‘Yeah, but he might want to take along a camera crew. See who’s at the station. Get someone with a suitable rank to do it. Draw straws if you have to.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Clayton was writing everything down.

  Anni came off the phone. ‘We’d better get someone round there soon as. They’re not going to keep a lid on this for long. And it was a baby shower.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Lizzie, that’s Lizzie Stone who just phoned, knew Claire was having a get-together with friends last night. Mostly other teachers, I think.’

  ‘Right,’ said Phil, thinking on the spot. ‘Can’t remember who said this, but it’s true. My mind will change when the facts change. So. Anni, get the Birdies sorted. Adrian chain of evidence, Jane still sticks with what she was doing. You get yourself round to All Saints, take as many spare units as you can. Statements, the works. Separate them, don’t give them a chance to collude. I want to know exactly what happened at that party last night. Get Millhouse up and running as gatekeeper for the investigation back at base. And get him to give the computer system a pounding. We’re going to need extra bodies. DCI Fenwick’ll sanction that, I’m sure, because I want the Susie Evans and Lisa King cases re-examined with a fine-toothed comb. Any similarities, no matter how small, they get flagged and logged. And get uniforms to check CCTV for the whole area, inside these flats and out, registration plates, the lot. Everything referenced and cross-referenced. Right?’

  The other two nodded.

  ‘Any questions?’

  Neither had any. He looked at them both. They dealt in murder and violent crime and he had hand-picked them himself. There was mutual trust between them and he hoped that look he had caught earlier wasn’t going to undermine that. He examined their faces, saw only determination in their eyes. The need to catch a double killer and a possibly living child. None of them would be going home any time soon. Or going out. He felt a pang of guilt, wondered how that would go down. Could guess.

  He pushed the thought out of his mind. Deal with it later.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.’

  He strode out of the apartment as quickly as possible.

  5

  Phil stood outside the apartment
block, ripping apart the Velcro fastenings of his paper suit, hunting for his phone. He thought of Anni’s words once more: I mean, this is Colchester…

  Colchester. Last outpost of Essex before it became Suffolk. If heaven, as David Byrne once sang, was a place where nothing ever happened, then heaven and Colchester had a lot in common. But as Phil knew only too well, something, like nothing, could happen anywhere.

  He looked round. Claire Fielding’s flat was in Parkside Quarter, sandwiched between the river, the Dutch Quarter and Castle Park. The Dutch Quarter: all winding streets and alleyways of sixteenth-century and Edwardian houses stuck between the high street and the river. An urban village, the town’s self-appointed boho area, complete with cobblestones, corner pubs and even its own gay club. Parkside Quarter was a modern development of townhouses and apartment blocks, all faux wooden towers and shuttered windows, designed to fit sympathetically alongside the older buildings but just looking like a cheap toytown version of them.

  He was on a footpath by the river, where weeping willows shaded out the sun, leaving dappled shadows all around. It took joggers and baby-carriage-pushing mothers to and from Castle Park. On the opposite bank was a row of quaint old terraced cottages. Up the steps and beyond was North Station Road, the main link for commuters from the rail station to the town centre. It seemed so mundane, so normal. Safe. Happy.

  But today the Dutch Quarter would be silent. There would be no joggers or mothers along the footpath. Already white-suited officers were on their hands and knees beginning a search of the area. He looked down at the ground. He hoped their gloves were strong. Discarded Special Brew cans, plastic cider bottles were dotted around on the ground like abstract sculptures. The odd used condom. Fewer needles than there used to be but, he knew, no less drug-taking.

  He looked up to the bridge, saw others peering from their safe, happy world into his. Commuters carrying cappuccinos, mobiles and newspapers on their way up the hill were stopping to stare down, the blue and white crime-scene tape attracting their attention like ghoulish magpies dazzled by silver.