Tania Carver - The Surrogate

‘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.

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.’