Tania Carver - The Surrogate

‘Well perhaps he killed her accidentally,’ said Fenwick.

‘And what about the other three murders?’ said Marina. ‘Did he accidentally commit them too?’

Fenwick stared at her. Phil stepped forward, ready to physically remove the senior officer if necessary. Or to get in his way if he made a move on Marina.

Instead Fenwick managed another smile. ‘We’ll ask him when we bring him in.’

‘He’s speeding up. The time in between murders is getting shorter.’

‘All the more reason to get a move on, then.’

Marina moved over to Fenwick, stared him right in the eyes. Fenwick flinched but remained where he was. ‘So if there’s another murder while you’ve got Brotherton in here, that’s all right is it? You’ll take responsibility for that?’

‘Psychology’s one thing, Marina,’ Fenwick said, his voice as patronising as possible, ‘physical evidence is another. Get him.’

He turned and left.

The silence that followed was louder than their arguing.

‘And while that’s happening,’ said Marina, her voice thrown into the silence like a rock down an abyss, ‘the killer’s still out there.’

Her voice died away but it was clear her anger remained. All eyes turned from her to Phil. He was aware of their stares, knew he had to do something. Regain charge.

‘Let’s bring Brotherton in,’ he said.

Marina turned to him. ‘But Phil…’

‘We’ve no choice. We’ve got reservations, but we’ve got nothing else at the moment. We bring him in.’

Marina turned away from him.

‘But I want you working on him with me, Marina. If it’s not him, I want him eliminated as soon as possible.’

Her back still to him, she nodded.

Phil sighed. Ignored the band round his chest. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go get him.’

Hester looked round the house, pleased with what she saw.

She had tidied away the tools, hung the scythes on their wall hooks by the double doors, polishing and oiling their blades before doing so to keep them keen. She had then swept the living area and put the old tin bath central to the room so it was the first thing the baby saw when it entered its new home. She had done the dishes and tidied the kitchen area too. She had even got up on the ladders and restapled the black plastic sheeting over the rotten wood around the front corner of the house, to stop the wind and rain from getting in. Everything was in readiness.

She sat down on one of the old armchairs.

‘A woman’s work is never done,’ she said, smiling to herself.

Everything was going to be fine. Her husband would be out soon, finding the next surrogate. Then he would bring her new baby back home. She giggled. Wasn’t that a song? Sounded like a song. If it wasn’t, it should be.

She put her hands in her lap. She didn’t think about the baby that had died. Didn’t allow herself to. It was buried now, out in the garden beside the pigs. She hadn’t marked the grave. Didn’t want anything to remind her. That was the past. And it didn’t pay to dwell on the past. She knew that from bitter experience. Every time she started to think of the past, she started to feel sad. If she thought about the dead baby she might feel sad for it too. And once she started to feel sad for that, who knows what she would start thinking about next? Herself before the… before she became who she was; her sister…

Her sister. She tried not to think about her sister. Ever. She still missed her. They used to be close. But she was gone now. Long gone.

Hester stood up, knocked her fists against her temples to clear her mind, to stop her thoughts from wandering down that path again. Grunted with each punch. She needed to do something to take her mind off… off… off that.

She opened the side door, went outside into the yard. It was as she had left it. The axe lay next to the chopping block. Wood was piled by the side of the house, a tarpaulin stretched over it. Rusting engine and body parts from several old cars sat on the hard red earth, flaking away. Two old fridges, a magazine rack, a waterlogged sofa, some plastic crates, a pile of bricks. Scavenged items to be cannibalised and put to use. In their wired enclosure at the side by the fields, the chickens pecked. Further along, fenced off from the yard, were the pigs. She breathed deep, the scents mingling in her lungs. That was what home smelled like.

The day was cold and sharp, the wind like a shower of ice needles against her face. She stood at the back of the house, looked across the river. She saw the familiar sights of the port where the ships came from Europe and disgorged their cargo. Huge they were, the containers. She didn’t know what was in them, had never given it a thought. Just watched them pull in, unload, pull out again. Back home to another country. Hester had never been to another country. She had never even been across to the port. Anywhere that wasn’t her home was like a foreign land. But then a woman’s place was in the home. It was her husband who went out and about.

She looked across the beach. The tide had gone out, leaving stones, mud and moss along the waterline. Small boats were left anchored and landlocked in the silt, their chains dripping seaweed and debris, their hulls mildewed and algaed.

Hester knew the beach. Knew where it was safe to walk, knew the spots where you could be pulled under. She had seen it happen. Someone walking a dog, throwing a stick. The dog, too fat, too slow, had run too far out, wouldn’t listen. The mud and sand and water got hold of it, wouldn’t let it go. By the time its owner turned up, there was nothing left of it. Hardly a mark to show it had ever been there. Just a muddy stick lying on the ground.

The beach had secrets. And it held them. Hester liked that. Because she had secrets too. And she knew how to hold on to them.

The houses that edged the marsh grass and sand looked sad and lonely. Made of wood and built on stilts, they looked like they had been left stranded when the tide went out. Like it had promised to come back for them but never had. So they stayed there, gently rotting.

Along from the beach houses, reached by a muddy dirt track, was the small caravan park. The vans were stationary, unchanged for at least the last thirty years. There had been houses there before, big old ones, but they had been knocked down, their foundations and outlines still visible where the grass had grown over them. Hester hadn’t seen many people come to the park, whatever time of year it was.

The beach was bleak. And depressing. In weather like this it was windswept and cold. But to Hester it was home. The only home she had ever known. Ever would know.

She started to feel the cold then, creeping into her bones. She didn’t mind it that much, was used to it really. But she still went back inside.

Because there was something she had to do. Before her husband appeared, before the baby arrived. Something she had to do alone.

She closed the door behind her and crossed to the stairs.

Unbuttoning her clothes as she went.

The rain had started while they were on the A120 on the way to Braintree. Freezing and pounding. Phil was pleased to be in the car and not doing door-to-door legwork like the uniforms were still engaged in. That was something. Next to him, Clayton was unusually quiet. Phil didn’t think anything of it. He had enough to worry about. He didn’t even play any music.

‘D’you think,’ said Clayton as they approached the Braintree roundabout, ‘that what Marina said was right?’

‘What about?’

‘What Brotherton did to Claire Fielding, he’s been doin’ that to Sophie?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Phil. ‘Might not have started yet. But she works for him and lives with him, so it sounds like he’s well on the way.’ He turned, looked at Clayton. ‘Why are you so bothered?’