Tania Carver - The Surrogate

Phil felt himself getting angry and knew that wouldn’t help. He had to channel it, make it work for him. He leaned in to her. ‘Then make me understand, Sophie. Tell me.’

Nothing.

‘Look,’ he said, trying not to give in to his anger, ‘Clayton Thompson had a family. A mother. Two sisters. I’ve lost a friend and a colleague. They’ve lost a son, a brother. How d’you think they feel? Hmm? How d’you think they feel about what you’ve done to him? To one of their own family?’

Sophie reacted. The word ‘family’ did it. She sat back, recoiling as if she had been slapped. Phil saw the advantage, pressed on.

‘Yeah, Sophie, his family. They’ve lost him. Because of you. How would that make you feel? Have you got a family?’

And then she laughed. It was a dry, rattling sound, matching her grin. ‘Yeah,’ she said, the words drawling out of her. ‘I’ve got a family.’

‘And how d’you think they’d feel if they knew what you were doing?’

She gave another laugh. ‘You really have no idea, do you?’ she said.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘The family. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’

‘What d’you mean? Tell me.’

‘Family. Family ties. Blood. Thicker than water. Stronger than…’ Her eyes fixed his. ‘That’s right. Isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ Phil didn’t know what she meant, though he knew it wasn’t good. But there was something in those words that struck him. On impulse he took out the piece of paper Anni had handed him before coming into the room. Turned it round, slid it across the table.

‘Would this be a member of your family, then?’

Sophie looked at the paper. It was a photo of the man seen entering and leaving Claire Fielding’s apartment on the night of her murder. She glanced up quickly.

Phil caught the expression on her face. Tried to keep the emotion out of his. Because he had her.

Tony Scott stared at the page, read the line again. And again. He sighed, stretched. No good. He just wasn’t taking this book in.

He put it down on the side table beside the armchair, open at the place he had left it, where it lay, pages curling outwards and upwards, like a cumbersome bird unable to take flight. He gave a small smile of enjoyment as he picked up his glass of wine. The perfect simile for a book he was unable to get into. He should write that down.

He took a mouthful of wine, replaced the glass. Stretched out in his chair, Ray LaMontagne playing in the background. Tony was the first to admit he didn’t like much pop music, but this guy had it sussed.

He checked his watch. Almost six. Marina had phoned, said she was finished, on her way home. He had scanned her voice for hints as to her emotional state but found nothing in particular that gave her away. She sounded tired, distracted even. But Tony was sure the work was to blame for that. And the baby. One must be putting a strain on the other. That would be it.

He took another mouthful of wine, thought of picking up the book once more. Looked at it, thought better of it. He had heard so much about it that he’d felt sure he would enjoy it, but that clearly wasn’t the case. But then, he thought, taking yet another sip of wine, perhaps it wasn’t the book. Perhaps it was him.

Marina had stayed out last night. That thought wouldn’t dislodge itself from his mind. He had thought things were getting better between them. They had hit a bit of a rough patch around the time of Martin Fletcher. That was understandable. Then there was the pregnancy, and her desire to leave the university. A decision he was completely behind. But now she was working for the police again.

On the last job she had been fired up, talking about the case all the time when she came home. One name in particular kept cropping up in her conversation: Phil. The CIO on the case, she told him, proud of the new phrase she had picked up. For a couple of weeks it was Phil this, Phil that, so much so that if Tony hadn’t known better, he would have assumed she was having an affair. But he knew she wouldn’t. Not Marina. Well, maybe he didn’t actually know, but he felt pretty certain.

But then came the business with Martin Fletcher, and everything changed. Only to be expected. She’d nearly died. And he had been there for her, comforting, offering words – and gestures – of support. Consoling her. She had responded. And everything had been fine.

Until she’d stayed out again last night.

The track finished and another one came one. It sounded the same to Tony, but then that was why he liked the album. Well-crafted tunes, not much variation, but solid and dependable.You knew what you were getting. Qualities that, if he was honest, he admired.

He checked his watch again. It shouldn’t be long now until she was home. He hadn’t cooked; he was going to take her out for dinner. To celebrate her finishing the job and just to show how much he loved her. He hoped she would appreciate it.

He picked up the book, took another mouthful of wine. He waited, drinking, unable to concentrate on the book, listening to safe music in his small house. Yeah. He sighed. That was him. His world and everything in it.

A knock on the door stopped any further thoughts. Tony stood up, the book still in his hand, crossed to it.

Must be Marina, he thought.

Another knock. Harder this time, more insistent.

‘Coming,’ he called. Maybe it wasn’t her. Jehovah’s Witnesses, probably, he thought irritably. No one else called round. Most of their friends they met in bars or restaurants or at their homes. Shame he had called out, though. If it was Jehovah’s Witnesses he could have pretended he wasn’t in. Avoided any potential confrontation.

‘Marina?’ he called. ‘Is that you?’

No reply. Just another knock.

Tony sighed, opened the door. Ready for whoever was there. Frowned. Didn’t know this person but didn’t like the look of them.

Then the hammer appeared.

His book fell to the floor.

And before he could speak – before he could even think – his world, and everything in it, went black.

‘ You know him, don’t you, Sophie?’ Phil tapped the photo. ‘You know who this is.’

Sophie said nothing. Just moved her body slowly back from the table. Eyes on the photo all the time.

‘Good likeness? Yeah?’

Again, nothing. Phil could see that she was thinking. Deciding what to say next. What he most wanted to hear. What would help her most.

‘So,’ he said. He leaned forward, looked at the photo with her. They had done the best they could with it, but it was still blurred, impossible to make out sharp features. But Sophie knew who it was. That was enough. ‘What relation is he to you?’

She sat back, unmoving. The overhead lights shadowed the hollows of her eyes, made them appear as empty sockets in a skull.

‘Brother? Husband? Father?’

She closed her eyes as he said the words so Phil couldn’t read her response. He pressed on. ‘One of them, is it? Which one, then? Which member of your family killed Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson? Not to mention Lisa King, Susie Evans and Caroline Eades. Come on, Sophie, tell me.’

Again Sophie said nothing, and again Phil was aware of the calculation behind her eyes. But they held something more than that. He had seen it before. Madness. And something else. Damage. He could guess which one came first.

He kept his voice low, steady. As unemotional as possible, despite the subject matter, despite the adrenalin that was pumping round his system. ‘So, this member of your family, he’s stealing babies. To keep the family going, is that it? And you’ve been setting up his victims.’