Tania Carver: The Surrogate

Then it was a question of mopping up, sorting out.

After having his nose patched up, he had gone back to the station, Anni alongside him, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.

‘So Hester’s husband was real after all,’ said Anni, sinking exhausted into her office chair.

Phil nodded. ‘Sophie played us.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Protecting her father?’

‘After all that?’

‘Who knows? Maybe she still loved him.’

‘Or maybe she just lied.’

‘They all lie to us. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. Something I said to Clayton…’ He sighed, his eyes moist. ‘Christ. What a mess…’

The media spotlight was intense. Phil kept out of the way as much as possible, leaving it to Fenwick to deal with. After that, things moved quickly.

Laurence Croft was pulled out of the cellar. Dead. Phil knew there would be an inquiry, but it was strongly intimated that no charges would be brought against either him or Marina. If anything, he would receive a commendation.

Hester was taken to a secure hospital and placed under psychiatric supervision. Phil believed it was only a matter of time before he – he couldn’t think of him as she – was declared insane. The baby was doing well and would soon be released to her father. Phil hoped that Graeme Eades would be able to cope.

Brotherton was going to stand trial for attempted murder. And Sophie Gale/Croft had been formally charged with murder.

Which led Phil to recall Clayton’s funeral.

That was the toughest part of all. It was held at the Colchester Baptist Church in Eld Lane, right in the middle of town. The Georgian building looked out of place sitting alongside the eighties red-brick shopping arcade that took up most of the town centre.

As Phil stood inside, holding on to the curved wood of the pew in front, he was struck by how small the coffin looked next to the huge organ pipes behind it. How insignificant.

The minister was talking about man having but a short time to live, and Phil knew that everyone in the church was well aware that Clayton’s had been shorter than most. Twenty-nine years. He was also aware of the divide between Clayton’s family and his work colleagues. He had been asked to say something as part of the service but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.Too much pain, too much guilt. Had asked Fenwick to do it instead.

The minister went on to talk of the gift of hope. Phil had looked around the congregation. Clayton’s mother and sisters looked shell-shocked. Even Anni was in tears. He didn’t think there were many there sharing that gift.

Afterwards, walking out, Fenwick had approached him.

‘There’s a reception back at the family home. We’ve been invited.’

Phil nodded. ‘You go,’ he said.

‘I think they’d like it if you were there.’

‘You go, Ben.’

Fenwick nodded. Didn’t move. There was something else he wanted to say. Phil waited.

‘You know, it might all come out. About… Clayton. At Sophie Gale’s trial.’

‘I know.’

‘I mean, I’ll do what I can, but…’

‘I know you will.’ Phil looked across to the other mourners leaving the church, Clayton’s mother having to be helped. ‘Do what you can, Ben.’

He walked away.

He had tried to contact Marina, but couldn’t get through to her. She wasn’t at work and she certainly wasn’t at home. She had been told by her doctor to take some time off. She needed rest if the baby wasn’t to suffer. Their baby, Phil thought. No one knew where she was.

Tony Scott had survived the attack, but his head injuries had left him in a coma. Phil knew, from questioning the nurses, that Marina had been at his bedside.

He kept his regular Sunday dinner dates with Don and Eileen.

The first time was the worst. Eileen made an excellent roast, and the smell of it, the taste of it, was something Phil had always associated with comfort, safety. But not that time. Sitting round the table and dutifully eating, he found he couldn’t smell it, couldn’t taste it. Couldn’t appreciate or savour it.

Don had been a career policeman. He knew what Phil was going through. Or thought he did. They knew about Clayton, Hester, Croft and the rest of the case. But not about Marina. They didn’t ask him about it, but he knew that if he wanted to talk, they were there to listen. And if he didn’t want to say anything, they were there for that too.

He put his knife and fork down, pushed his plate away, murmuring apologetically.

Eileen nodded, said nothing.

Phil didn’t move. Barely realised he was crying.

Eileen placed her hand on his. Don was there.

They sat like that for a long time.

So now Phil sat alone in his house. Drinking beer, listening to music.

He looked again at the letter, took another mouthful of beer, draining the bottle. He put the bottle down, picked up the letter. Began to read.

Dear Phil,

I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I know what you must think of me. But I had no choice. Sorry. I’ve got things to sort out in my head. Big things. It’s not just you. I thought after Martin Fletcher that things would never get that bad again. I was wrong. Though you were there for me this time. Eventually.

You know this baby is ours. I know you do. And maybe we should both be there together for it. For him. Or her. I don’t know. And then there’s Tony. I feel guilty over what happened to him. I feel in some way responsible. Whatever was happening between him and me or you and me. I’ve got to honour him too.

I know this is rambling and my thoughts aren’t articulated very well, but that’s how I feel at the moment. All messed up. I need time to think. Sort things out. I hope you’ll give me that.

And I hope you know that I love you. Whatever happens, I love you.

Marina x

Phil put down the letter, picked up his beer bottle. Empty. He got up, went to the fridge for another one. Marina’s words going through his head all the time. Guy Garvey was singing about it looking like a beautiful day; Phil was a long way from agreeing. The words of the minister at Clayton’s funeral kept coming back to him too. The gift of hope.

He took another beer out, came back to the living room, sat back down. Started drinking.

Thought about how a gift could be a curse.

And then came a ring at the door.

Phil ignored it.

It came again, more insistent this time.

Sighing in irritation, he put his bottle down and went to the door. Opened it.

And there stood Marina.

She looked at him, gave a tentative smile.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey yourself.’

Phil opened the door fully, stepped out of the way. She walked into the hall, went straight to the living room. He followed her.

He entered the room, saw her standing there. He was unsure what to do, how to talk to her. Then he looked into her eyes. Saw what was there. And there was no uncertainty any more.

He crossed the room, put his arms round her. Held her as tightly as he could.

Guy Garvey was still singing about it being a beautiful day.

This time, Phil had to agree.