Tania Carver: The Surrogate

The first book in the Detective Inspector Philip Brennan series, 2009

Thanks go to David Shelley, Thalia Proctor and everyone at Little, Brown who worked so hard on this book and to Jane Gregory, Stephanie Glencross, Claire Morris, Jemma McDonagh, Tess Barun and Terry Bland at Gregory and Company. Very special thanks to Ildiko Olah and Chris Bews for the research and red wine. All the solid facts were theirs, all the liberties taken were mine. And to those who can’t be thanked by name – thank you. You know why.

There was a knock at the door.

Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson looked at each other, surprised. Claire started to rise.

‘You stay there,’ said Julie. ‘I’ll get it.’ She stood up from the sofa, crossed the living room. ‘Probably Geraint, forgot something. Again.’

Claire smiled. ‘Changed his mind about lending me his Desperate Housewives DVD.’

Julie laughed, left the room. Claire shifted a little to get comfortable, sat back and smiled. Looked around, taking in the presents on the coffee table. Babygros and clothes. Parenting books. Soft toys. And the cards. Claire had thought it would be bad luck to open them before the birth but the others had insisted so she had given in, her doubts soon forgotten.

She moved from side to side, tried to find a soft spot on the sofa, allow the springs to reach an accommodation with her huge, distended stomach. She patted the bulge. Smiled. Not much longer. She leaned forward, grunting with the effort, and picked up her glass of fizzy fruit drink. Took a mouthful, replaced the glass. Then a mini onion bhaji. She had heard such horror stories of women who couldn’t eat anything during pregnancy and were constantly sick. Not Claire. She was lucky. Probably too lucky. She patted her stomach, hoping it was all baby, knowing it wasn’t. She wished she could be like one of those celebs like Posh or Angelina Jolie who got their figure back in about four days after having kids. They claimed it was all diet and exercise but she knew it must be surgery. Real life wasn’t like that for Claire and she knew she would have to work at it. Still. That was the future. She would get her body back, then start a new life. Just her and her child.

She was no longer anxious or depressed. Tearful or bereft. That was all in the past and finished with, like those things had happened to someone else. It had been painful, yes, but it was worth it. So, so worth it.

Claire smiled. She might have felt happier in her life but she couldn’t remember when. She certainly had not felt as happy as this for a long, long time.

Then she heard sounds from the hallway.

‘Julie?’

Thumping on the walls and floor, bangs and scuffles. It sounded like someone was playing football or wrestling. Or fighting.

A shiver ran through Claire. Oh no. God no. Not him, not now …

‘Julie…’

Claire’s voice was more frantic this time, unable to hide the alarm at what she was hearing, who she imagined was responsible for the noise.

A final thump, then silence.

‘Julie?’

No reply.

With great difficulty Claire managed to pull herself upright from the sofa. The speed with which she got up left her feeling slightly light-headed. She picked up her mobile from the coffee table, left the room and stepped into the hallway. She had a good idea of who to expect there and was ready to call for help. Even the police if needs be. Anything to get rid of him.

She turned the corner. And stopped dead, her mouth open. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t the scene before her. No way could she have expected that. It was horrific. Too horrific for her mind to process. She couldn’t take in what had happened.

Her eyes dropped to the floor and she saw Julie. Or what was left of her.

‘Oh God…’

Then she saw the figure standing over her best friend and she began to understand. She knew that her own, ordinary life had stopped with the knock on the door. She was living through something else now. A horror film, perhaps. A nightmare.

The figure saw her. Smiled.

Claire saw the blade. Shining under the hallway light, blood dripping on to the carpet. She tried to run but her legs wouldn’t work. She tried to scream but couldn’t send the right signals from her brain to her mouth. She just dropped her mobile. Stood there, unable to move.

Then the figure was on her.

One punch and everything went black.

Claire opened her eyes, tried to sit up. But she couldn’t move. Her arms, hands, back, nothing. Her eyes closed again. Even her eyelids felt heavy. Very heavy. She tried once more to force them apart, managed. But it was a struggle just to keep them open.

She could only look upwards. Not even from side to side. She recognised the ceiling of her bedroom. The overhead light was on, blinding her. She tried to blink the light away but her heavy eyelids remained closed. She instinctively knew that wasn’t good, so she forced them open, light or no light.

She tried to make out what was happening. A shadow was moving on the ceiling, large and looming, like something from an old black and white horror movie. Doing something out of her line of vision.

Claire remembered what had happened. The figure in the hall, the attack. And Julie. Julie …

She opened her mouth, tried to scream. No sound at all came out. A wave of panic passed through her. She had been paralysed in some way. Drugged. She felt her eyes close again. Forced them open once more. It was a struggle, the biggest of her life, but she couldn’t allow them to close. She knew now that if she did, she would be dead.

She tried to move her lips, make sounds, call for help. Nothing. No matter how loudly she screamed in her head – and it felt like she was screaming all the time now – all that trickled out of her mouth was a puppy-like whimper.

She saw the shadow on the ceiling move closer to her.

No, don’t … get off me, get away from me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me …

Useless. Just made her head hurt, her inner ear trill.

Claire felt her eyelids being pulled down again, fought to push them up. It was getting harder each time. As was breathing, her lungs slowing with each poisoned breath she took. Panic and fear only helped her heart to speed-pump the crippling drug round her body. She knew she didn’t have long.

Somebody help … please … just break down the door, help …

The shadow of the figure now loomed above her, blocking out the overhead light. Claire felt confusion on top of fear and panic: who were they? Why were they doing this?

Then she saw the scalpel. And she knew.

Not my baby … please, not my baby …

The figure bent over her, light glinting along the scalpel’s razor-edged blade.

No … help me, oh God, help me …

Began to cut.

Claire felt nothing. Saw only the intruder’s grotesque shadow thrown across the ceiling, the light exaggerating the sawing motion of the arm.

God, no, please … please someone, help me, help me, no …

Eventually the figure straightened up. Stood over Claire. Smiled. Something in its hand, red and dripping.

No …

Another smile and the red, dripping thing was taken from her sight. Claire couldn’t scream or move. She couldn’t even cry.