The Surrogate

‘What business is that of yours?’ she said, her face finding animation at last.

‘This is a murder inquiry; answer the question, please.’

‘Watching a DVD. Bottle of wine, takeaway.’

‘What film?’

‘What?’ she said.

‘What film were you watching?’ Phil said again.

‘We… had a couple,’ Brotherton said.

‘What were they?’ Clayton’s voice was calm and emotionless.

‘Something… something Sophie wanted and… and something I wanted.’ Brotherton looked at her again, willing her to speak.

‘Which was?’ Phil’s voice was also flat and emotionless. A question machine.

‘Atonement,’ said Sophie.

‘No Country for Old Men,’ said Brotherton.

‘Is that out on DVD yet?’ said Clayton.

‘Got a pirate.’

Phil allowed himself a small smile. ‘Want us to do you for that as well?’

‘Look, just… fuck off. You’ve got what you wanted, we’ve told you what we were doin’. You’ve got your information, just… leave. Now. I’ve got a business to run.’ Brotherton was talking himself into confidence again. ‘And you’re bad for it.’

Phil and Clayton exchanged another look, the purpose of which was to rattle Brotherton and Sophie even more than their questioning had. Leaving them with that, they made their way to the door.

Phil stepped through first, Clayton following. As he came abreast of Brotherton, he turned.

‘What did you think of Romola Garai?’

‘What?’ he said, startled.

‘Briony,’ he said.

Brotherton’s face was blank. He looked to Sophie for help, but she was as lost as he was.

‘Romola Garai,’ Clayton continued. ‘She played the adult Briony. The lead character in Atonement.’ He smiled. ‘Thought you might have remembered that. I mean, you only saw it last night.’

He left, following Phil across the yard to the car.

‘That’s my boy,’ said Phil when Clayton caught up with him.

‘Thank you, boss. Everythin’ I learned, I learned from you.’

‘You like Atonement, did you?’

Clayton smiled. ‘Never seen it. Saw some pictures of that Romola Garai in Nuts. Thought she looked hot. Remembered what film she was in.’

Phil’s turn to smile. ‘So there is some value in those magazines after all.’

They reached the Audi, got back in.

‘So what d’you think, boss? Dirty?’

‘Hard to say. Something’s not right. He’s big enough to do it and he’s got previous. And from the way he responded, there seemed to be some unfinished business between him and Claire Fielding.’

‘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.

11

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 Cliche, 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