The Surrogate

over again, like a mantra of guilt, asked him to confess, shouted at him to confess, even tried to cajole him into confessing. But he’d got nowhere. Nothing. Not because Brotherton couldn’t be broken down, but because, as Marina knew, he wasn’t guilty.

Eventually Phil had given up, terminated the interview. She hadn’t seen him since. Nor, for that matter, had she seen Fenwick, Anni, any of them. They had all gone straight down the hall once Phil had emerged from the interview room. She didn’t know whether she was supposed to follow them, but none of them had looked back, made any attempt to include her. So, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, she had come to the canteen, planned what to do next.

Go home, she thought. Get back to her day job, back to her life. Just have her baby, build up her private practice, live happily ever after with Tony and never work with the police again. Fenwick had made it quite clear that her expertise wasn’t appreciated and her points weren’t going to be listened to. So why didn’t she just go home? She already had a career. She didn’t need to do this. Leave them to get on with it, sort it out themselves. Forget them. All of them, even Phil.

As soon as the thought was formed, she felt a deep stab of discomfort and instinctively put her hand over her swelling belly. The baby seemed to be registering displeasure at something. Probably the coffee, she thought. Or maybe something more. Like it was reminding her that there was more at stake than the careers and reputations of a few police officers. Dead babies and their mothers. Giving them a voice. Jesus Christ, she said to herself, I must be getting superstitious. Not to mention simple- minded. She moved around in her seat, tried to find a comfortable position to sit in. Couldn’t. She took another mouthful of warm brown liquid, began to pack her notebook away.

So engrossed was she in doing so that she wasn’t aware of another person at her side until he spoke.

‘May I join you?’

She looked up. Ben Fenwick was standing there. She wouldn’t have recognised him from the contrite voice. But it matched the general state of him. He seemed to be disintegrating before her eyes. She hadn’t paid his appearance that much attention in the dark of the observation room, but she looked at him now. The smug political air that he usually affected had now unravelled and dissolved as the pressure of the case increased. He needed a shave, his hair was messed up, and so was his suit. His tie was askew and there were dark half-circles beneath his eyes. She hadn’t noticed it at his press conferences; maybe he saved his grooming for then. Perhaps, she thought, this was what actors looked like when the camera wasn’t on them. She thought again of the seminar she would have been delivering had she still been teaching: Chimerical Masks and Dissociation in the Perception of the Self. How true, she thought.

‘Feel free,’ she said, still packing her bag. ‘I was just leaving. ’

‘Where to?’

‘Off.’

‘Where?’

‘Back to work.’

He nodded. ‘You mean leaving us? For good?’

She stopped what she was doing, looked at him. ‘Why not? I don’t get paid enough to put up with the abuse you give me. To say you haven’t valued my professional opinion or input barely covers it. You’ve belittled and derided anything I’ve said. And in front of the whole team as well.’ She felt her voice rising again, knew that people were starting to stare. She didn’t care.

‘Well, I…’

She didn’t want to let up. Time for some home truths, she thought. ‘You ask me what I think, and when I tell you you ignore it because it doesn’t fit in with what you want to believe. And now you’ve got an innocent man sitting in an interview room-’

‘He’s hardly innocent.’

She felt her face reddening, her anger deepening. She kept her voice down but focused. ‘Innocent of the crime you want him to be guilty of. Well, good luck.’ She stood up, swung her bag on to her shoulder. ‘I’ll invoice you.’

‘Wait.’ He placed a hand on her arm. She stopped, looked down at him. There was more than contrition in his eyes. There was also a desperate hope. The kind a shipwrecked man has when clinging to a piece of wreckage. ‘Please. Sit down again. Don’t go yet. Let’s talk first. Please.’

Marina knew what she should have done. Just shaken off his grip, walked out of there. But she didn’t. Instead she took the bag from her shoulder and, anger barely abating, resumed her seat. She said nothing, sitting upright, waiting for him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She waited, still said nothing. Made him work. Knew there would be more.

There was. ‘I was… I was wrong.’ He sighed. ‘Yes. I was wrong. And I admit it. I was wrong to ignore your findings. And I was certainly wrong to speak to you like that in front of everyone at the briefing. That was unforgivable. I was… out of order.’

‘You were.’

He nodded. ‘And I’m sorry.’ Another sigh. His shoulders drooped as the air left his body, like he was deflating. ‘I’m very sorry.’ He rubbed his eyes, his face. ‘But we just… We need a result on this one. A quick result. It feels like… the eyes of the world are upon us.’

Despite the situation, Marina stifled a smile. King Cliche rides again, she thought.

‘So that excuses it. Your behaviour towards me, your grasping at straws…’

‘It wasn’t grasping. It was good, solid police work.’

‘It just wasn’t the right man.’

Fenwick sighed. ‘We need to find him. It’s as simple as that. We need to find him. And I thought we had him.’ He balled his hands into fists as he spoke. ‘I wanted, really wanted to believe we had him…’ He let the fists go. ‘But we didn’t. And I think that maybe, deep down, I knew it.’ Another sigh. ‘So I’m sorry. I’m afraid you were just a casualty of… that.’

Marina nodded, her anger ebbing slightly. Not that she would let him see that, though. ‘They say that when you’re under stress your true character is revealed,’ she said.

He offered a weak smile. ‘Then I’m a twat. And an obnoxious one at that.’

She couldn’t return the smile. ‘You’ll hear no argument from me.’

‘True.’ He put his hands on the table, reaching out to her. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is that we need you. This investigation needs you.Your input is invaluable. If we are to catch whoever has done this, then I think we need to drastically alter our approach.’

‘In what way?’

‘My approach hasn’t worked. So I want you and your expertise central to the investigation from now on. I want us to be guided by your experience.’

Marina raised an eyebrow.

‘Yes, I know, I know. You should have been central from the start. I said you would be and didn’t carry it through. I got anxious. What with everything going on… I’m sorry.’

‘So you said.’

‘So.’ He rubbed his hands together, gave her another smile. ‘Are you still on board? We need you. Please.’

She looked at him. His smile was thinly stretched, papering over the doubt, anxiety and guilt on his face. Marina’s first response was to tell him where to get off, and walk; her second to make him suffer a while longer for her answer. But her third was the direct one, the honest one. The one that reminded her of the photos of the murdered women on the board in the incident room. The before and after shots. She felt for the child inside her once more, her arm going instinctively, protectively round her stomach.

‘Yes, Ben. I’m still on board. But not for you.’

His smile was genuine this time. Relieved. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I’m-’

‘But you keep your word. I am not here as an optional extra. Got it?’

He held up his hands. ‘Got it.’

He was about to say something further, but the sudden appearance of Phil at the table stopped him. Phil was breathless, wired. His brow furrowed, his body tense. Marina sensed what he was going to say before he said it.