who that was. But sometimes it was the other way round: things that were supposed to be serious she laughed at. Things that were supposed to be funny she found serious. But the singers and dancers she still didn’t get, still didn’t know what was supposed to be good or bad.
She was watching the news. She had started watching it when her first baby arrived. And got hooked. Photos of happy women on the screen would cut to a reporter standing in front of a crime scene. She knew it was a crime scene because the police were always there. And the reporter said so, in a voice that didn’t smile.
Hester knew better. They weren’t crime scenes. Birthing rooms, her husband called them. Where the surrogates –
She expected to see the same policeman again. The tall, smooth-looking one, with his good suit and his neat hair. Handsome, she thought, in a way. Then felt guilty at the thought: there should be no other man for her but her husband. She never listened to his words, just watched the shape of his mouth as he spoke. It had lines at the sides, tense little lines that seemed to be increasing every time she saw him. She smiled. It was becoming a familiar little ritual. Comforting, in its way.
But this time was different. He wasn’t there. Hester stopped smiling. She didn’t want that. Instead there was this black girl with a harsh voice that Hester instinctively didn’t like, and someone with her. Another woman. Young, attractive. The black girl stood back and let her speak. Hester felt anger build within her. Who was this woman? What did she want? Where was the smooth policeman with the nice voice? She was talking, leaning forward and saying something serious. Hester was too angry to listen to the words.
But the woman kept going, talking and looking. And Hester felt she was looking right at her.
‘What are you lookin’ at?’ she shouted.
At the other end of the room, the baby made a noise.
Hester didn’t care. She felt uncomfortable with the woman staring right at her. ‘Why are you lookin’ at me?’ Her voice was louder. The baby moaned, thrashed.
Hester wasn’t stupid. She knew the woman wasn’t really looking through the TV at her. She knew they couldn’t do that. Or thought they couldn’t. But it still didn’t feel good. She tried to calm down, listen to what the woman was saying. Maybe when she did that, when she heard the words, she could get the woman out of her head.
‘… implore you. Please. If you have this baby or if you think you know the person who does, then get in touch with us. We urgently need to talk to you. We have professional care waiting. Please. We just need to talk to you.’
The woman’s face got even more serious. Like she was saying something and she desperately wanted to be believed. Like when Hester told a lie and knew it was a lie but knew it would be worse to admit it.
‘Please.’ The woman hardly blinked. ‘For the baby’s sake. For your sake. You must be hurting. Please. Come forward. And let us help you.’
Then it went back to the reporter.
Hester thought she would be feeling anger at the woman’s words. But she didn’t know what she felt. It was like the anger she had expected to feel was in there but was getting churned around with some other stuff that she didn’t know the name of so that it wouldn’t come out properly. In fact, the other stuff felt like it was going to come out more. She didn’t know what it was but she didn’t like it. It made her feel sad. And that wasn’t good.
So not knowing what to do and wanting to get rid of the feeling, she screamed at the TV. And kept on screaming.
The baby woke up. Hester felt it all in her head, couldn’t tell who was screaming the most. Eventually she stopped, leaving just the sound of the baby. Hester was breathing hard, like she had just been for a long run or worked outside in the yard. And the baby was still screaming.
The baby kept crying.
The woman had gone from the TV and the news was on to something else. Hester got up, went to the baby, picked it up, looked at it. Feeling not anger or love but other things. Like when the woman had been talking. Things she didn’t know the name of. Things she hated the feel of.
She sighed, knew what her job was. What her job would be.
To find ways to stop the baby crying.
56
Phil sat on the sofa, Marina next to him. In front of them sat Erin O’Connor.
Phil could see why a man like Graeme Eades would fall for her. She sat curled in an armchair, her legs tucked underneath her, long-stemmed glass of white wine in her hand. Her body was as warm-looking and inviting as her eyes were not. Like twin adding machines. But Phil doubted Graeme Eades had looked at her eyes much. Mid- twenties, he guessed, her long dark hair pulled back, wearing pink velour jogging bottoms and matching hoodie with a tight white T-shirt underneath. The tracksuit said she had been working out. Taking care of her greatest asset, he thought.
She sipped at her white wine. Phil and Marina hadn’t been offered any. The house was small, a two-up two- down terrace in New Town. It was pleasantly furnished but didn’t feel lived in. Phil got the impression that Erin O’Connor didn’t intend to be living here, or anywhere like it, much longer.
Phil had got her phone number from Graeme Eades. It had been a simple matter of calling, explaining who he was, getting her address, then going round. He didn’t tell her what it was about, only that it was an important matter.
Marina sat next to him. He had intended driving her home, but Erin O’Connor’s was on the way. He didn’t mind her listening in, since she was part of the investigation. Marina, however, didn’t seem all that comfortable. She sat on the edge of the sofa, looking round the room. No doubt, thought Phil, sizing its owner up, making assumptions. Hopefully ones that would be able to help them.
‘So what’s this about, then?’ Erin O’Connor was trying to look composed and nonplussed, but failing. An unexpected night-time visit from the police would do that, thought Phil. There was tension in the set of her jaw. Her voice was well modulated, as if she had taken elocution lessons to obliterate any trace of an Essex accent.
Phil leaned forward, confidential but professional. He felt weary as he did so, his muscles complaining. The stress of the day and the aftershock of the panic attack was making itself felt. He needed a bath. A long, hot bath. And a large glass of whisky. Something expensive and peaty. Or a good bourbon. He blinked. Concentrate.
‘Well,’ he said, pulling all his focus together on Erin O’Connor, ‘I couldn’t say much on the phone, but I believe you’re familiar with Graeme Eades.’
Erin O’Connor stiffened, the wine glass halting on the way to her lips. ‘Yes,’ she said, her face as blank a mask as she could make it, ‘I am. He’s my boss at work.’
Phil nodded. ‘More than your boss, I believe.’
She held her wine glass so tight that Phil thought she might be wearing her drink before too long. She must have reached the same conclusion, as she put it down, clasped her arms tightly round her body. ‘What’s this about?’
Cut to the chase, thought Phil. She can take it, she’s a big girl. Very big girl, he mentally added. ‘We believe you spent the afternoon with him at the Holiday Inn.’
‘So? What if I did? It’s not illegal.’Then, before Phil could say anything more, ‘Do I need to get a lawyer?’
Phil shrugged. ‘You tell me. But while you were with Mr Eades this afternoon, someone broke into his house and attacked his wife.’
