against death, struggled to live. All in vain.
There was a moment in every murder investigation in which Phil had taken part that made him contemplate, usually after a couple of drinks on his own, the big issues. Life and death. The human condition. Why we were here, alive in this universe. God and a divine purpose versus blind evolutionary chance. He would look into the faces of the family left behind as they struggled to fill the void that the death of their loved one had created and know they were thinking the same things. If the victim was one of the lost souls he saw all too often, with no one to love them in life or grieve for them after it ended, his questioning was just intensified.
It was a regular process he went through. And he never found any answers, formulated any convictions or reached any conclusions. But during those alcohol-fuelled dark nights of the soul, he often imagined the dead were calling to him. Asking him to be their champion, to avenge their deaths, bring peace to their families. He would usually sober up the next day; carry on with his life, his job. Rationalise the night before as merely bottle-induced dark fantasies. And then, more often than not, he caught the murderer. Solved the crime. And the ghosts would disappear.
But he was never completely sure they were truly gone. Because when the next murder occurred, they returned, another added to their number. And now, on top of all the pregnant women, Clayton would be joining them. Joining the three a.m. line-up, imploring Phil to help them, avenge them. He knew it.
He shook his head once more, opened his eyes. The station was directly in front of him. He played the events of the inquiry over and over again in his mind. Re-examined Clayton’s every word, every look. Tried to find something, some clue or indicator that might have told him what was going on. He found nothing. His heart felt as if it had been attached to a rock by bonds of guilt and regret and thrown into the River Colne. Sinking fast, on a one-way, bottom-bound journey. As that happened, he felt the familiar bands begin to constrict his chest, like an invisible boa constrictor he carried with him always that had to remind him of its presence every so often.
His breathing quickened, pulse speeded up. He couldn’t take it any more. He needed rest. He needed escape. He needed…
Marina.
The thought hit him like lightning cracking a tree trunk. Marina. It was so simple. It was so complicated. Marina.
Taking strength from that thought, he crossed the car park, went into the building. All the way to the bar. As he entered, he felt all eyes on him. Unspoken questions, condolences, affirmations of solidarity. He knew they wanted to step forward and speak, all of them, but he also knew that none of them would dare. Eventually they stopped looking, went back to their work. They needed something. They needed him to say it.
‘Listen up,’ he said, standing still. ‘Everyone.’ He waited until he had the whole team’s attention. Took a deep breath, ignored the tightening in his chest. ‘Right. You all know what’s happened. And it’s a blow. One of the biggest we’ve ever had. But we’ve got the person who did this. So that’s something. And we’re going to make sure that the rest of this case is wrapped up as tightly and securely as possible. Clayton was a good copper. He was a friend to a lot of you. He was my friend too. And I’m going to miss him.’ He took a deep breath. Continued. ‘But we’ve got a job to do. So let’s get on with it. Thanks.’
He sat down.
Silence.
One person clapped. Then another. And another. Until the whole team were applauding. Phil smiled, blinked wet eyes. ‘Get back to work,’ he said.
Refocused and re-energised, they did as they were told.
Phil put his head down, looked at the work in front of him, the reports. Knowing they weren’t going to write themselves, he got on with it.
Eventually he became aware of someone standing before him. He looked up. There was Marina. Coat on, bag over her shoulder.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Hey yourself.’
‘Good speech.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘They needed something.’
She nodded.
‘You heard.’
‘Whole place has heard. Everyone wants to get her in an interview room, have a crack at her.’ She glanced round the office. ‘They’re taking this one personally.’
‘How could they not?’
‘What about you?’ she said. ‘You still on the case? Personal interest and all that.’
He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. Thought of the questioning he had undergone at Clayton’s flat. They were his own people, they had been sympathetic. He and Anni had brought in Sophie Gale and there was no question she had killed him. But, like him, they had their jobs to do.
‘Well I suppose I shouldn’t be. But the Super at Chelmsford wants me to do the interview. So…’ He shrugged.
She smiled, nodded. But her eyes were downcast. ‘Good.’
‘I want you working with me again. We’ve got to get this one right.’
‘Well…’ She glanced about, at anything and anyone but him. ‘Sorry. I can’t.’
He frowned, looked at her. ‘What d’you mean?’
She lowered her voice, as if she was almost embarrassed by what she was about to say. ‘I… can’t stay. I have to go.’
‘What? But I need you.’ He closed his mouth quickly, wondered how that statement had been received. Wondered how he had really intended it.
‘Sorry. I can’t.’
‘Why not? Is it money? I know we can stretch the budget, get some cash from the Home Office-’
‘It’s not money. I want to stay. Believe me.’ Their eyes locked. Honesty passed between them. He believed her. She sighed.
His voice dropped. ‘What then?’
‘I need… I have to go to the doctor.’
‘A doctor’s appointment?’ Phil almost laughed. ‘Well that’s okay.You can get it rearranged.’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘Yes you can, just-’
‘No.’ Her voice louder, sharper than she had intended. She looked round quickly to check no one had heard. They hadn’t. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Phil stood, unblinking, unbalanced, like he had been hit and was reeling, about to fall backwards.
Marina put her head down, averted her eyes from his. ‘I’m sorry.You shouldn’t have found out like this.’
Phil said nothing. He looked round, saw the office, felt the unreality of the situation.
‘I’ve got to go.’ She made to move away. He put his hand on her arm, stopped her.
‘Is it… mine? Ours?’
She looked away once more. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Is it?’
As he spoke, her hand went involuntarily to her stomach, massaged the bump that her baby made. Phil saw the action, looked up. Caught her eye to eye. A sheer, nakedly emotional connection. Neither could look away.
In that moment he knew. And she knew it too.
The baby was his.
‘Look, I have to go. There’s a… something’s not right with it.’ She reshouldered her bag even though it didn’t need it. ‘There’s a chance I might lose it. Stress, the doctor said. I’m sorry.’
‘Marina…’
She looked at him then, eye to eye once more. ‘I really didn’t want you to find out like this. I’m sorry. But we’ll talk. Soon. I promise.’
‘We need to talk now.’
She looked round, like a cornered animal checking for escape routes. ‘No, not now. No stress, remember…’
