The Surrogate

And again.

Nothing from her husband. But the baby began to stir. Crying in exploratory little gasps, getting louder and bigger as it got more air into its lungs, felt more confidence in doing so.

And there were those old emotions again, welling up inside Hester, waiting to break.

The baby kept crying.

She dropped to her knees, unable to stop those old, horrible emotions. They had to come out. She put her head back and screamed as loud as she could. Pounding her fists on the floor until her knuckles ached, beating her head against it too. Screaming all the while.

Eventually she stopped, but there was still screaming inside her head. She opened her eyes, expecting the screaming to stop, but it didn’t. That was when she remembered that the baby was there with her.

More emotion welled up inside her. Easier to identify this time. Hatred. If it wasn’t for the baby, she wouldn’t have got into this mess. Her husband would be here and they – whoever they were – wouldn’t be after her. After them. The baby. It was all the baby’s fault.

She got up, crossed over to it. Stood before the tiny, wailing figure. Looked hard at it with tear-filled eyes.

It screamed. She screamed back. It screamed louder. Hester screamed louder still. Whatever she did, it wouldn’t shut up.

So she bent down, pulled it out of the cot, held it in front of her face, screaming at it, her mouth fully open, like she was about to swallow it. Screaming, screaming…

Eventually it stopped. Hester was surprised. She looked round, not wanting to believe her luck. But yes, it had stopped screaming. She smiled to herself. That wasn’t in the parenting books. She had invented that one.

She placed the baby back in the cot, still pleased with herself. And then that black feeling began to return. Her husband absent. Them after her.

She tried not to give in. She had to hold on, had to think. Do something.

She looked at the baby again, fought down the rising hatred within her, the urge to blame it for everything going wrong. Because it was the baby’s fault. She was sure of that. The rage inside told her so.

She could kill it. That was what she could do. Place her hands round its neck and squeeze. Wouldn’t even have to squeeze very tightly, it was so small. Bones would snap like firewood kindling. Easy.

She placed her rough, callused hands round its smooth throat.

It looked up at her. Big blue eyes. Vivid and bright, fully rounded in an unformed face.

Her hands dropped away. She couldn’t do it. Not when it was staring up at her like that. No matter how much she might hate it.

She watched it, kicking in the cot, stretching its arms and legs, clenching and unclenching its fists. Her expression was blank.

When it’s asleep, she thought. Its eyes closed.

That’s when I’ll get rid of it.

And then run.

73

‘We’ve checked,’ said Anni in the observation room. ‘I flagged that up. Wrabness she seemed to stumble on, so I went for that. Nothing. Gail Johnson, Sophia Gale, Sophia Johnson, nothing.’

Phil sighed, looked through the glass. Sophie had sat back in the chair, legs spread out, arms on the table, in sharp contrast to the rigid, upright person he had encountered on first entering.

I’m getting through to her, he thought. I’m breaking her down.

The observation room was full of bodies. Just about everyone who was involved with the investigation was there, Anni, the Birdies and as many other officers and uniforms as could fit. They were all waiting, watching, desperate to see the killer of one of their colleagues, their friend, break down and crack. Phil was well aware of the pressure that placed on him.

‘Keep trying,’ he said. ‘I’ll try and get a proper surname from her.’ He sighed. ‘Even if I do, there’s no guarantee the baby’ll actually be there. But it’ll be a start.’

‘Just get a name,’ Anni said. ‘Something I can go on.’

‘Okay.’

‘And we still don’t know who the figure in the photo is. Brother? Father?’

‘I’ll get there,’ Phil said, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded. He looked at Sophie again, picked up a mug of tea to take in to her.

‘Wish me luck,’ he said.

Anni wished him luck. His DC looked almost beyond tiredness. She seemed to have aged a year for every hour of the day. He gave her what he hoped was a confident smile and left the room.

He stood in the corridor outside the interview room. Leaned against the wall, mug of tea in hand. He took a deep breath, let it go. Another. Let it go.

Right, he said to himself, go in there and do the interview of your life.

Phil switched the tape on.

‘Interview resumed at…’ He checked his watch, gave the time and the other formalities. Slid the tea across the table to Sophie, sat back. She took it, cupping her hands round it. She drank, closing her eyes as she did so.

‘Right,’ he said, once she had placed the mug on the table, ‘where were we? Oh yes. You were telling me about your brother. And your father.’

The ghost of a smile disappeared from her face, replaced by something altogether darker.

‘Heston, was it?’

She nodded.

‘Johnson?’

She frowned, looked slightly confused.

‘Johnson.Your surname. Does he have the same surname as you?’

She shook her head. ‘My surname’s not Johnson.’

‘Gale, then.’

She became thoughtful. Deciding whether to lie or not, thought Phil. ‘No.’

‘So what’s your real name?’

She paused, a look of cunning entering her eyes. ‘If I tell you, you’ll go straight there. I can’t tell you.’

Phil shrugged, tried to make out it wasn’t important. ‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll find out one way or another. Anyway, I want to know more about your father. And your brother.’ His voice dropped to the lower, compassionate register he had used previously. He leaned forward across the table as if it were just the two of them talking conspiratorially, sharing secrets. ‘You were telling me about what your father did to your brother. And how much he hated it.’

He watched her face, the pain and anguish on her features. Asking her to relive the events was like forcing a child into a room that contained their worst nightmare. His heart was breaking for her in that instant. Then he remembered that she had murdered his DS and felt that familiar surge of hatred excise the compassion. He held on to it, worked off it.

‘He… hated it…’

‘You said. So what did he do about it? Fight back? Walk out?’

She shook her head. ‘No. He couldn’t do either. He wasn’t strong enough. He just… took it.’ She sighed. ‘Until… until he couldn’t take it any more.’

‘He killed himself?’

She shook her head. ‘Would have been easier if he had. No. He… he was in a dress. He’d just had… just taken care of our father’s needs. He wanted to please him. Our father kept hitting him, beating him, hurting him. Saying all sorts of stuff, horrible stuff…’

She looked at the tea. Didn’t raise it to her mouth. Phil waited.

‘He told me this. He crawled into the kitchen. He couldn’t walk. He was bleeding from… from what our father had done to him. Crawled. And he took a knife. One of the big ones. For killing the hens.’