“No more than having your own child aside from the in vitro part of it. The surrogate herself can only ask you for reasonable expenses. Anything more than that is, of course, against the law.”
“So one has to find a woman of extraordinary compassion, I daresay,” Deborah said, “for her to be willing to put herself through that in the first place. And then to hand the baby over. It would take someone special.”
“It would, yes. That’s what it amounts to.” Lucy Keverne stood then and offered Deborah her hand to shake. She said, “I hope I’ve been some help to you.”
She had, in some ways, Deborah thought. But in other ways there were miles still to go. Nonetheless she stood and expressed her gratitude. She knew more now than she’d known before. How it related to the death of Ian Cresswell — even if it related — was still unclear.
VICTORIA
LONDON
The name Raul Montenegro took Barbara Havers a few steps forward. She got onto a photograph of the bloke, along with an article written, alas, in Spanish. She followed a few links by means of this article and finally found herself looking at Alatea Vasquez y del Torres. She was quite a creation, looking like a South American film star. It was difficult to understand what she was doing in the photo on the arm of a bloke who resembled a toad, warts and all.
This was Raul Montenegro. He was a good eight inches shorter than Alatea, and an even better thirty years older. He wore a frightening Elvis Presley rug and he had a growth on his nose the approximate size of Portugal. But he was grinning like a cat with the cream, the canary, and sixteen mice, and Barbara had a feeling his expression was all about possessing the woman on his arm. Of course, Barbara couldn’t be sure of that, and there was only one way to know for certain.
She printed the page in question and she dug her mobile out of her shoulder bag. She rang Azhar at University College London.
He would help her, of course, he told her when she had him on his mobile. Latching on to a Spanish speaker would not be a problem at all.
Barbara asked should she come to Bloomsbury. Azhar said he would let her know. It would take him some time to locate the person he had in mind who could do the translation she needed. Where was Barbara?
In the bowels of the beast, she told him.
Ah, he said. You’re at work, then? Is it best if we come to you?
Just the opposite, Barbara told him. My life is safer if I do a runner.
Then he would ring her as soon as possible, knowing that their meeting would have to take place elsewhere, Azhar told her. And then he said carefully, “I must apologise, as well.”
“Why?” Barbara asked. And then she remembered: his morning altercation with Angelina. She said, “Oh. You mean the row. Well, it happens, doesn’t it? I mean, two people living together… One always wants to think love conquers all. Books and films and happily-ever-after with the love of one’s life. I don’t know much in that department, but what I do know tells me the ever-after’s a road with potholes no matter who you are. Seems to me the way of the wise is to hold on to what’s there, even though it’s not always easy, eh? I mean, what else is there at the end of the day but what we have with our fellows?”
He was silent. In the background Barbara could hear the noise of crockery and raised conversation. He must have taken her call in a cafeteria or a restaurant. This made her think of food and the fact that she hadn’t had any for hours.
He finally said, “I shall ring you back presently.”
“Sounds good to me,” she told him. “And, Azhar…?”
“Hmm?”
“Thanks for helping me out.”
“That,” he told her, “will always be my pleasure.”
They rang off and Barbara considered the likelihood of another run-in with the superintendent if she went in search of food. This would take her to the canteen if she had something relatively nutritious in mind. Otherwise, there were vending machines. Or there was leaving the Yard altogether and waiting somewhere for Azhar’s return call. There was also having a smoke, which sounded bloody good to her at that point. This meant slinking off surreptitiously and hoping not to get caught in the stairwell. Or it meant going outside. Decisions, decisions, Barbara thought. She decided to buck up and stay and see if there was anything more that she could dig up by plugging away at Raul Montenegro.
BRYANBARROW
CUMBRIA
Tim decided to go to school without protest because Kaveh was going to have to drive him. It was the only way he was going to get Kaveh alone. And alone was where he wanted the bloke because there was no way the two of them were going to have the little talk they needed to have if Gracie was there. Gracie was already upset enough. She didn’t need to hear that Kaveh had future plans with a wife, with parents, and with Bryan Beck farm that involved the elimination of irritating impediments with the surname Cresswell.
So he surprised Kaveh by getting out of bed on time and getting himself organised to go to Margaret Fox School for Terminal Nutcases such as himself. He helped Gracie get ready by setting out all her breakfast choices and making her a tuna and sweet corn sandwich, which he packed into a lunch bag along with an apple, a packet of crisps, and a banana. She thanked him with a dignity that told him she was still grieving for Bella, so one of the things he did instead of eating his own breakfast was to go to the garden and dig the doll’s coffin out of the soil so that he could stuff her into his rucksack and ultimately get her repaired in Windermere. He replaced the coffin and the soil and made it look the way Gracie had left it after Bella’s funeral. Then he returned to the house in time to bolt down a piece of Marmite toast before they had to leave.
He didn’t say anything to Kaveh while Gracie was in the car. Instead, he waited till they’d dropped her off at her C of E school in Crosthwaite and were well on their way up the Lyth Valley. At that point, he leaned against the passenger door and studied the bloke. What came into his head was the mental picture of Kaveh taking it from his father and both of them sweating so that the dim light in the room shone slick on their skin. Only it wasn’t a mental picture at all but really a memory because he’d seen it all through a sliver of open doorway and he’d been a witness to that moment of ecstasy and collapse, with his dad calling out hoarsely oh God, yes. The whole sight had been sickening to Tim, filling him with loathing and hate and horror. But it had touched something else as well, had stirred in him something unexpected, and the truth of the matter was that just for a moment the blood in him had rushed and heated. So afterwards, he’d used a pocket knife to cut himself and he’d poured vinegar on the wound to cleanse his hot and sinful blood.
But he could see how it had all come about and in the car he noted that Kaveh was young and handsome. A bent man like his dad would have fallen hard for that. Even, as things were apparently turning out, if Kaveh wasn’t so bent himself.
Kaveh glanced at Tim as they headed towards Winster. Loathing, after all, was something one could feel in the air. Kaveh said rather uneasily, “It’s good you’re going to school this morning, Tim. Your dad would be pleased.”
“My dad,” Tim said, “is dead.”
Kaveh said nothing. He shot another look at Tim, but the road was narrow and curved and he couldn’t afford more than just that look, which Tim knew was an attempt to assess how he was feeling and what he was likely to do.
“Which makes things real good for you,” Tim added.
“What?” Kaveh said.
“Dad being dead. That makes things
