The Surrogate

33

‘Morning.’

Clayton locked his car, strode across the car park, smiling at Anni. She tried to return the smile, found her facial muscles wouldn’t allow her to be wholly successful. Instead she nodded. He reached her, stopped, his own smile evaporating. Scrutinised her face, caught her mood. Frowned.

‘What’s up?’

She dug deeper, crinkled the corners of her lips upwards. ‘Nothing. Everything’s fine.’

Clayton’s smile returned, reassured. ‘Good. Glad to hear it.’

It didn’t take much, she thought, to make Clayton’s world right again. But then he wasn’t the deepest of thinkers. He was charming, though. And handsome. And she was sure she wasn’t the first woman who had been taken in by him.

‘So,’ she said, still deciding what she was going to say, ‘what did you do last night?’

He shrugged. ‘This an’ that. Went to the gym.’ He smiled, as if at a private joke.

She nodded.

‘What about you?’

‘Surveillance. Brotherton.’

A shadow passed over his face. ‘When?’

She shrugged, tried to keep her voice non-committal. ‘Late on. Not been long off it. Should still be in bed.’

‘Why aren’t you?’ he said, very quickly.

Anni smiled inwardly. Feeling guilty? she thought. Think I’ve come in to have a little chat with Phil? ‘Suppose I should be. Still, got to make the most of the overtime, haven’t you?’

He smiled again, clearly relieved to see she was thinking the way he was. ‘Too right.’

She had come straight to work from the surveillance, telling herself she would get cleaned up at the station. She had sat in her car in the car park, waiting for Clayton to turn up. She didn’t have anything specific planned to say to him, but she wanted to confront him before they went in, see what he said about escorting Brotherton’s girlfriend back to the house last night. About what happened in the car.

‘You have a good workout, then?’

Clayton looked puzzled. ‘What?’

‘The gym.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Another relieved smile. ‘Yeah. Should join me sometime.’ The smile took on another, unmistakable meaning. ‘Work up a sweat together. Might be fun.’

Her turn to smile then. But not in the way he necessarily imagined. She opened her mouth to speak, the thought transferred directly to her lips, bypassing her brain. Why don’t you take Sophie? she thought. Give more than her facial muscles a workout. But she stopped herself in time. She had nothing to gain from doing that. And everything to gain from keeping silent.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

‘Good. I’m lookin’ forward to it.’ Clayton gave her another smile, as if he could imagine exactly what would happen. This was the moment, she thought, when she was expected to squirm and look grateful. He should know her better than that.

He began walking towards the doors.

Anni held back. ‘I’ll join you in a bit. Just got something I want to check out first.’

He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

He turned, walked away. Smiling at another woman he passed.

Anni shook her head. He just couldn’t help himself, she thought.

She paused, looked at the entrance, watched Clayton disappear inside. She tried to analyse her feelings, her reactions to Clayton’s responses. She felt spurned, for sure. He had used her for sex, and while she had tried to pretend to herself that she was using him too, she had found herself hurt all the same. But if that was all it was, she would have confronted him about it, told him exactly what she thought of him.

No, it was something more. It wasn’t just the fact that she had seen him with another woman. That woman was at the very least a witness in a multiple murder case. Possibly an accessory even. He was keeping things from the team. Things that could potentially harm the investigation. And she wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

She had thought about the best way to deal with it, and had given him the chance to say something. He hadn’t taken it; in fact he had lied to her, looked scared that she might have found him out.

Anni turned, walked towards the double doors, her mind made up. She would say something, but not yet. First she was going to find out everything she could about possible links between Clayton and Sophie Gale.

Phil looked round the room. The Birdies were there, Clayton; even uber-geek Millhouse had torn himself away from his computer screen, his eyes red-rimmed behind his black-framed glasses. Anni sat at her desk, Marina at hers. His gaze lingered on her a beat too long.

No sign of Fenwick.

The room was exactly as it had been the previous day. The board still dominated in front of the bar, the TV/VCR/DVD set up next to it. Phil scanned the room once more. Already the strain was beginning to show on his colleagues’ faces. It wasn’t so much that they were tired but that they were all feeling the collective responsibility of having to come up with a positive result, and quickly. And in the intense spotlight glare of the media and the public. Not to mention the police themselves. Catch the killer, find the baby alive. No pressure there, then.

‘Okay,’ he said with energy, trying to inject some adrenalin and focus into his group, ‘let’s make this quick and get out there. What have we got?’

‘CCTV,’ said DC Adrian Wren. He crossed to the TV, turned it on. Slipped a disc in, took the remote, sat down in the nearest seat. ‘Came through first thing. Watch.’

The TV screen showed a grainy image of Claire Fielding’s block of flats. It was night-time.

‘Night before last,’ said Adrian. ‘Here’s the time we want.’ He froze the frame. It showed a figure moving up by the side of the apartment block. A tall, stocky figure wearing a buttoned-up overcoat and a hat pulled down, disguising its face. Adrian let the footage move again. The figure walked purposefully towards the entrance of the block, looked round, waited. Adrian froze the frame once more.

No one in the room spoke or moved. Their attention was focused solely on the TV. Phil was no different. He was thinking exactly what everyone else in the room was thinking: This is him.This is our first glimpse of the murderer.

‘Big bloke,’ said Clayton, the first to speak. He was voicing what everyone in the room was thinking: it could be Brotherton. A few nods, grunts of assent in return. They waited for the footage to resume once more.

‘Time here?’ asked Phil.

‘Just after seven thirty,’ said Adrian. ‘Now look. He wants to get in but can’t find a way. No key. So he waits.’

He clicked and pointed with the remote once more. The figure tried the double doors, then moved away and disappeared round the corner. A slight fast-forward, then he returned carrying three bags of shopping.

Phil frowned. ‘We didn’t find any shopping anywhere…’

The figure stayed around the side of the building. Eventually a woman approached the double doors, took out a key to enter. The figure detached himself and struggled towards her, making the bags look as heavy as possible. The woman turned, her hand keeping the door pushed open.

‘It looks like he’s calling to her,’ said Adrian, ‘asking her to hold the door.’ He looked at the screen again. ‘And she is, look. There. She’s smiling.’

The woman held the door open for him. He seemed to be bobbing his head in thanks. The door swung shut behind the pair of them.

‘And he’s in,’ said Adrian.

‘Who’s that woman?’ said Phil. ‘Have we spoken to her? Has she given us a description?’

Adrian gave him a look that managed to be both elated and exasperated. ‘We’ve seen her. But we haven’t spoken to her.’ He paused the recording, rewound until she reappeared on the screen. ‘Look again.’ He pressed play. They all moved forward, staring intently.

‘Fuck,’ said Clayton.

‘Exactly,’ said Phil. ‘Julie Simpson.’

It was like a collective sigh of exasperation had been heaved in the room. Phil shook his head. ‘She let her own murderer in…’

‘If it was Brotherton, she’d have recognised him,’ said Clayton.

‘Not if he was disguised,’ said Anni. ‘His face hidden.’

The room fell silent as they watched the screen.

Phil held up a hand. ‘Shopping bags? We didn’t find any in Claire Fielding’s apartment… Have we checked the stairs, everywhere else in the flats?’

‘He’s going to reuse them,’ said DS Jane Gosling.

‘Very eco-friendly,’ said Clayton.

‘Right,’ said Adrian, bringing the focus of the room back to him and the TV. He restarted it. ‘So he’s in. At seven thirty-eight.’

He fast-forwarded again. Stopped it when the double doors were opened.

‘Nine ten,’ he said. ‘Chrissie Burrows going home. Fast-forward again…’ He stopped the footage. Geraint Cooper was seen walking out. ‘Nearly twenty-five to ten.’

‘So we don’t know what he does or where he goes,’ said DS Jane Gosling, ‘but we know he’s in the building all the time. Biding his time. If he gets stopped, he’s got his carrier bags as cover. He can look like he’s making his way up the stairs.’ She looked at the screen again. ‘Probably on his way to the flat by this time. Probably inside. Doing what he set out to do. Let’s see what happens when he comes out.’ She ran the images through until she found the one she wanted. The double doors opened, the figure emerged. He was dressed exactly the same, still carrying the shopping bags from earlier.

‘He must have had his equipment in the bags, his tools, disguised by groceries,’ said Jane. ‘And something to wrap the baby in.’ Her voice dropped. ‘There’d be an awful lot of blood.’

‘But he must have put the set dressing somewhere,’ said Phil. He noticed Marina look up, smile slightly at his choice of phrase. He felt his cheeks reddening, looked round. No one else had noticed. He continued. ‘I still want Claire Fielding’s flat checked for groceries. And see if we can find which supermarket he was in beforehand. Check their CCTV.’

They returned their attention to the screen. The figure was moving briskly but unhurriedly round the side of the building and away down the street. They watched as he faded from view.

‘We got any more footage?’ asked Phil.

Jane pointed the remote at the screen once more. ‘This. Taken from the camera on Middleborough, just past the roundabout.’

They all looked at the screen as the same figure hurried past on the pavement.

‘Now watch.’ She pointed the remote again, slowing the picture down. ‘He turns round. Here.’ She stopped the image.

They all leaned in closer to the screen. Phil, like the rest of them, stared hard at the image. Willed it to take shape as Brotherton, assume Brotherton’s features, close their case for them. But it was grainy, indistinct. He sat back. Tried not to sigh aloud in frustration.

‘Can we get this sharpened up?’ he asked.

‘We can try,’ said Millhouse. ‘Might take some time to do it properly. And money.’

Adrian turned the TV off.

‘Thanks for your hard work,’ said Phil. ‘Appreciate it. What about phone records? Claire Fielding’s? Brotherton’s?’

‘We’re still waiting,’ said Jane Gosling.

‘Right.’ Phil rubbed his chin, noticed where he had missed an area shaving this morning. ‘Well it’s not conclusive, ’ he said, ‘but-’

The doors opened. Fenwick entered.

34

Phil stopped talking, stared at his superior officer.

‘You’ve seen the CCTV, then?’ Fenwick said, not moving forward.

‘Just now,’ said Phil.

‘Then you should be in no doubt. You know what to do next. So get a move on.’

Marina stood up, turned to him. ‘It’s not Brotherton,’ she said. All eyes were focused on her. The room held a collective breath.

Fenwick gave a bitter smile. ‘Well it bloody well looks like him. Maybe he’s got a twin brother. Has that shown up in the profile?’

Marina’s face burned. ‘I’m sure a few interesting things would show up in your profile.’

Fenwick took a step towards her. Phil moved between them.

‘Sir, I’m the CIO here. Not you. Please leave.’

Fenwick didn’t hide the anger in his eyes. ‘Don’t order me around.The Super wants Brotherton brought in. And so do I.’

‘Brotherton is a liar and a manipulator,’ said Marina, anger in the ascendant now. ‘He’s a bully who preys on women weaker than himself. But he is not a killer. He wants his victim alive so he can keep hurting her. And he would never kill his own child.’

‘Really?’ said Fenwick, shaking his head.

‘Really,’ said Marina. ‘You want reasons? Here they are.’ She spoke quickly, getting as much information out as she could in as short a time as possible. ‘As I said before, and clearly you didn’t listen, this type of abuser is essentially narcissistic. And childish. On the one hand he would resent the fact that his woman, or object or property or however he likes to think of her, is carrying something that will take the focus and attention away from him. But on the other hand, he wouldn’t harm it because it’s a part of him. And by extension, he wouldn’t hurt the woman while she is carrying it.’ She looked round at the faces staring back at her. ‘Check with Claire Fielding’s friends. I’m sure you’ll find that the abuse stopped once she was pregnant.’

‘Well perhaps he killed her accidentally,’ said Fenwick.

‘And what about the other three murders?’ said Marina. ‘Did he accidentally commit them too?’

Fenwick stared at her. Phil stepped forward, ready to physically remove the senior officer if necessary. Or to get in his way if he made a move on Marina.

Instead Fenwick managed another smile. ‘We’ll ask him when we bring him in.’

‘He’s speeding up. The time in between murders is getting shorter.’

‘All the more reason to get a move on, then.’

Marina moved over to Fenwick, stared him right in the eyes. Fenwick flinched but remained where he was. ‘So if there’s another murder while you’ve got Brotherton in here, that’s all right is it? You’ll take responsibility for that?’

‘Psychology’s one thing, Marina,’ Fenwick said, his voice as patronising as possible, ‘physical evidence is another. Get him.’

He turned and left.

The silence that followed was louder than their arguing.

‘And while that’s happening,’ said Marina, her voice thrown into the silence like a rock down an abyss, ‘the killer’s still out there.’

Her voice died away but it was clear her anger remained. All eyes turned from her to Phil. He was aware of their stares, knew he had to do something. Regain charge.

‘Let’s bring Brotherton in,’ he said.

Marina turned to him. ‘But Phil…’

‘We’ve no choice. We’ve got reservations, but we’ve got nothing else at the moment. We bring him in.’

Marina turned away from him.

‘But I want you working on him with me, Marina. If it’s not him, I want him eliminated as soon as possible.’

Her back still to him, she nodded.

Phil sighed. Ignored the band round his chest. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go get him.’

35

Hester looked round the house, pleased with what she saw.

She had tidied away the tools, hung the scythes on their wall hooks by the double doors, polishing and oiling their blades before doing so to keep them keen. She had then swept the living area and put the old tin bath central to the room so it was the first thing the baby saw when it entered its new home. She had done the dishes and tidied the kitchen area too. She had even got up on the ladders and restapled the black plastic sheeting over the rotten wood around the front corner of the house, to stop the wind and rain from getting in. Everything was in readiness.

She sat down on one of the old armchairs.

‘A woman’s work is never done,’ she said, smiling to herself.

Everything was going to be fine. Her husband would be out soon, finding the next surrogate. Then he would bring her new baby back home. She giggled. Wasn’t that a song? Sounded like a song. If it wasn’t, it should be.

She put her hands in her lap. She didn’t think about the baby that had died. Didn’t allow herself to. It was buried now, out in the garden beside the pigs. She hadn’t marked the grave. Didn’t want anything to remind her. That was the past. And it didn’t pay to dwell on the past. She knew that from bitter experience. Every time she started to think of the past, she started to feel sad. If she thought about the dead baby she might feel sad for it too. And once she started to feel sad for that, who knows what she would start thinking about next? Herself before the… before she became who she was; her sister…

Her sister. She tried not to think about her sister. Ever. She still missed her. They used to be close. But she was gone now. Long gone.

Hester stood up, knocked her fists against her temples to clear her mind, to stop her thoughts from wandering down that path again. Grunted with each punch. She needed to do something to take her mind off… off… off that.

She opened the side door, went outside into the yard. It was as she had left it. The axe lay next to the chopping block. Wood was piled by the side of the house, a tarpaulin stretched over it. Rusting engine and body parts from several old cars sat on the hard red earth, flaking away. Two old fridges, a magazine rack, a waterlogged sofa, some plastic crates, a pile of bricks. Scavenged items to be cannibalised and put to use. In their wired enclosure at the side by the fields, the chickens pecked. Further along, fenced off from the yard, were the pigs. She breathed deep, the scents mingling in her lungs. That was what home smelled like.

The day was cold and sharp, the wind like a shower of ice needles against her face. She stood at the back of the house, looked across the river. She saw the familiar sights of the port where the ships came from Europe and disgorged their cargo. Huge they were, the containers. She didn’t know what was in them, had never given it a thought. Just watched them pull in, unload, pull out again. Back home to another country. Hester had never been to another country. She had never even been across to the port. Anywhere that wasn’t her home was like a foreign land. But then a woman’s place was in the home. It was her husband who went out and about.

She looked across the beach. The tide had gone out, leaving stones, mud and moss along the waterline. Small boats were left anchored and landlocked in the silt, their chains dripping seaweed and debris, their hulls mildewed and algaed.

Hester knew the beach. Knew where it was safe to walk, knew the spots where you could be pulled under. She had seen it happen. Someone walking a dog, throwing a stick. The dog, too fat, too slow, had run too far out, wouldn’t listen. The mud and sand and water got hold of it, wouldn’t let it go. By the time its owner turned up, there was nothing left of it. Hardly a mark to show it had ever been there. Just a muddy stick lying on the ground.

The beach had secrets. And it held them. Hester liked that. Because she had secrets too. And she knew how to hold on to them.

The houses that edged the marsh grass and sand looked sad and lonely. Made of wood and built on stilts, they looked like they had been left stranded when the tide went out. Like it had promised to come back for them but never had. So they stayed there, gently rotting.

Along from the beach houses, reached by a muddy dirt track, was the small caravan park. The vans were stationary, unchanged for at least the last thirty years. There had been houses there before, big old ones, but they had been knocked down, their foundations and outlines still visible where the grass had grown over them. Hester hadn’t seen many people come to the park, whatever time of year it was.

The beach was bleak. And depressing. In weather like this it was windswept and cold. But to Hester it was home. The only home she had ever known. Ever would know.

She started to feel the cold then, creeping into her bones. She didn’t mind it that much, was used to it really. But she still went back inside.

Because there was something she had to do. Before her husband appeared, before the baby arrived. Something she had to do alone.

She closed the door behind her and crossed to the stairs.

Unbuttoning her clothes as she went.

36

The rain had started while they were on the A120 on the way to Braintree. Freezing and pounding. Phil was pleased to be in the car and not doing door-to-door legwork like the uniforms were still engaged in. That was something. Next to him, Clayton was unusually quiet. Phil didn’t think anything of it. He had enough to worry about. He didn’t even play any music.

‘D’you think,’ said Clayton as they approached the Braintree roundabout, ‘that what Marina said was right?’

‘What about?’

‘What Brotherton did to Claire Fielding, he’s been doin’ that to Sophie?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Phil. ‘Might not have started yet. But she works for him and lives with him, so it sounds like he’s well on the way.’ He turned, looked at Clayton. ‘Why are you so bothered?’

Clayton shrugged. ‘M’not. Just wondered.’

Phil smiled. ‘Got a little thing for her, have you?’

‘Shut up,’ said Clayton, not laughing. He looked out of the window, said nothing more.

The rest of the journey passed in silence.

The scrap metal yard looked just the same but the pounding rain lent it the air of a black and white photo. Something grim and depressing from a sixties documentary, thought Phil as he drove the Audi through the gates. He was expecting the place to be deserted because of the weather, but men were still working out in the yard, unloading trucks and lorries, filling containers with metal.

Phil looked up at the cab of the grab. Brotherton was again inside it, swinging the huge arm from one of the bays, taking handfuls of twisted metal and transferring them to the open container on the back of an articulated lorry. Phil pulled the car up at the side of the office, facing the grab. He knew Brotherton had seen him; now he wanted to see if he would make eye contact. Brotherton ignored him, continued with his work.

‘Come on,’ said Phil, ‘let’s go and give the happy couple the good news.’

He got out of the car, Clayton following silently, and made his way to the office. He knocked on the door and, without waiting for a reply, went straight in. Sophie Gale was sitting at her desk, talking to a middle-aged man who was standing next to her wearing a pair of filthy overalls. She was laughing at something the man had said while he was watching her prominently displayed breasts for any sign of a reaction. They both looked up as Phil and Clayton entered, the man reluctantly dragging his attention upwards.

‘I’ll be with you in a-’ Sophie stopped mid-sentence. ‘Oh. It’s you. I’m busy, you’ll have to wait.’

‘Sorry to barge in,’ said Phil with a smile. ‘Hope you don’t mind, but it’s pouring out there.’ He gestured to her with his hand. ‘Please, don’t mind us. Pretend we’re not here.’

The man in the overalls looked between the two new arrivals and Sophie and picked up the undercurrent of tension in the room. Phil reckoned he had clocked them both for police straight away. He was used to that kind of reaction. He just stood waiting patiently.

Clayton on the other hand seemed decidedly fidgety. Nervous, even, Phil might have said.

Sophie paid out several twenty-pound notes to the man, gave him a receipt. All thoughts of her breasts gone, he couldn’t get out of the door quick enough. Once he had closed it behind him, she turned to the two of them, keeping her eyes on Phil as she did so.

‘So what is it this time?’ Her expression as hard as her cleavage was soft.

‘We need to talk to your boyfriend,’ said Phil, keeping his eyes on her face. He glanced to the window as a figure made its way towards the door of the office. ‘And here he comes now.’

The door slammed open. ‘What the fuck is it now?’ Brotherton’s voice was more irritated than angry, although there was enough in it to demonstrate that it could reach anger levels very quickly.

Phil looked at the big man, wearing just a T-shirt despite the cold and rain, and wondered how best to proceed. Take it easy, he thought. Come in fast and hard and the results might not be pretty.

‘We just need a word, Mr Brotherton.’

Brotherton opened his arms expansively. ‘Then have one. And make it fuckin’ quick.’

‘Not here,’ said Phil, his voice quiet but authoritative. ‘Down at the station, if you don’t mind.’

The anger that Brotherton had barely concealed suddenly surfaced. ‘Don’t mind? Don’t fuckin’ mind? Well I do fuckin’ mind. So say what you want now and get out, or I’m callin’ my brief.’

‘We want to talk to you down at the station, please.’ Phil kept his eyes on Brotherton. Made them calm and cold, the opposite of the big man’s. ‘The sooner we do this, the sooner you can get back to work.’

‘I’m callin’ my brief. I ain’t sayin’ another word till he gets here.’

‘Fine,’ said Phil, sighing inwardly. As soon as a suspect got lawyered up, there was nothing he could say or do. ‘Get him to meet us at the station. I’m sure he knows the way.’ He gestured to the door. ‘Please?’

Brotherton turned to Sophie. ‘Get Warnock on the phone. Now.’

‘We’d like Sophie to come along too,’ said Phil.

Brotherton turned back to him. His rage had just reached a new plateau, Phil could see. He was waiting to take it a step higher and then it would be released.

‘We’d like a word with her too. So if you could both just come this way?’

Sophie looked between Phil and Clayton. She seemed to be about to say something to Clayton, but – and here Phil couldn’t be sure – appeared to change her mind on seeing Clayton shake his head. Just a small, surreptitious movement, and Phil couldn’t swear that he had seen it, but she fell silent after that. With a burning anger that seemed to match Brotherton’s.

‘I’ve got a fuckin’ business to run! Who’s goin’ to look after that?’

‘That’s not our problem, Mr Brotherton. We need to talk to you both. Right now.’

Brotherton looked at the two men, then at Sophie. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said, and stormed out of the office, slamming the door as he went.

Sophie came out of her angry trance. ‘Ryan, no…’ She ran into the yard after him, but not without giving Clayton a hard, venomous look.

Phil looked at Clayton. ‘Don’t think she likes you,’ he said.

‘No,’ said Clayton, shaking his head. Was that fear on his junior officer’s face? Phil wasn’t sure.

‘What’s brought that on, then?’ he asked.

‘No idea,’ said Clayton. He took his eyes away from the yard, turned to Phil. ‘You didn’t say anything about her coming in for questioning too. Why?’

Phil shrugged. ‘Why not? She lied for him the other night, remember? If we’re going to break him down, she might be our best chance.’

Phil waited for a reply, but Clayton said nothing. From out in the yard they heard the angry screech of gears.

‘I think we’d better get out there, don’t you?’

They hurried into the yard. Suspecting that Brotherton might make a dash for his car and try to escape, Phil had blocked him in with the Audi. But Brotherton wasn’t going to give in easily. Sophie was standing in the middle of the yard, screaming at the cab of the grab.

‘Ryan, don’t…’

The other workers had stopped what they were doing and were watching what was going on. Phil could do nothing as the grab, with Brotherton at the controls, dug into the bin of metal it was in the process of transferring to the lorry container, coming up with a huge handful of scrap. But instead of placing it in its intended target, with another angry squeal of gears it swung round towards the centre of the yard. To right where Phil and Clayton were standing.

Sophie screamed and ran out of the way. Phil looked up and saw the huge claw wavering overhead; Brotherton had swung it so quickly it was shedding smaller pieces of metal, joining the rain in falling. Phil was no expert, but he was sure the arm of the grab was swaying dangerously.

He tried to catch Brotherton’s eye in the cockpit, call to him, make him stop, but the man’s features were twisted with rage, his powerful arms working the levers furiously. Phil realised there would be no reasoning with him.

‘Boss, run…’

Phil didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed hold of Sophie and pulled her back with him into the office. The other workers had scattered, most of them into the large storage area at the side of the office. He looked out of the window. Clayton had tried to follow him back inside but had been unable to. Phil stood watching helplessly as his DS was left standing underneath the grab, frozen, looking round for somewhere to run.

Phil heard the claws of the grab opening and the metal start to rain down in earnest. Clayton suddenly seemed to decide that the office was his best bet, and ran towards it. Fast. There was another squeal of gears: Brotherton was trying to swing the grab round, chase Clayton with the arm. The DS ran even harder.

Phil turned to Sophie, grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘What’s he doing?’

Sophie just stared, slack-jawed.

‘Can’t you get out there? Stop him?’

No response. Phil turned back to the window. Clayton was nearly at the office. He made it to the door, tried to open it. It was locked. It must have slammed shut behind Phil and Sophie.

Phil ran over to it, ready to open it. But he didn’t reach it.

‘No! Get away!’

Sophie was on his back, clawing at him, trying to pull him away from the door. She was surprisingly strong. Through the office window, Clayton saw what was happening, knew he wouldn’t be able to get inside in time. Instead he turned and started running in the opposite direction.

Once he had gone, Sophie relaxed her grip. Phil turned to her. ‘You’re in trouble now, missy.’

Sophie just responded with a brief, vicious smile.

Phil turned back to the window. Clayton was running towards the storage area. It had huge doors on the front, big enough to admit several articulated lorries at one time. Luckily all the doors were open. Clayton ran inside, diving the last few metres. Phil was sure he must have hit the concrete hard.

He looked at a door at the back of the office. ‘Does this lead to the storage area?’

Sophie nodded.

Phil ran towards it, pulled it open, ran through. The storage area was a massive corrugated metal and poured concrete shed. Clayton was lying on the floor, nursing his shoulder.

As Phil appeared, the scrap crashed to the ground outside. Amplified by the corrugated metal walls of the storage area, it sounded like a Stockhausen symphony played by a band of drunken maniacs. Phil screwed his eyes tight, as if that would somehow stop the sound clashing inside his skull. Clayton took a deep breath, let it go. Sat up.

‘You okay?’ Phil shouted to compensate for the ringing in his ears.

Clayton nodded, then winced. ‘My shoulder…’ He flexed his arm, clenched his fingers into fist. Nodded. ‘Least it’s not broken.’

Phil crossed to him, helped him to his feet. They stepped out into the yard again, crunching twisted metal underfoot. Phil looked up at the cab of the grab. Brotherton was slumped forward, his head in his hands, the reality of his angry actions having sunk in. Phil couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the big man was crying. At least he’d be no trouble for a while.

‘What d’you reckon, boss?’ said Clayton, still rubbing his shoulder. ‘Attempted murder?’

‘Reckon so,’ said Phil.

Going to be one of those days, he thought.

37

Hester stood before the mirror. Naked. She hated look ing at herself, couldn’t bear the sight of her body, but sometimes she just had to. It was a compulsion, a need, and she had no choice but to obey it.

Her body was her diary. It catalogued who she had been, who she was, who she would be. Every scar, every cut, every modification. Every change just one more signpost on the road map of her life. It told her story, and although there were parts she hated to face, she still felt the urge to view them over again. She had to remind herself who she had been to fully appreciate who she was.

The mirror was upstairs, in front of the newly repaired plastic sheeting wall. It was cold, the heat from the Calor Gas heater and the wood-burning stove not reaching this far. She tried not to shiver as she ran her hands over her head and body.

Her hair had started to thin shortly after she first became a woman. When she was recovering from her night with the knife. She tried to grow it long at first, brush over the places where it was thinning, but eventually that got too much. So she shaved the lot off and wore a wig. Long and black, thick and matted. Sometimes, if she was at home by herself, she didn’t bother with it, just kept her bald head uncovered. But she didn’t do that for too long because it began to confuse her and make her depressed. If she was a woman, she should have hair. That was all there was to it. So she wore the wig. It was old and tatty, but she restyled it regularly, brushing the knots out and trying to cover the bare patches. Usually she managed, but sometimes she couldn’t and had to wear her outdoor scarf indoors just to keep it in place.

Her hands left her head, came down the sides of her face. She kept it shaved, as smooth as possible. That was the way her husband liked it. And there was no excuse. There was no shortage of blades in the house.

Then over her shoulders and down her chest to her breasts. She knew she was touching her nipples because she could see herself doing it in the mirror, but she couldn’t feel it. She pushed harder, stuck her nails into the flesh until it went white. But she still felt nothing. That dark feeling came over her again. She knew it would once her hands were on her tits. It always did.

It reminded her of the night with the knife and what happened afterwards. She had taken the blade to herself when she could no longer bear his words. His voice. That taunting, raging voice. Their father’s voice. Telling Hester what he was, what he wasn’t. Hitting him. Hurting him. And then turning to Hester’s sister. Smiling. Because she was the special one. He made no secret of that. He did special things with her, from when she was tiny. Hester hated him for it. He hated what the man did to his sister. But even worse, he hated the fact that he didn’t do it to him. Because Hester wasn’t special the way she was. And never would be.

His sister hated her father so much she tried to leave and didn’t care how she did it. She got away. But Hester stayed. Then it all changed. She couldn’t remember exactly what happened. Every time she thought back, it got hazier and hazier. Like she had wiped it out of her mind. But she knew some things. Her father disappeared. And then her husband appeared. And they became so close that she began to hear him in her head. His voice in her head all the time. Like he wasn’t just next to her, he was inside her, part of her. She liked that. That was what love was supposed to be.

She remembered something else too. Something he had said when he first appeared and saw her naked: If you want to be a woman I’ll make you a fuckin’ woman. And he did.

Hester was taken to see people who knew what to do with bodies, how to make them different. They had done things to themselves and proudly displayed their work to her. Bodies shaved, tattooed, branded. Pieces, sometimes important ones, missing and parts stuck on. Metal lizard spikes implanted in their arms or steel balls under their skin. Tongues cut and forked like snakes.

They took her out, introduced her to others. Took her to clubs where she watched people on stage having their mouths and eyelids sewn up, getting cut and stitched, being whipped, suspended over the audience by hooks through their skin and bleeding on the watchers below. People hurting themselves for other people’s amusement. For the first time in Hester’s life, surrounded by freaks and outsiders, the mutilated and the modified, she felt like she belonged.

But it wasn’t to last. What she needed doing was relatively easy. Her own handiwork was cleaned up and she was given breasts. It wasn’t a very good operation, happening as it did in the back room of a specialist club in east London, but it worked. She was asked if she wanted a vagina instead of the scarred gash she had created, but her husband decided that wasn’t necessary. One hole was enough for him, he said.

And then it was back to the house, and life with her husband.

And here she was. She ran her hands over the stubby, scarred area at the tops of her thighs, between her legs. Where Hester should have had a womb, there was just an aching, painful void. She put her hand once more over where her heart should be, felt only insensitive scar tissue. Barren. Just a cruel joke of a woman.

The darkness was beginning to fall inside her once more. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t allow it. Not now, not today. Because today was special. Today was the day that her new baby arrived.

She managed a smile at the thought. The new baby.

Hester closed her eyes, the earlier blackness disappearing. It would soon be time for her husband to go to work. Then she would get things ready for when he came back. She would dress up in her good frock, make a nice dinner. Might even have a bath. Get herself all nice and prepared for the baby. Ready to be a proper mother. Because that was what it had all been for. The journey she had taken, the pain she had endured. All for this. To be a proper woman. A proper mother.

A proper family.

38

‘Right,’ said Phil, ‘earpiece and throat mic.’ He tucked the wire behind his ear, pointed to the desk Marina was sitting at. There was a receiver and a microphone built into a console in front of her. ‘Comes through here.You want to talk to me, flick that switch. I’ll hear you, Brotherton won’t.’

Marina managed a small smile. ‘I do remember, you know.’

He paused, looked at her. She could see from his smile that her response had jolted him out of his professional mode for a few seconds, broken through that thin veneer that separated their feelings from their ability to function as work colleagues. She didn’t want that to happen. Certainly not now.

‘Just get it over with,’ she said. ‘And we can move on.’

‘Words to live by,’ said Phil.

Marina didn’t answer him.

‘So,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘same neurolinguistic interview techniques we used last time?’

‘Why not?’ said Marina. ‘Stick with what works.’

She nodded, looked down once more at the folder before her, trying to familiarise herself with what was in there even though she had gone over it countless times and was as prepared as she could ever be. To an extent it didn’t matter what was in the file or what notes she had made. She had to follow the interview, be in the moment, ready to interject only if she thought Phil had missed something or felt a line of enquiry could be pursued further.

‘Look,’ said Phil, ‘before, with Fenwick…’

‘Let’s not think about it,’ she said, looking up.

Phil nodded. ‘Right. He’s a tit at the best of times. Even worse under pressure.’

She smiled. ‘I agree.’

The observation room was functional. The desk was anonymous, blond wood and metal that could have come from any office in any enterprise park in the country. It was a clone of the one Marina had had in her university office. The walls were two tones of beige, the carpet industrial grey, matching the filing cabinet. There were two office chairs, black, adjustable and with arm rests, both well used. Overhead strip lights provided illumination; a desk lamp added more directed lighting. The room was cramped and airless but not oppressive; for one thing, the two-way mirror into the adjacent interview room acted like a window. But the main reason for the lack of stuffiness was the function of the room itself. There was a crackle of energy round the walls that came not just from the nylon carpet, but because whoever used the room did so for the sole purpose of controlling the lives of others. And with that control came power, which in its turn bestowed superiority. It could become a rush, a thrill, if allowed to. Marina could imagine why so many police came across as arrogant.

But not Phil, thankfully. Beside her, he busied himself with his wires and battery pack. He wasn’t having much success. Every time he pushed the pack down into his waistband, his earpiece pulled loose.

‘Bugger…’

‘Oh, give it here.’

Marina stood up, took the earpiece from his fingers. She stood directly in front of him and fitted it into his ear, holding it there with two fingers. ‘Plug it in now,’ she said.

Phil reached round to the small of his back, pushed the battery pack into the waistband of his trousers. Marina adjusted the wire behind his ear, smoothing it down the side of his neck. She was aware of his breathing, of the warmth of his skin. She wasn’t aware that she had stopped breathing.

Phil was saying nothing, his eyes on her. She knew that without looking at him. She couldn’t look at him. Not now. Not yet. Her fingers were trembling. She smoothed the collar of his shirt, his jacket. Stood back.

‘There. That’s better.’

Phil didn’t move. Marina didn’t either. The two of them stood before each other, Marina still avoiding eye contact. She should pull away, sit back down. Look at her notes. She knew that. She stayed where she was.

‘Marina…’

Phil put a hand out towards her. She wanted so much to let him touch her. So much. And to reciprocate that touch. Despite everything that had happened between them. But she couldn’t. From somewhere deep within she found a reserve of willpower, pulled away. Phil withdrew his hand.

‘Not now, Phil. Concentrate. Get in there and do what you’re best at.’

He nodded. ‘How do I look?’

‘Like a policeman who’s just had a fight in a scrap metal yard.’

‘Did I win?’

She smiled. It was tense, tight. ‘On points, perhaps.’

‘Well.’ He smiled. It was equally tense and tight. ‘That’s all right then.’

Phil closed his eyes, took a deep breath, another. Anchoring himself, she knew. Zoning in for what he had to do.

‘Right.’ He opened his eyes. There was no trace of the earlier Phil, Marina’s ex-lover still conflicted over the end of their relationship. There was only Phil the copper. A dedicated professional with a job to do. And whatever needed to be said between them could wait.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

39

Brotherton was slumped in his chair, legs spread out underneath the table. He looked broken, defeated even before Phil had started in on him.

The room was small, barely big enough for the chairs and the table, and despite the efforts of the cleaners, it still smelled of unclean bodies and filthy minds, of stale sweat and desperate actions, of human waste in all its forms. Air, like hope, seemed to have been sucked out of the room.

Three of the windowless walls were covered with acoustic tiles and painted a depressingly institutional shade of grey-green; the fourth wall held a mirror. If Brotherton had looked up, he would have seen his own reflection. The door was heavy and grey. One overhead strip, quietly fizzing like a dying fly, threw out shallow, flat light. The kind of light that depressed Phil, reminded him of what he had said to Marina about the aftermath of murder scenes and empty theatres, places from which the life had departed. This, he knew, was deliberate. Just as the observation room was all about power, this was the opposite. It was all about powerlessness, helplessness.

He sat down opposite Brotherton, trying not to be aware of Marina watching him. He looked down at the table. It was scarred and marked, layer added upon layer like recidivist geological striations: names both written and carved into the surface, protestations of innocence and sometimes love, anonymous attempts to grass up members of the criminal community, experiences of the police in general and certain individuals in particular. Phil always checked for his own name and the context in which it appeared. It was a little slice of immortality – at least until it was scribbled over – and he took a perverse pride in the fact that he had affected someone to such a degree that they wanted to tell the world about it. Even if they did just want to tell the world that he was a cunt.

He looked at Brotherton, who kept on ignoring him. He took a deep breath. Looked at Brotherton once more.

‘Okay, Ryan,’ he said, looking straight at him, hoping to establish eye contact, ‘this is not a formal interview under caution. We won’t be recording it or anything like that. Not just yet. This is just a chat between you and me.’

Brotherton shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothin’ to say to you.’

Phil smiled. ‘No.You let your actions do the talking.’

Brotherton looked up. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Phil leaned forward. ‘Oh come on, Ryan. Chasing my DS round the yard with the grab? Dropping a whole load of metal on him? I mean, that’s imaginative, if nothing else.’

Brotherton shrugged, but with the compliment, Phil felt the man’s attitude was thawing slightly. He pressed on. ‘You didn’t need to do that, you know.’

‘No?’

‘No. No need at all. Why didn’t you just talk to us? Talk to me.’

Brotherton’s eyes narrowed. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘What do I mean? You know what I mean.’ Phil smiled conspiratorially, leaned forward over the table. ‘Man to man.’

Brotherton eyed him quizzically. Phil pressed on.

‘Ryan, I kept saying to you about Claire, you know, it’s a difficult situation, I appreciate that, but let’s have a chat. And if you’ve got something to tell me, tell me. But you insisted Sophie was there all the time.’

‘What would I have to tell you?’

Phil smiled. ‘Come on.You’re not the first person to have woman problems. And I doubt you’ll be the last. Happens to all of us.’

Brotherton snorted a laugh. ‘Even coppers?’

Phil shook his head, sighed. ‘Like you wouldn’t believe. And not so different from your troubles, either.’

Brotherton seemed interested now. Phil looked at him, the expression on his face showing uncertainty as to whether to tell him any more, share any more intimacies with someone on the other side of the table. He leaned in even closer to Brotherton. Before he spoke he looked round, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and lowered his voice.

‘All I’m saying, Ryan, is I know what it’s like. Sometimes you have to…’ He balled his hands into fists. ‘You know what I mean?’

Brotherton’s face was a battlefield of warring emotions. Phil knew he wanted to believe him, hear him talk further, find a kindred spirit, someone who might be able to understand him, help him in this hell of a mess. But he was naturally wary. Phil pressed on.

‘I had a girlfriend,’ he said. ‘My last girlfriend, actually. And you know what it’s like. Everything’s great in the beginning, you can do no wrong, always there for you, wanting to please you… and then they start, don’t they? Wanting to change you. You don’t dress well. Don’t look right. They don’t like your friends.You know what I mean?’

Brotherton nodded. ‘Yeah. Know exactly what you mean.’

‘And then they stop wanting to please you. And before you know it, you can’t do anything right, can you?’ Phil shook his head in despair. ‘I mean, why do they go out with you in the first place if everything you say or do is so wrong and they want to change it?’

‘Claire was like that,’ said Brotherton. ‘Just like that. So fuckin’… exasperatin’.’

Phil smiled knowingly. ‘Yeah. Exactly. And what can you do? Sometimes you just get so…’ He flexed and unflexed his fists, grimaced as if in anger. ‘You have to, don’t you? It gets to you.’

Brotherton sat back slightly, wary again. ‘You’ve never done that. Hit a woman.’

‘Really?’ Phil gave another look round, another check for eavesdroppers, lowered his voice even further. ‘Like I said. You’re not the first or the last.You’re not the only one.’

A kind of hope sprang up in Brotherton’s eyes. Cautious, but wanting to believe what Phil was saying. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ said Phil, as if imparting a particularly deep truth. ‘Not the only one in here, either. Tell you the truth, loads of blokes in here hate prosecuting cases like yours. Waste of resources when we could be doing proper police work. Like catching paedophiles or real villains.’

Brotherton nodded. ‘Absolutely right.’

‘Way it should be, isn’t it? Only natural. Course, you can’t say that now. Political correctness and all that. They’d have you for it.’

Brotherton shook his head. ‘Don’t I know it.You can’t do anythin’ these days. Don’t know what the fuckin’ world’s comin’ to.’

Phil sat back, swallowed the smile. ‘Tell me about it.’

He had him.

40

I t was nearly time.

He had parked in just the right place – not too near to the entry of the estate, not far enough in to attract suspicion from residents. Not that they bothered him too much. He could have walked into every house on this estate if he had wanted to and stolen something from each of them without them realising. The kind of people that lived in these types of houses were so intent on looking out for leering tabloid monsters that they missed the ones already in their midst.

Broad daylight. Or as broad as the grey November sky would allow.The time when most home invasions occurred.

He switched the engine off, waited. He made a mental plan of what he would do, based on his surveillance and research, what obstacles to look out for, random factors to try and account for. He checked he had everything he needed in his bag on the passenger seat. Satisfied, he sat back.Thought himself into the right frame of mind.

This was being done hurriedly. Normally he would spend weeks – months, even – planning something like this. But he didn’t have months or weeks. Or even days. He needed another baby now to replace the other one.That wasn’t important to him, though. It was all about the hunt.The chase.The kill.That was all that mattered. Everything else was justification. Excuse. This was everything.

He made one more inventory, one more mental check, and was ready.

He tucked the hammer up the sleeve of his overcoat, got out of his vehicle.

Walked up the road.

He could smell his prey on the wind.

41

Graeme Eades could barely keep his hands steady on the steering wheel he was so excited.

A whole afternoon with Erin. Not just a snatched lunch break in an empty storeroom or a quick fumble in the front seat of his Seat parked up in a shadowed corner at the back of an out-of-town supermarket car park. No. Actually the whole afternoon. Together.

He pulled up in front of the Holiday Inn, switched off the engine. The hotel was outside Colchester at Eight Ash Green, laid out in what Graeme supposed was a low-level American ranch style, holding the usual business-traveller facilities. He knew this from arranging stays there for associates. But that didn’t bother him now. He wouldn’t be using the gym or the pool or going for a spa treatment. For one thing he wouldn’t be there long enough, and for another, his time was all accounted for. And it was sufficiently out of the way of the town centre so he wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into anyone.

He got out of the car, grabbing the carrier bag from the passenger seat, locking the door behind him. He had paid a visit to Ann Summers before leaving the town centre, stocking up on clothing and accessories to make his afternoon as memorable as he had imagined it would be. Stockings, a basque, crotchless panties, all in Erin’s size. He had checked when she hadn’t been looking. Then there were the accessories. Creams, lotions, oils, toys… he had gone to town. Once inside he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Just had to have everything. The girl behind the counter had looked taken aback and he’d replied with a wide grin. She wasn’t bad either, he had thought. A bit short, perhaps, and could do with losing a few pounds, but he wouldn’t have said no. Could just imagine using some of the stuff he was buying on her. Imagine her face as she came… He knew what she was thinking when she was ringing up the prices for his items and bagging them up. Someone’s going to be lucky. That’s what. The thought of that made him grin all the more. He had winked at her as he took the carrier bag. She hadn’t returned it but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need her and had forgotten about her as soon as he left the shop. He had Erin to think about. And Erin was all he needed.

Erin. He crossed the car park to the front of the hotel. Erin. He couldn’t believe his luck. When she’d started in his company he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. None of the men had. And probably a few of the ladies if they were honest, thought Graeme with a lascivious smile. She was young, brunette and well curved. And she liked everyone to know it. He didn’t know what she actually did, something in accounts, perhaps, but he knew the effect she had on him. He had watched her move around the office, her hips rolling, her breasts held high, a smile for everyone. That was it, he thought. She just looked so happy to be there, so happy to be herself. Her smile saying she would be up for anything as long as it was fun.

Not like Caroline at home. She had changed, and really quickly. Big and fat and complaining all the time of aches and pains. And her hand constantly out. Money for the hairdressers. For new clothes. A new fucking car, for Christ’s sake. He had bought them all, just to keep her quiet. He thought the arrival of a new child was supposed to be a joyous affair, but this was nothing like that. He was glad to get away from her. And what a relief to be with someone who was totally the opposite of that.

He couldn’t believe how easy the whole thing had been. How it had come together. Erin had been in his office one day, bringing in something for him to sign, bending over the desk so he got a good shot right down her cleavage, and before he could stop himself he had blurted out: ‘God, I bet you’re good in bed.’

Before he even had time to turn red she had replied: ‘I am. Want to find out how good?’

And that had been that. Not an office romance, because romance had very little to do with it. Just lust. Sex. Pounding, thrusting, hard sex. Anywhere and everywhere they could. At any opportunity. It was brilliant. And so much cheaper than paying for it. But Graeme wasn’t stupid. He knew that there was a chance she might not be doing this if he wasn’t her boss. She had already mentioned promotion a few times. Graeme didn’t mind. Anything he could do to help. Anything that would keep her there longer.

He entered the foyer, went up to reception. ‘Room booked for Mr and Mrs Eades,’ he said to the young girl behind the counter. She checked her screen.

As she did so, Graeme caught sight of himself in the mirrored surface in front of him. He had lost a little weight since Erin. Started dressing better too, even getting his hair cut more fashionably. He looked again at the image. But he still couldn’t hide the fact that he was, essentially, a man tottering on the brink of middle age, doing what he could to turn back time. Oh well, he thought, chasing the image away and getting ready for some fun, at least he hadn’t bought a red sports car.

The receptionist came back from the screen with the details, asked him to fill in a card. Told him what time breakfast was, ran through the list of amenities the hotel provided. Graeme wanted to scream: I don’t care about your fucking breakfast! I’ll only be here this afternoon to fuck the brains out of one of my employees! After that I’m gone! But he didn’t. Instead he listened patiently and smiled when she had finished. Took his key card and went to the room, where he laid all his purchases out on the bed and let his fevered imagination start to run riot.

As he took objects from their packaging and inserted batteries, checked they were working, a thought crossed his mind. He was supposed to have gone home this afternoon. Caroline knew he was leaving early. He had promised to do the supermarket run, as she was too heavy to move. Or too fucking lazy. Still had time to meet her friends for lunch. That he paid for.

Ah well, he thought. She’ll just have to wait.

He turned the pink jellied vibrator on, felt it buzzing in his hand and smiled. Perfect, he thought, checking his watch, and adjusting his trousers to accommodate the pleasantly uncomfortable bulge that was growing there.

Come on, Erin, he thought, I’m waiting for you…

42

Caroline Eades was beyond tired.

She couldn’t even be bothered to get dressed today; just sat on the sofa, staring at the TV. She usually had something planned for the day: yoga or lunch with her young friends, or shopping for the family. Today it was a hairdressing appointment. But she had phoned up and cancelled. Just couldn’t face making the effort to get dressed.

It had hit her when she woke up. Like a huge mattress had smashed into her and knocked her back on to the bed. She had forced herself to get up, help her children off to school, but flopped back down afterwards. And from then on she couldn’t move. It was even worse than she had felt in the first three months of pregnancy. Not surprising, lugging all that extra weight around. And the heartburn… like she had been eating curries for a week.

So that was it for today. On the sofa with a cup of tea and daytime TV for company. LooseWomen, or Hormonal Harpies, as she called it, was on. All of them shouting over one another, vying for attention. Making risqué remarks to John Barrowman while he responded in kind. It wore her out just watching it. She turned over. Diagnosis Murder. That was more like it. She started to watch it but found even that simple plot was too much for her to follow. She couldn’t be bothered to try any more channels so she flicked the TV off with the remote.

She took a mouthful of tea. It tasted awful. She had been able to manage coffee, but her taste for tea came and went. She hadn’t realised just how much sharper her sense of smell had become. Everything heightened, accentuated. Things she used to like, or at least not notice, now repulsed her. Like the smell inside the fridge or Graeme’s aftershave. Even the smell of the tea made her gag.

She leaned back, closed her eyes. Tried to relax. But she couldn’t. No matter how she positioned herself, which way she shifted, she just couldn’t get comfortable. She looked around. Her usually spotless house was becoming messy. Graeme wouldn’t pay for a cleaner, said it was a waste of money when she was doing nothing all day. But she didn’t even have the energy to get up, never mind clean up.

Dinner needed making, she knew that too, and she had no one to help her with it. And no food in the house again. At least Graeme had said he would go to Sainsburys on the way home. He hadn’t seemed happy about it but then he didn’t seem happy about anything these days.

She checked her watch. He should have been back by now. He’d said he was taking the afternoon off. He had been getting increasingly distant lately. Spending more time at work, snapping at her when he was at home. And he had started dressing better, too. Got a decent haircut. Lost a bit of weight. Those thoughts about an affair went through her mind again, but she didn’t have the energy, or the courage, to face them fully.

She took another sip of tea, grimaced. Awful.

She replaced the mug on the coffee table, sat back, checked her watch again. He was late. But just at that moment, when she was allowing all sorts of ridiculous fantasies about his whereabouts to run through her mind, she heard the front doorbell. She sighed. He must have forgotten his house key. Or had too much shopping and wanted her to carry it in. Idiot. In her state. But it was the kind of thing he would do.

Prising herself up from the sofa, she managed to waddle slowly from the living room into the hall. The bell rang again.

‘Yeah, all right, I’m coming…’

She reached the door, turned the knob to open it. And thought: Graeme wouldn’t have forgotten his house keys; they’re with his car keys.

She opened the door fully, looked up. It wasn’t Graeme.

And then the hammer came down.

Her last thought: she wished she had gone to that hairdresser’s appointment.

43

‘I shouldn’t be here, Clayton.You know that. You promised me.’

Sophie Gale’s voice was low, hissing. She leaned across the table, kept hard, unblinking eye contact with Clayton. She was angry, he could see that. But he knew that underneath the anger there was something more. He just didn’t know what.

‘Yeah, I know. But what can I do? You’ve got to come in if the boss says so.You know the score. Look,’ he said, leaning across the table also and keeping his voice low, though where hers had been hissing, his was controlled, ‘don’t worry. And don’t panic. That’s the main thing. Main two things.’

Sophie Gale said nothing in reply. Just stared at him, her eyes no less hostile, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. She stayed like that, staring, for what seemed to Clayton like several hours but was probably only seconds.

Clayton and Sophie were in the twin of the room Phil was talking to Ryan Brotherton in. The same drab colour, depressing light, scarred table, absence of hope. There was no mirror, though. That, thought Clayton, was something.

He had asked to conduct the interview on his own, wanted to press on with the inquiry. But he knew the rules. He had been attacked while working on a case. There was a charge of attempted murder against his attacker. It was now deemed personal and there was no place for him on the investigation. Standard procedure. But still, he had hoped.

So he had sneaked in, tried to have a quick word before Anni arrived to take over. Out of all of the team it would have to be her, he thought. He knew that time was tight and he and Sophie would have to come up with something plausible very quickly.

‘I am so fucked,’ said Sophie.

‘No you’re not,’ said Clayton. But the phrase sounded weak even to him.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she said. ‘If I say Ryan was at home with me the night his ex got killed and you find out he wasn’t, I’ll get done by you lot. But if I tell you he was out that night, then he’ll have me. Either way, it’s not pretty.’ She sat back. ‘Thanks a lot.’

Clayton felt himself begin to get angry with her. And he knew that his anger had its roots in the same place as hers: fear. ‘Look,’ he said, his arms out wide, imploring, ‘it’s not just you, is it? It’s me as well. Whatever comes out about you comes out about me. And then we’re both fucked. And now thanks to your shithead boyfriend I’m off the case. So I shouldn’t be here and we haven’t got long. We’ve got to make this work for us. Think. We’ve got to sort this together.’

Silence descended once more.

‘This is what I think,’ said Clayton, speaking quickly. ‘This is what we should do. I go to my boss with what you said about Brotherton going out the night Claire Fielding was killed.’

She began to interrupt but he silenced her with a hand.

‘Just listen. I tell him all that. But I also say that you’re terrified of him. You didn’t want to tell me and only want it used on the condition that Brotherton be charged and kept inside. No bail. Because… because your life’s in danger.’ Clayton sat back, pleased with himself. ‘That’ll work. Yeah. What d’you think?’

Sophie kept staring at him. ‘And where’s the risk to you, then?’

Clayton frowned. ‘What?’

‘You said this is a risk to both of us. I don’t see no risk to you there. Just me.’

Clayton sighed. ‘It’s the best I can think of.’

‘Well you’ll have to think better. Because if I say that and they don’t keep Ryan in, I’m fucked. No job, nowhere to live. Not to mention what he might do to me.’

‘If he does anythin’ he’ll be back in custody.’

She rolled her eyes, threw her arms up. ‘Oh great. And I’ll be in the bleedin’ hospital.’

‘Sophie, it’s the only way out.’

‘For you, maybe.’

‘Well have you got any better ideas?’

‘Yeah.’

Clayton didn’t like the nasty light that had started to glow in Sophie’s eyes. ‘What?’

‘I tell them everything. Not you, your boss. About the informin’ I used to do. All the intel I supplied. The convictions that led to. Remind them what a good source I was.’ The light got nastier. ‘Then I tell them you remembered me from those days, came to see me. Wanted me to keep quiet about the freebies you used to get. But it wasn’t just freebies, was it?’

Clayton said nothing.

‘No,’ Sophie continued. ‘You weren’t content with that. You wanted to run the show as well, didn’t you? Keep your friends supplied. Strangers, too. That was you, wasn’t it? PC Pimp.’

‘Shut up…’

‘Yeah. That’s what you came to see me about. Because freebies, that’s nothing. But running your own little business empire… I don’t think that’ll go down too well. And I’ll tell them. That you said you’d keep my name out of it if I kept my mouth shut. That you even asked for a blow job for old times’ sake.’

‘That’s not-’

Sophie smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘It’s the only way out,’ she echoed, mirroring his words back at him.

Clayton sighed, sat back. ‘This is so fucked.’

‘Ain’t it though.’

‘We have to think of something. Fast.’

The room, small already, began to feel overpoweringly claustrophobic.

They stared at each other.

Neither of them could think of anything to say.

44

‘You know,’ said Phil, as if imparting an intimate secret to an old friend, ‘you didn’t have to do all that. With the grab and the metal.’

‘No?’ Brotherton looked genuinely interested.

Phil was working Brotherton hard, but not letting the other man know what he was doing. The technique was working well. He had seen hardened criminals respond to it. Even coppers who had strayed over the line and ended up on the other side of the table responded to it. And they had been trained not to.

But Phil didn’t want to get cocky. He stayed focused, concentrated. He still had a long way to go.

‘No,’ he said. ‘If you’d wanted to do Clayton or me some damage, why didn’t you just hit one of us?’

‘That would have been assault, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yeah, but it could have bought you time; you could have got away. And then a good lawyer could have argued it out later. Said I was harassing you or something.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Phil thought it best not to mention the attempted murder charge now hanging over Brotherton’s head. He didn’t want to break the flow. ‘You could have done that. I mean,’ he said, ‘you’ve got the muscles for it.’ He waited a few seconds, let his words sink in, then continued. ‘I like to think I keep myself in pretty good shape, but to get the kind of body you’ve got, you must be very dedicated. That’s not just from working in the yard, is it?’

‘Nah,’ said Brotherton, unconsciously flexing his biceps. ‘I work out.’

‘Thought so. How long have you been doing that, then?’

Brotherton’s eyes looked to the right. ‘Since my early twenties. About fifteen years?’

‘That is dedication. Whereabouts?’

Again a look to the right. ‘Used to work out in the leisure centre on the Avenue of Remembrance. But now it’s the gym up in High Woods.’

‘Good place. I like a good workout but I’m between gyms at the moment. Just moved house.’ He laughed. ‘But I’m nowhere near your league. What’s High Woods like? Would I like it?’

Brotherton frowned, his eyes falling down to the left. ‘Yeah. It’s a gym, you know? Leisure facilities, they’ve got a pool, sauna.’ He nodded. ‘Not as bad as some places, not as cliquey. But you know. Gym’s a gym when it comes down to it.You get out what you put in.’

Phil nodded, apparently giving the matter some thought. ‘Good.’ He put his hand behind his back, moved it up and down. There was a knocking on the mirror.

Brotherton jumped. Phil affected to.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘They must want me. I’ll be right back.’

He got up and left the room.

Marina was waiting for him when he entered the room.

‘Did you get all that?’ he said.

‘Yep. Eyes to the right, he’s remembering. Eyes to the left, he’s thinking.’

Phil gave a grim smile. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t have a squint or a nervous tic. Then we’re completely buggered.’

Marina returned the smile.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We good to go?’

‘I think so.’

Neurolinguistic interviewing technique involved two different kinds of questions: remembering and cognitive. The innocuous questions, as well as lulling the subject into a false sense of security, established a yardstick to judge all subsequent answers by. A subject’s body language would be different for each kind of answer. When asked a remembering question, Brotherton looked down to the right. But when asked a thinking question, he looked away to the left. Phil and Marina now knew that if he was asked a remembering question and answered as he would for a thinking question, he was buying himself time, working on an answer. In short, probably lying.

‘Sorry about all that… stuff. In there,’ said Phil.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Marina, her head down in her notes. ‘You were working. No apologies necessary.’

‘Right,’ he said, and picked up a file folder from the desk. It had Brotherton’s name written on the front. ‘Off I go. Wish me luck.’

She smiled. ‘You don’t need it.’

He returned the smile. ‘Do it anyway.’

‘Good luck.’

‘Thank you.’

He left her alone once more. She looked at the mirror. Waited for it to start again.

45

Clayton looked around the room. He was beginning to know how it felt to be on the other side of the table. Like he was the one trapped, about to give himself away, be caught out by his own lies. He looked at Sophie. She caught his eye, glanced away in disgust. He didn’t blame her.

He checked his watch, sighed. It seemed to be showing the same time as when he had last looked. Another sigh. Like waiting in a doctor’s surgery, he thought. For test results to come back and confirm the worst. Something bad. Something terminal.

Another sigh. He resisted the temptation to check his watch again.

‘Your boyfriend’s probably given it up by now.’

Sophie stared at him. ‘I doubt it.’ Her words seemed strong but he sensed nervousness behind them. ‘He’s not the type.’

Clayton shook his head. ‘They’re all the type.’ He drew his sleeve back, fought not to bring his eyes to his wrist. Let his sleeve fall back into place. ‘He’s no different.’

Sophie sat forward, about to argue, but decided against it. Slumped back into the seat. Defeated.

Clayton could empathise with her. He had never felt so-

His thought went uncompleted. The door to the interview room opened and Anni Hepburn entered. She was carrying a document wallet under her arm and had a look of triumph in her eyes. She gave a start when she saw him but controlled it well, crossing to the table, pulling up a chair placed against the wall and sitting down next to Clayton.

She gave him a brittle, yet unreadable smile and looked at Sophie. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said. ‘I’m DC Hepburn. I believe you already know my colleague DS Thompson.’

She looked towards Clayton as she spoke. There was no mistaking the message in her eyes. The doctor had arrived with the test results.

‘Right.’ Anni opened the folder, read down. Clayton knew there was often nothing in these files they brought out in front of suspects; they were just props. There was nothing someone who had a problem with authority found more terrifying, a training officer had once explained, than someone in authority holding a file on them.

Anni looked up, seemingly startled to find Clayton still there. ‘I thought you were off this case now?’

Clayton felt his cheeks warming up. ‘Yeah. I’ll just…’ He rose, scraped his chair back along the floor. Made his way reluctantly to the door and out. He glanced at Sophie before he left, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring straight ahead, her face unreadable.

Once outside the room, Clayton looked quickly round, then made his way as fast as he could to Ben Fenwick’s office. There was a CCTV relay in there and he could watch the interview on it. He ran up the stairs, stood outside, getting his breath back, knocked. No reply. He tried the handle. Open. He went inside, set the TV monitor up. Started watching.

‘Sophie Gale,’ Anni was saying as he turned it on.

‘Yes.’ Sophie’s voice was dry and cracked.

Anni looked up from the file, directly at her. ‘But that’s not your real name, is it?’

‘It’s…’ Sophie looked towards where Clayton had been sitting. She seemed to have guessed which way this was going to go and, now that he was no longer there, suddenly needed an ally.

‘It’s not your real name,’ said Anni; not a question, a statement.

Sophie nodded.

‘Gail Johnson. That’s the name under which you first came to our attention. When you were a prostitute.’

‘Yes.’

A tight smile from Anni. ‘Good.’ She looked down at the file again, pretended to be reading. ‘Charges were never brought against you, were they?’

Something hardened in Sophie. ‘You know they weren’t. And you know why.’

‘Yes. I know why. Just found out today.’ Anni’s gaze went to the screen.

Clayton jumped back. Was she looking at him? Did she know he was watching?

She continued. ‘You were an informant. You were protected. ’

Sophie nodded.

Anni’s voice changed. Became less accusatory. ‘Very good. Can’t have been easy to do that. Downright dangerous at times, I would have thought.’

Sophie shrugged. Clayton could tell she was thawing. He knew Anni was playing her.

‘Having to go with men you didn’t want to was bad enough. But then having to come and tell us about it… bad men, dangerous men… that’s real bravery. I mean it.’ And she sounded like she did. She smiled.

‘Thank you.’ Sophie returned the smile.

‘How long did you do that for?’

Sophie thought. ‘Oh… feels like for ever. But it also feels like it happened years ago. To someone else.’

‘So how long?’

‘About five years.’

Anni looked impressed. ‘Long time.’

‘Felt like it.’

Anni nodded, smiled. ‘But that’s all in the past now.’

‘Absolutely. New life, new everything.’ Sophie gave a tentative smile. Even on CCTV, Clayton could see that her guard was starting to drop. He knew exactly what Anni was doing. And what the end result would be. And he was powerless to stop her.

‘So.’ Anni looked back at the file. Pretended to be reading. ‘Wednesday the seventeenth. You were at home. With Ryan Brotherton.Your boyfriend. In the house you share together.’ She looked up. ‘That right?’

‘Yes.’

Back to the file. ‘And you were there all night. Watching DVDs. Eating takeaway food.’

Sophie nodded.

Anni looked directly at her, the earlier friendliness now completely absent. ‘No you weren’t.You’re lying.’

Sophie was taken aback by the words.

The test results were back, thought Clayton. And they were positive.

46

‘But let’s put that to one side,’ said Anni. ‘We’ll get to that. Let’s talk about Ryan first. How did you meet him?’

Sophie, shaken from Anni’s previous words, trotted out the same story Clayton had heard the previous night. She was seeing one of Ryan’s competitors, she heard there was a job going, she applied, was taken on, then dumped her boyfriend and took up with Brotherton. Anni listened, nodded, said nothing.

There was silence while she consulted the file once more. Clayton watched the monitor helplessly. There was nothing he could do. Anni was controlling things now.

‘Did you know Susie Evans, Sophie?’

Sophie seemed to be deciding on what her answer should be. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But not very well.’

‘You got pulled in with her. On a raid.’ Anni read down. ‘Couple of raids.’

Sophie nodded, but said nothing.

‘Did Ryan, your boyfriend, know Susie Evans?’

Clayton saw the fear and desperation in Sophie’s eyes as she stared at Anni. ‘No. I don’t know. Not that I know of.’

‘Which one is it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know.’

‘If he did, he never mentioned it.’

‘Right.’ Anni flipped over a few pages, brought out another sheet of paper. ‘Funny, that, because his name has come up a couple of times where hers is concerned. Quite a few times, actually. And yours is there too.’

Sophie again looked round, trying to find help and support from some corner of the room, fear now rampant in her eyes. Clayton, in the office, looked at Anni, knew that look on her face. She was trying not to smile. She had something.

‘Yes. When you and she were picked up a few times, he was picked up too. Never charged, which was why it took me so long to find the information, but his name was taken. Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence?’

Sophie looked at the table. ‘Yes. It’s a coincidence.’

‘A coincidence. Right. So it’s a coincidence that you knew Susie Evans. Worked with her. And that Ryan Brotherton knew Susie Evans. And that Ryan is now your boyfriend. And Susie Evans is dead. Murdered. And Ryan’s ex-girlfriend, Claire Fielding, is also dead. And Ryan, your boyfriend, the one you were eating takeaway food with and watching DVDs with the other night, has a history of violence towards women. A problem with women, in fact. A very serious problem.’ She sat back, her eyes locked on to Sophie like laser beams. ‘Quite a coincidence.’

Sophie looked frantically at Anni.

Anni leaned forward. ‘You want to tell me the truth now?’

Sophie’s head dropped into her hands. ‘No… He’ll kill me…’

‘Yes,’ said Anni, her tone conciliatory yet steely. ‘He very well might. So I’m your only chance, Sophie. You’d better talk to me. Right?’

She nodded.

‘Truth this time.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘The truth.’

Phil walked back into the interview room holding a document file. On the file was Ryan Brotherton’s name. He set it on the table, resumed his seat. Brotherton looked expectantly at him. Phil opened the file, glanced at the contents. Raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh, Ryan…’

‘What?’ Brotherton craned his neck forward, trying to see what was written there. Phil moved it further away from him.

‘Jesus, you have been a naughty boy…’ He held his gaze on the pages for a few more seconds, just long enough for Brotherton’s anxiety levels to increase, then flipped the cover of the file closed and looked levelly at him. This was a different Phil from the one who had left the room. He had appeared to be Brotherton’s friend, someone on his side. This new Phil was something different. A professional. A heat-seeking missile zeroing in on his target. And he wasn’t going to miss.

‘Where were you on the night of Wednesday the seventeenth of November?’ he asked.

Brotherton looked startled at Phil’s abrupt tone.

‘Where were you?’

‘I was…’ His eyes slipped away to the left. ‘At home. With Sophie. We watched a DVD, I told you this.’

‘Liar. Where were you?’

‘I told you where I was…’ Eyes straight ahead, imploring, trying to hold Phil’s gaze, saying: Would I lie to you? ‘That’s the truth.’

‘You’re lying, Ryan. Where were you? Between eight p.m. and two a.m.? When Claire Fielding, your ex-girlfriend, the mother of your child, was being murdered, where were you?’

‘I’ve told you.’ Eyes left. ‘At home. Watching a DVD. With Sophie. Ask her.’

Phil gave a small, tight smile. ‘We will. Don’t worry about that. Can you trust her?’

‘What?’

‘Can you trust her? To lie for you?’

Eyes away to the left. Thinking. ‘I can trust her. Yeah.’ Defiance in his voice.

Phil sat back, not taking his eyes off the other man. Time for something else. ‘When did Claire first tell you she was pregnant?’

Brotherton thought, looking down to the right. ‘About… five, six months ago.’

‘And what was your reaction?’

‘I’ve told you. I didn’t believe her.’

‘But you soon did.’

Brotherton shrugged.

‘She soon convinced you. Because you told her you wanted her to get rid of it, didn’t you?’

Brotherton stared at him, said nothing.

‘In fact you said that if she didn’t, then you would. With your own hands. Isn’t that right?’

Fear appeared on Brotherton’s face. ‘I… I want my solicitor… I’m not sayin’ another word without my solicitor bein’ present.’

‘We’ve called her, she’s on her way.’

Rage and fear clouded Brotherton’s face. ‘She? What the fuck d’you mean, she? Where’s Warnock?’

Phil could barely keep the smile off his face. ‘We phoned your solicitor, Mr Warnock. He’s… unavailable, apparently. But they’re sending someone from the practice. Bit young, but very good, they say.’The smile appeared. ‘She’s just finished working with victims of domestic abuse in a women’s refuge, I think they said. I’m sure she’ll be very interested in all this.’ Phil didn’t know anything of the sort, but he knew what kind of effect his words would have.

Brotherton said nothing. Phil knew he had hit the bullseye. Brotherton would talk to him now.

‘So you offered to give Claire Fielding, your girlfriend, an abortion. With your own bare hands, is that right?’

‘It wasn’t like that…’

Phil leaned across the table. ‘What was it like then, Ryan? Tell me. Make me understand.’

‘She… I didn’t believe her at first. But then I had to.’

‘And you got angry.’

He nodded.

‘You didn’t want a kid around the place. It would stifle you, tie you down, that right?’

Another nod.

‘Too much responsibility. So you made that very generous offer.’

Brotherton said nothing.

‘And what was Claire’s response?’

Brotherton still said nothing.

‘No? I’ll tell you then, shall I? She left you. Summoned up the courage to walk out on you.’

‘No she didn’t. I threw her out.’ His eyes away to the left as he spoke.

‘No you didn’t. That’s a lie. She left you. But you could-n’t take it, could you? Couldn’t take some piece of skirt walking out on you. Especially not a pregnant one. How hurt was your pride?Your ego?’

Brotherton shrugged. ‘Same as anyone else’s.’

‘Same as anyone else’s. So what did you do next?’

‘Nothin’.’

‘Liar.You phoned her. Texted her. Threatened her.’

‘No I didn’t…’

‘Yes you did, Ryan. We’ve got her phone records.’ Not strictly true, thought Phil, but they were on the way. He was confident they would show that he was telling the truth.

Brotherton’s head went down. Phil had been right. He didn’t have time to gloat; he had an advantage. He had to press it.

‘You stalked her?’

‘No.’ Eyes away to the left. A lie.

Phil hid his smile. Another bullseye. ‘Yes you did, Ryan. You stalked her. Why? Because she’d dared to escape, to run away? Because you couldn’t have her where you wanted her to torment? Yeah?’

Silence.

‘So what did you think you would achieve by stalking her? Would that get her back?’

Brotherton said nothing.

Phil regarded him coolly. He was well in the zone now, thinking and acting intuitively. On fire but controlling it.

‘Did you like the feeling of power it gave you, is that it? Do you think it scared her?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Because you like scaring women, don’t you?’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Like hurting them…’

Brotherton stood up, swinging his arms. ‘Fuck off!’

The uniformed officer waiting at the door stepped forward, ready to grab him if he made a move. Phil got to his feet too. Brotherton moved forward. He was going to go for him.

47

H e stood up, opened his eyes. Allowed himself a few seconds of indulgence. Smiled.

His prey was gone. Dead. The birthing room trashed. Order had become chaos. He could feel the blood of his prey soaking into his clothes. He loved that feeling. Luxuriated in it.

It had started when he used to hunt rabbits and deer in the woods. There was the planning, the preparation.Then the chase, the thrill of the kill.Then that moment of power, looking down on something that had recently been alive, knowing he had had the power of life and death over it.And had chosen death. He used to get his knife out and quickly slit the animal open. Steam would rush out as the hot innards and blood collided with the cooler air. Blood would spurt and fountain and he would catch it. Spray it on to himself, feel the hot, glistening liquid warm his skin, smell the dark, coppery scent of his prey. Spraying it down his throat, swallowing it down. It felt like he was taking the spirit of the slain beast, ingesting it, letting it feed him.

He looked down at his prey, lying there on the floor of her living room. He had wanted to do just that. Catch her blood in his hands as it had spurted out, strip naked, rub it all over himself, feel her on his skin.

But he hadn’t. He had to be disciplined about this hunt. Focused on his objective. He had no time to ingest the spirit.

Or did he… He looked down at the small, kicking baby he had cut out of her. Birthed in blood, its midwife a blade and a dying host. He smiled. There was the spirit, the life force from within her. He was taking that instead.

He took out the blanket he had prepared, wrapped the baby up, put it in his rucksack.

Left the house, closing the door behind him.

He walked down the street feeling like a god amongst mortals.

No one saw him go.

48

The door of the observation room opened and Anni Hepburn rushed in. Marina reluctantly took her attention away from the mirror.

‘I think Phil needs help,’ she said.

‘Never mind that,’ said Anni. ‘He can handle himself. We’ve got something. Ryan Brotherton used prostitutes. He knew Susie Evans. And Sophie Gale. That’s how they met. He’s known her for years. She’s also told us that Brotherton was out on Wednesday night. The night Claire and Julie were murdered.’ She looked at the screen, took in the standoff that was taking place. ‘Tell Phil. Now.’

‘Ask him about prostitutes.’ Marina’s voice was loud and sharp in Phil’s ear.

‘What?’

‘It’ll calm him down, wrong-foot him. Anything. Just ask him. Now!’

‘What about the prostitutes, Ryan?’

The big man was close to hyperventilating. The uniformed officer ready to intercede.

Phil raised his voice. ‘Prostitutes, Ryan. You ever used them?’

Brotherton’s head jerked suddenly upwards. He stopped in his tracks. ‘What? What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Come on, Ryan.You hate women that much, sometimes it’s easier to pay to vent your frustrations, isn’t it?’

‘No.’ He sounded disgusted. His eyes went away to the left. Lying.

‘He knew Susie Evans,’ said Marina in his ear. ‘Was a customer of hers. That’s how he met Sophie Gale. They worked together. And she’s also told us he was out on Wednesday night.’

Phil tried not to let his emotions show. He kept his face as blank as possible. ‘Sit down, Ryan. Let’s talk.’

Phil sat down. Brotherton, getting his breath back, did likewise.

‘Now,’ said Phil. ‘You sure? You’ve never used prostitutes?’

‘No. Never.’ Eyes again to the left. Another lie. ‘I don’t have to pay for sex. I don’t need to.’

‘Might not just be for sex, though, might it?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You know what I mean, Ryan. You like beating up women. Sometimes the women in your life don’t like it and walk out. Or testify against you and get you banged up. So you need an outlet. A bit of release. Would have thought prostitutes would fill the bill nicely.’

‘You’d have thought wrong.’ His voice sounded weak.

Phil sat back, regarding him again. ‘I don’t believe you, Ryan. You see, I’m good at my job. I sit here and I listen to people sitting where you are. They want me to believe what they’re telling me. And most of them are liars. Some of them are very good. Some of them I nearly believe.’ He folded his arms. ‘But not you, Ryan. I know you’re lying.’

‘Prove it.’ Brotherton aimed for defiance in his voice, missed.

‘Okay,’ said Phil.

Anni Hepburn had just left the observation room to return to questioning Sophie Gale when the door opened again and an out-of-breath Ben Fenwick entered. Marina took her attention from Phil, looked at him. She had never seen him so dishevelled yet so elated. He looked wired.

‘Let me in,’ he said, making for the desk.

Marina moved aside, let him take over the microphone. Fenwick took a few seconds to regain his breath before he spoke. While waiting, he turned to Marina.

‘How’s he doing?’

‘Good,’ she said. She didn’t want to commit herself to anything else. Especially after the way Fenwick had spoken to her earlier. She didn’t want to tell him that it looked like Phil was about to crack Brotherton, that he was homing in for the kill. That Fenwick had been right and she had been wrong.

Fenwick smiled. It was the kind of glassy-eyed leer a coked-up City trader would give. ‘Well he’s going to be even better after I tell him this.’ He opened the channel, spoke into the mic. ‘Phil? Ben Fenwick.’

Marina watched Phil’s expression through the mirror. His head jerked upwards and he stopped talking immediately. He didn’t reply but they knew he was listening.

‘The Birdies have been singing.’ Fenwick laughed at his own joke.

Technically, thought Marina, now irritated with the man, the Birdies had been making other people sing.

‘They’ve gone through the records of the estate agency Lisa King worked for. Guess what? Brotherton was registered with them. He looked at houses through them. Lisa King’s name comes up a couple of times as showing him round some properties. Phil, we’ve got the bastard!’

Fenwick turned to Marina, a leering smile on his face. ‘Police work,’ he said.

In the interview room, Phil once again did his best not to respond. Instead he leaned back, regarding Brotherton quizzically. Brotherton looked down at the table, clearly scared.

‘You asked me to prove it,’ said Phil. ‘Prove you killed Claire and Julie. Okay. I will. There’s a few ways I could do that. Let me ask you something. How long have you been in your house?’

Brotherton frowned. It wasn’t the question he had been expecting.

‘How long?’

He shrugged. ‘Couple of months.’

And you were on the books of Haskell Robins estate agents?’

‘Yeah, but I didn’t buy from them.’

‘But one of their estate agents turned up dead, didn’t she?’

Brotherton frowned again.

‘Lisa King. Twenty-six years old. Married. Found in an empty property with her stomach ripped open. Pregnant.’

‘Wait a minute…’

Phil pressed on. ‘Right. Just circumstantial. Tenuous. I know. Try this, then. I could tell you that your name’s come up as someone who’s been questioned in brothel raids. A few of them. What would you say to that?’

Brotherton, visibly shaken, said nothing.

‘Okay. So you’ve got a hatred of women.You beat up girlfriends, you beat up prostitutes. Now, one of these prostitutes you say you didn’t know was Susie Evans. And you know what happened to her. She was murdered too. While she was pregnant. Her stomach ripped open, the baby taken out. Was that yours too?’

Brotherton looked frantically round the room, realised there was no escape.

‘You stalk women who dump you, threaten them. Your own girlfriend is pregnant and you offer to rip the baby out of her.’ Phil leaned forward. ‘And then what happens? She turns up dead. With the baby ripped out of her. Just like the other two who you claim you don’t know. And you lie to me about where you were on the night it happened. So, how am I doing so far, Ryan? How much more proof do you need?’

Brotherton put his head in his hands. His shoulders began to shake. He was crying. Phil saw his advantage, pressed on.

‘We’ve got you on CCTV outside Claire’s flat. We’ve got her phone records.’

He shook his head. ‘No… no…’

‘You killed her, Ryan, didn’t you? Just admit it, then we can start sorting it out.’

No reply, just crying.

‘You were out that night, weren’t you? The night Claire was killed.’

Brotherton said nothing.

‘I know you were. Sophie told us.’

‘Sophie…’ His voice was small and fragile, like a child who had been told there was no Father Christmas.

‘Yes, Sophie. She’s not going to lie for you any more, Ryan. So tell me the truth.You were out that night, weren’t you?’

Brotherton nodded. Breakthrough. Phil could barely sit in his seat, he was so excited. He swallowed down his rising excitement, controlled it, kept his voice steady, his breathing even, pressed on.

‘You went to her flat, didn’t you? You crept in and killed her.’

Phil waited. Here it comes, he thought. The confession. The climax he had been working for, building towards. Brotherton looked up, eyes shining, face wet.

‘Didn’t you, Ryan?’ Phil’s voice was gentle, coaxing. ‘You killed her.’

Brotherton shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t…’

Phil studied him. Watched his eyes for deviation.

‘You killed Claire, Ryan. And Julie. Didn’t you?’

Brotherton shook his head once more.

‘Yes you did. Claire. And Julie. And Lisa. And Susie. You did. Didn’t you?’

‘No… no…’ Brotherton’s eyes slid down to the right.

‘Didn’t you…’

‘No…’

Phil sat back, exhausted. He had seen it. Marina’s voice in his ear just confirmed it.

‘Oh my God. He’s telling the truth, Phil. He didn’t do it.’

Then, just to emphasise the point, Brotherton started talking. ‘Yes, I was out. There’s this… this girl that I’ve been seeing… a young girl. I… I didn’t want Sophie to know…’

Phil stared at Brotherton until he could look at him no longer.

Marina was right. Brotherton was telling the truth.

49

Graeme Eades felt like Superman.

He parked in front of his own house in Stanway, switched off the engine, sat back, closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. The afternoon with Erin had been beyond fantastic. She had joined him in the hotel room not long after he arrived, seemingly delighted at what he had bought for her. Cooing and squealing, she had gone straight into the bathroom and changed into the first outfit, telling him to just lie himself down on the bed and get comfortable, and she would give him a treat.

And what a treat. She came out, filling the basque beautifully, walking slowly and predatorily in her heels, a lascivious smile on her face. Once in the bedroom she moved the armchair to the end of the bed and proceeded to put on a show for him involving at least half of the toys he had just bought. He was pleased he had remembered the batteries.

He was so excited he almost came there and then but she wouldn’t let him. A quick change of costume and she joined him on the bed, making use of the lotions and oils. She smiled all the while at his reaction to her perfect and surprisingly gymnastic body as she joined it with his rather less than lithe one.

As he was about to come, Erin controlling and restraining the juddering, electric orgasm that was ready to burst from within him, she asked once again about promotion. Yes, he had gasped. Whatever. She went on to tell him how good she was at her job and whose job she thought she should have. Naturally, he agreed. That person needed sacking. Would he do it? He would. And give her the job instead? Yes. Yes. Yes. She smiled. Good. And allowed him to come.

He pulled the key out of the ignition, grabbed his briefcase, got out. His senses had been left reeling from his encounter, with more than his mind blown. As he walked up the drive he thought back over the promise he had made. He had known it wasn’t in his power to hire and fire. But Erin didn’t know that. Okay, perhaps he had exaggerated his importance and position in the company. So what? All men did that. Especially to impress women. He had promised her the job, yes, and she had reminded him of that promise as he had left, but again, so what? What could she do about it? He would tell her that, boss or not, these things took time, there were procedures to be gone through, but not to worry. She would get the job. No hurry. Yeah. String her along. And in the meantime…

He smiled. Best of all, he had put the whole afternoon, including his purchases, on expenses. Whatever, it was definitely better than paying for it.

As he approached the house, it felt like a black cloud was descending over him. With every step that took him nearer to his front door, the cloud darkened until it was almost pitch black as he put his key in the lock. He reluctantly tried to force Erin out of his mind as he prepared to confront Caroline. He had an excuse ready for being late – a meeting went on longer than expected, a client turned up he had to see, something like that, the usual – but to be honest, he didn’t care. He’d had enough of seeing her pained, pale face haunting the house as she dragged her lumpen body around, never happy. Put her next to Erin and there was no comparison. Before the pregnancy, maybe. The first one. But not now. Perhaps he should do something about that. Something to seriously think about.

He opened the door. He sighed, shook his head and entered. Should he shout? Tell her he was home? No. She might be sleeping. Hopefully.

He put his keys on the table as he always did. The hallway was in darkness. He tried the switch. It didn’t work. Puzzled, he walked down the hall. Opened the living room door. Ready for arguments, ready for misery. Ready for any of the normal responses he was greeted with when he arrived home.

But he wasn’t ready for this.

The lights were on in here.

He screamed.

And screamed and screamed and screamed.

50

Clayton pulled deep on his Marlboro Light, held it and exhaled slowly, feeling his body relax against the side of his BMW as he did so. He was in the car park behind the police station. It was freezing. He was trying not to let the cold get to him. But his chattering teeth betrayed him.

What a balls-up. The whole thing. What a balls-up.

Sophie in the interview room, and then Brotherton. Phil hadn’t been able to break him. Even with all the circumstantial evidence, CCTV footage, everything, he still couldn’t do it. They were all coming to the conclusion that maybe Brotherton actually was innocent. And Clayton was off the case. Unable to influence it. His future in everyone else’s hands. He hated that most of all.

Another drag, and another exhale. Movement at the back of the police station caught his eye. Anni was striding out of the building, wearing her usual T-shirt and jeans but with no jacket, arms tightly wrapped around her body in a vain attempt to keep out the cold. She approached him, slowed. Stood opposite him as he smoked. Said nothing.

Clayton swallowed. Again. Took another drag. She was making him nervous. He was letting her. He had no choice. He looked at her. She was waiting for him to speak. He noticed that his stomach flipped and his breathing had quickened. His teeth were still chattering. He tried to stop them.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

Anni’s face remained impassive. ‘What for?’

‘You know.’The wall to the left of her shoulder was fascinating; he kept his eyes on it.

‘Yes,’ she said, a trace of angry emotion seeping into her voice, ‘I know. But I want to hear you say it.’

He took another drag of the cigarette, tried again to keep his teeth still in his mouth. Exhaled. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For not grassin’ me up to Phil.’

She said nothing. Waiting once more.

Clayton felt that since it had now been acknowledged between them, he was expected to say something further. ‘I recognised her straight away,’ he said. ‘At the metal yard. And I thought…’ He sighed. ‘Maybe I could get something from her, something important that I could use for the investigation. Now, I know I was bein’ selfish, not thinkin’ of the team-’

‘Don’t insult my intelligence, Clayton, I saw what happened. ’

Another sigh. ‘It was just the once,’ he said. ‘Last night in the car.’

‘I don’t want to know. I don’t need to know.’ She still wouldn’t look at him.

‘Yeah… just the once. That’s all it was.’ He fell silent. Risked a glance at her. He was sure she had been looking at him when he had been looking elsewhere, sure her eyes had just darted away from his. ‘It was… I’ve never done anything like that before.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Whatever, but look-’

This time she looked at him. Directly at him. And her eyes were so fierce and strong, he wished she hadn’t. ‘Clayton, when I say I don’t care, I don’t care. It’s none of my business what you get up to in your own time.’

Clayton frowned. Wasn’t she angry because she had seen him with another woman? Wasn’t that it? ‘I just thought because of, you know, the other night, that you were-’

She gave a laugh, harsh and abrasive. ‘What? You think because we had a fumble that somehow we’re… what? Lovers? That I’ve caught you cheating on me? Is that it?’

‘Well, yeah…’

Another laugh, just as harsh but more disbelieving. She shook her head. ‘That’s what you think this is all about? Really? You arrogant bastard.’

‘So… why then?’

She gave him the pitying kind of look she would reserve for a backward child. ‘Think about it. Because, Clayton, you were spotted in a car with a witness who was, as the tabloids say, performing a sex act on you. While under surveillance. Doesn’t that scream unprofessional conduct to you? Conflict of interests, at the very least? Don’t you think it’s the kind of thing that could put a conviction in jeopardy? Not to mention this shining career you think you’re going to have.’

‘Well, yeah. When you put it like that, yeah.’

‘So?’

‘I know that. I just thought, you know. You were mad at me because of, you know. Us.’

Anni looked him directly in the eye. There were things she was about to say but she stopped herself. Instead she shook her head and walked off. ‘I’m going back inside.’

Clayton flicked his cigarette away, turned to follow her. ‘Me too.’

She turned to him as she kept walking, her arms still wrapped tightly round her body. ‘Piss off, Clayton. Leave me alone.’

She reached the door before he did. He ran towards her, stopped her from opening it with his palm against it. She turned and faced him, angry.

‘Let me go. Now.’

‘What you goin’ to do? About what you saw?’

‘Let me go.’ She struggled to open the door. He still wouldn’t let her.

‘Please, Anni, I need to know.’ Clayton’s voice had dropped to a begging, wheedling tone. ‘Look, it was just a one-off. I’ve never done it before, I’ll never do it again. Please.’

‘I don’t know… I don’t know what happened…’

She pulled the door again.

‘Please, Anni. You have to tell me. Are you goin’ to tell Phil?’

‘I should do.’

‘Yeah, I know.You goin’ to?’

She stopped struggling, looked at him. Sighed. She was still angry, he could tell. But her features had softened slightly. ‘I don’t know. I should do. But I don’t know.’

He took his hand off the door. She walked through it and strode away from him. Clayton looked back into the car park, saw his BMW sitting there, gleaming. He sighed, shook his head.

What a balls-up.

He followed her back in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

51

Marina sat in the canteen in the police station, notebook open before her, a cup of something at her lips. Someone had made a vague attempt to cheer the place up, make it appear welcoming by providing primary-coloured chairs and tables and non-institutional colours on the walls. But it still looked like what it was. A fuelling station for time-poor public employees.

She took a sip of her drink, not knowing whether it was coffee or tea, suspecting it was veering towards coffee because that was what she had ordered. But not really caring. She sighed, pen poised above her notebook, ready to write something. Process what had just happened, what she had just witnessed, find a way to move forward. She looked at the blank page. Willed the words to appear. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t think of anything to write. With a sigh she placed the pen back on the table, took another sip of coffee.

She had been right all along. Brotherton was not the killer. Phil had tried to break him down, kept going even after she had spoken to him, told him he wasn’t the killer. He’d repeated the evidence back to Brotherton, over and 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 Cliché 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. She just knew it. She was standing up, grabbing her bag, her coat.

‘He’s done it again,’ Phil said. ‘Another murder.’

Fenwick stood up too.

‘Marina,’ said Phil, looking at Fenwick. ‘Not you. Sir.’

He didn’t wait for a reply; just turned and hurried away.

Fenwick sat down again. Stayed where he was.

52

Hester held the baby in her arms and smiled. She was a proud mother again.

She had wiped most of the blood off it with an old rag that she had washed out and dried specially for use with the baby. It was smothered in blankets and she was sitting by the heater so it would keep warm. She wasn’t going to make the same mistakes again. That was what life was, she had read somewhere or seen on TV or something, a learning process. So that was what she was doing. Learning how to take care of the baby.

Her husband had been buzzing when he brought the baby to her. She had never felt him so alive. The hunt, he had said. The hunt had done it. She didn’t care. All she wanted was the baby. He had stayed around afterwards, like he was so full of energy he couldn’t go anywhere else. But he had, eventually.

Somehow she didn’t think this baby was going to be as weak as the last one. It was bigger for a start, moving its arms and legs round more. It even had its eyes open a bit. And it was a girl. She had checked. She had smiled when she saw, giggled.

‘My husband’s going to like you,’ she said, still smiling and giggling.

Then felt something wrench inside her at the thought. Something dark and sad. She hoped he wouldn’t. That might mean he went off her. Then she might be abandoned. For the baby. She would have to watch it grow, knowing that it was going to replace her. That couldn’t happen. She wouldn’t allow it. Better to not be a mother at all than be a mother betrayed.

The darkness and sadness inside her crystallised, hardened at the direction her thoughts were taking. Her face twisted with sudden anger. She stared at the baby, breathing hard.

‘You’d better not,’ she said. ‘You’d better fuckin’ not…’

The baby just lay there, trying to look round, its arms and legs doing their jerky, spasming movements. She tried not to be angry with it. Because that was all in the future. That was to come. First there was the here and now. There was motherhood. There was bringing up baby.

She sat there looking at it. She didn’t know how long for. Eventually all the anger drained out of her, leaving just a placid, calm look on her face. Her body was still again, her breathing even and shallow. She wasn’t angry. She was a mother again. Just a mother. And this was the time she should spend with her baby. Bonding time. Special time.

After all, that was why she had gone to the trouble of getting the babies the way she did. So they came straight out of their surrogate and into her arms. No time to bond with anyone else. Hers from the start.

The baby’s face began to twist. Hester knew what would be next. Crying. Then wailing. She knew what to do this time.

‘You hungry, eh? Want feedin’? Want some milk? I’ll get it for you.’

She stood up, put the baby down on the armchair she had been sitting in. It writhed and screamed. She crossed to the kitchen, the screaming seeming to follow her.

‘It’s all right, Mummy’s warmin’ your milk now…’

She put the bottle in the microwave. It was old, rusting at the edges, the enamel chipped, the buttons worn and it made no sound any more, but it seemed to still work okay. Still heated things up.

The baby kept wailing. Hester tried to placate it while she waited for the microwave to do its work, but the baby wouldn’t stop. She sighed. She had forgotten about that. In so short a space of time, she had forgotten. How it was at that certain pitch to cut right through you. Down to the bone, in your head. That loud, insistent wail. Even when it stopped you could still hear it. Hester felt anger rise inside her once more.

‘It’s coming…’

But the baby didn’t understand. Or if it did understand, that didn’t make it stop. Just kept on wailing. Hester watched the microwave, waiting for it to ping. That wailing…

‘Shut up! Just shut up!’ If it was going to do that all the time… She remembered how the last one had been, crying, shouting, screaming… she hated that. Had wanted to kill it. If this one kept doing the same…

The microwave pinged. She flung open the door, grabbed the milk. The bottle felt a bit hot to the touch. Hester didn’t care. She crossed the room, picked up the baby, put it on her lap, stuck the end of the bottle in its mouth. The baby’s eyes widened in surprise, then it started sucking. It took one mouthful, two, then spat it out, milk running down the sides of its face.

Hester felt anger clouding in again, her face twisting in rage once more. ‘What’s this about? Eh? You said you were hungry.You wanted feedin’. Here it is.’

She tried again, pushing the teat in once more. The hot liquid ran down the baby’s cheeks again. Hester’s anger increased.

‘Have it… have it…’

The baby wouldn’t take it.

Hester looked at the baby, at the bottle, didn’t know what to do. Emotions were tumbling through her, so fast she couldn’t recognise them, catch them. Anger, fear, impotence. She looked once more at the baby, the bottle…

She stood up. Put the baby on the seat once more, the bottle beside it. The baby’s flailing arm knocked the bottle over. Milk began to ooze out, soaking the blanket the baby was wrapped in.

Hester didn’t care. Couldn’t think about that. She had to get out. Get away from the baby and its incessant wailing.

She opened the side door, stepped out into the yard. It was dark now and still bitterly cold. The air carried the threat of rain or worse, snow. But Hester didn’t care. She would take all that just to get away from the baby. From that noise, that need…

She took a deep breath, let it out as one long sigh. She looked across the river to the lights from the port. Ships would be coming in, going out once more. No screaming babies there. Just the vast, open water. The sea. The ocean. Calm. How Hester wanted to be there, to be miles away from here.

She sighed. It wasn’t the first time she had thought that in her life. It wasn’t the first time she had thought that this week. But she knew that even though all that was just over the river, it may as well have been a million miles away. On another planet, even. She would never go there, not even to the port, let alone over the sea. Here was where she was from. And here she would stay.

Her sister had escaped. Or tried to. She closed her eyes. Didn’t want to think of her sister again. Of the night she got away. Of the night she became Hester. No. All that horror, that screaming, wailing… No. Don’t think of it. Too upsetting.

Yeah, her father had said. Her sister had got away all right. Got away for ever. Hester knew what that meant. And what she had to do. So she had stayed.

Hester sighed. From inside, she could hear the baby still screaming. She closed her eyes, willed it away, but it was no good. She opened her eyes again. Her husband was there.

Fuck’s the matter with you? he said. What you doin’ out here?

‘The baby,’ she said, ‘it’s the baby. I can’t…’ She was about to say ‘cope’, but she knew her husband wouldn’t like that. Would think her weak, maybe even try to get rid of her, replace her. She thought again of the baby. Her possible replacement. She definitely wouldn’t tell him those thoughts. Didn’t want to give him ideas.

It’s makin’ a hell of a fuckin’ racket.You’d better get in there, sort it out.

She couldn’t answer, just shook her head.

Hey, he said.You wanted it.You can look after it.

‘Can’t… can’t you do it?’

I can do it all right. I can go in there an’ make it stop. But if I do, it’ll never start again.That what you want?

Hester thought for a moment. Was that what she wanted? It would make everything so much easier. So much quieter. Just go in and…

You can always get another one.There’s still the list…

She knew what he meant. He was so high on the blood lust that he wanted to go again. And if it meant getting rid of this one and finding a replacement, then fine. But no. She couldn’t do that. Not after everything they had been through to get it. She couldn’t just let it go like that.

She shook her head. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

Then sort it. Shut it up.

Hester nodded. It was what she was, what she had wanted, what she did. She was a mother. She had to cope. And she could. As long as her husband was with her, as long as they were a family, she could cope.

She opened the door. Immediately the noise was amplified. She walked inside.

53

Stanway had once been a village with its own identity. It wasn’t that long ago, Phil thought, twenty years at the most. But first came the zoo, then the retail park. Now it was rapidly becoming just another part of Colchester’s suburban sprawl.

He stood in a modern estate comprised of boxy houses of varying sizes in red and yellow brick, designed to hark back to some unspecified architecture of the past, something that would endow the flimsy new houses with a sense of tradition and solidity. They were billed as executive dwellings, but from looking at the cars parked there, Vauxhalls, Fords, Renaults, a few Volvos and Audis, he would have said they were more for middle management with either ambitions or delusions.

Phil knew it would be the kind of place that the residents would have moved to from inner cities and town centres, associating them with violence and fear. Thinking money would protect them. And now they found themselves reluctantly embracing those things in the form of a brutal murder. He knew what they would be thinking: the people they had tried to escape from had followed them here. But Phil knew different. From sickening experience, he knew there were no boundaries. Money wouldn’t protect them. Nothing would. Murder could happen anywhere.

The house he was standing in front of was one of the yellow brick ones. It had small, square windows and a pillared porch and was, he supposed, designed to project a vaguely Regency air. It looked, outwardly, as ordinary as could be. But once that threshold was crossed, Phil knew that once again he would be stepping into a different and much darker world.

The circus had been called out. The street had been closed off, the white tents had gone up, arc lights erected and pointing at the house. Rubbernecking residents had gathered at the corner, some evicted from their own homes, some being questioned by uniforms. Phil spotted Anni. He crossed the street. She saw him coming, nodded.

He looked round, took in the scene once more. ‘What’s the damage?’

Anni, bundled up in her parka and scarf, put her hands in her pockets, exhaled steam in the darkness. ‘Nasty, boss,’ she said. ‘Stating the obvious, but there you go. It’s him, though. She was pregnant. No baby. No sign.’

Phil nodded, his eyes on the threshold of the house. ‘Where’s the husband?’

Anni pointed along the street. ‘Ambulance,’ she said. ‘He found her.’

‘Poor bastard,’ said Phil. ‘Any children?’

‘Two. Twelve and ten. They’ve been bundled off to Grandma’s.’

‘Right.’ He made to cross to the ambulance. Anni stopped him.

‘Boss,’ she said. ‘The husband. He’s holding something back.’

‘Any idea what?’

‘Just being a bit secretive, that’s all. Bit vague on his whereabouts this afternoon.’

Phil gave a grim smile. ‘I think we know what that usually means.’

Anni returned the smile. ‘Maybe thought I would prejudge him. Probably happier sharing with another bloke.’

Phil walked over to the ambulance. The night was properly dark now, autumn changing to winter. He had once read somewhere that a writer had suggested six seasons instead of four, with the extra two either side of winter. Locking and unlocking, he had proposed they be called. A time when the world closed itself up, clutched itself in something more like death than hibernation. Looking around at the stunted, denuded trees at the fringes of the estate and feeling the icy wind blowing towards him, he had to agree. The world was locked, holding itself in. Itself and its secrets.

He reached the ambulance. A man, mid-forties, Phil guessed, overweight, balding but disguising it and wearing a suit that looked expensive but still didn’t seem to fit very well, was sitting on the gurney, a foil blanket draped over his shoulders. He held a mug of something warm in his hands, absently, as if unaware that it was there. As if unaware that he had hands.

Phil remembered his name, spoke to him. ‘Mr Eades?’

The man looked up. It was as if his eyes were at the back of a long, dark cave and he was having trouble seeing out.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Brennan.’ Phil offered his hand. The man detached his from the mug he was holding, absently shook it. ‘I’m sorry about what’s happened.’

Graeme Eades nodded.

‘I’m going to have to ask you a few questions, I’m afraid.’

Another slack, absent nod.

Phil started in on his questions. He knew this was often the worst time to be asking them, but he pressed on because he didn’t have time to wait. Sometimes he got lucky: a witness in shock would remember something with startling clarity, and like a thread that could unravel a jumper, it was something that could be worked on, teased out.

Graeme Eades was clearly in shock, struggling to give answers, to be consistent. The more Phil went on, the less he thought there would be some kind of revelation, but he still kept plugging away. He also bore in mind what Anni had said while he asked the same things over and over: where were you this afternoon, what time did you get home, did you speak to your wife during the day, if so what time… and each time he received the same vague answers. He was about to give up, leave the questioning for later, when Graeme Eades looked up, grabbed his arm.

Phil, surprised by the action, looked down at the fingers. The grip was strong; not, Phil thought, because Graeme Eades’ strength was returning, but more likely because the shock was bubbling up inside him, building him up to some kind of mania.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘You’re sorry?’ said Phil, his heart skipping a beat. A confession would be too much to dare to hope for. ‘What for?’

‘It’s my fault. I’m sorry…’

Phil sat down next to him once more. ‘What are you sorry for?’

‘I was… I was… with Erin. I should have been home and I was with Erin…’ And then the tears started in earnest.

Phil could work out the rest from that. Graeme Eades was a liar. But he clearly wasn’t a murderer. Just an adulterer. A very remorseful – and guilty – adulterer.

Phil stood up. He doubted there would be anything more Eades could tell him. Not in that state. Not at the moment. He left the ambulance, spoke to a uniform waiting by the back door chatting to a paramedic.

‘See if you can get a statement when he calms down,’ he said, then walked over towards the house. He couldn’t put it off any longer.

Marina was standing by his car. She was already suited, the hood pulled tight round her face, paper overshoes Velcroed round her legs. She was taking several deep breaths, her arm once again round her stomach, he noticed, her other arm on the bonnet of his car for support.

‘You sure you want to do this?’ Phil said, getting his own suit out of the back of his car and taking it out of the plastic bag.

She nodded, without making eye contact, keeping her focus on the front door. She didn’t say anything.

‘You don’t have to,’ he said, slipping into the suit. ‘No one expects you to. No one would blame you if you waited until the body had been cleared out.’

‘No.’ She still didn’t look at him, kept her eyes on something he couldn’t see, something he wasn’t even sure was there. ‘I want to do it.’

‘I should warn you. Once you step over that threshold, you’re in hell. You might step out again, but it’ll never leave you.’

‘I know.’

‘Well if you’re sure. I don’t want it messing you up, though. So much so that you can’t function when we need you.’

She looked at him, right in the eyes. ‘I won’t mess up.’

He kept eye contact with her for perhaps longer than he should have done. His voice softened slightly when he spoke. ‘I know you won’t.’

He saw the ghost of a smile on her face. They both looked away at the same time.

Anni came to join them, similarly attired.

‘Right.’ Phil pulled his hood up, fastened his boots. He was ready. ‘Let’s go.’

54

Phil had been right, thought Marina. It was hell.

She had hoped that seeing Claire Fielding’s apartment would have prepared her for this, but it hadn’t. Nothing could have done. She had seen the flat after it had been cleared, the bodies removed. She had looked at the crime-scene photos, tried to imagine the two together. It still wasn’t enough.

She had a flashback to when she was little and her mother used to wash her hair over the sink, rinsing it through with jug after jug of warm water. The school announced they were taking her year to the local swimming pool for lessons. Marina had never been swimming in a swimming pool before. She imagined it would feel like jug after jug of warm water over her head. But that gentle feeling was nowhere near the experience of plunging head first into the pool: the sheer weight and pressure of the cold, chlorinated water bearing down on her, pushing her under. She had felt like she was going to freeze and drown simultaneously.

Walking into the house had felt exactly the same. Viewing the photos, going round Claire Fielding’s had just been a dry run. Now she saw first-hand the way an ordered, regular life had been torn apart and destroyed in the most horrific manner imaginable. She could feel the violence, the hatred and – there was no other word for it – the insanity in the atmosphere of the house. It was like an indoor fog had descended and refused to move. Her legs weakened and she stumbled. Phil looked at her, concern on his face.

‘You okay?’

She nodded, kept her eyes away from his. The hall was carnage. The wallpaper, beige with gold designs, had bloodied handprints smeared down the length of it, showing signs of a desperate struggle, one she had no trouble imagining. The crunch of broken glass underfoot, a smashed light fitting helped her see it. But it was the bloodied spray over the walls, floor and ceiling that brought it to vivid life. The slaughterhouse decoration caused her to see the knife enter, break skin, slice muscle and tendon, watch as the bright arterial blood fountained and geysered out…

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’ Her throat was hot and dry, her voice cracked.

He didn’t move for a few seconds, so she went on ahead of him. ‘Let’s… let’s see the rest.’

He looked at her once more, decided he had to take her at her word and moved on. ‘Must have been a struggle here,’ he said aloud. ‘She answered the door, he… what? Takes a swing at her? Cuts her?’ He looked down at the carpet. The bloodstains had been flagged, samples taken for analysis.

‘Looks like it,’ Anni said. ‘Why, though? That’s changing what he did last time.’

‘Serial killers…’ Marina took a deep breath. ‘Serial killers will do that sometimes.’

‘We’re saying that?’ said Phil. ‘Calling this the work of a serial killer?’

‘You think there’s any doubt now?’ said Marina.

‘And there’s no chance Brotherton could have done this before we brought him in?’ said Anni.

‘Highly unlikely,’ said Phil.

‘So why’s he done it like this?’ said Anni, getting them focused once more. ‘This serial killer? To throw us off? Make us think it’s someone else?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Marina. ‘They do that. Or they might find a… a different way of working. Something that… that… suits them better.’

‘Let’s find out where he cut her,’ said Phil. ‘Might give us more of a clue.’

Phil leading, they followed the bloodied trail into the living room. And stopped dead.

‘Oh God…’ said Marina. ‘Oh Jesus…’ She screwed her eyes tight shut, but not before the image had seared itself on to her retinas.

What was left of Caroline Eades’ body lay in the centre of the room, on the floor. Her stomach had been slit in a crude circle from her groin to beneath her breasts. The baby had been removed. That was horrific enough, but whoever had done it hadn’t stopped there.

‘Throat cut,’ said Phil.

‘Not just cut,’ said Anni. ‘He’s nearly taken her head off.’

The cut went right through her neck. Marina could see the glistening white bone of the woman’s spine in amongst the gore.

‘Maybe she started to scream,’ said Anni. ‘Had to keep her quiet. That accounts for the amount of blood in the hall.’ She looked again at the body. ‘What’s… what’s he done with her arms and legs?’

‘Broken them,’ said Phil, trying to sound as neutral as possible, failing to keep the revulsion out of his voice. ‘Then… held them down…’

Caroline Eades’ arms and legs were splayed out at impossible angles to her body. Heavy objects from around the room held them in place. Hardback reference books. A vase. The DVD recorder. The coffee table.

‘Oh God…’ said Marina again. ‘Oh God…’

Phil turned to her, grabbed her by the shoulders. Eye-to-eye contact. ‘Marina, look at me.’

‘But, but I… I know her…’

Anni joined Phil in staring at Marina. ‘How?’ asked Phil.

‘Oh God…’

‘How?’ Phil asked again, his voice managing to be both soft and firm.

‘Yoga… she was at yoga… She… she asked me to go for a coffee…’

Phil needed Marina to concentrate. He couldn’t allow her to slip into emotional memories. ‘Marina, that’s awful. Horrible. But I need you to focus now. To put that to one side and focus. I want to know what you see.’ His voice was calm, solicitous. ‘Tell me what you see.’

She glanced at the body again, then quickly back to Phil, her lip trembling.

‘What Marina Esposito the trained psychologist sees. What this means to our investigation. What you see on that floor that’s going to help us catch whoever did this.’ His voice dropped even lower. ‘Look again. Tell me what you see.’

She took a deep breath, steeled herself. Looked again. Tried to take in the scene dispassionately, clinically. Put aside her feelings, her emotions, work analytically. Put those years of theory into practice.

‘He’s… I say he, I don’t…’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll leave that one for now. The perpetrator came in through the front door; she… she answered it; he wanted to silence her. Maybe she started to scream… maybe he didn’t want to take that chance. So he did it fast. He’s… he’s in a hurry. On a schedule? Wants it over quickly?’ She shook her head. ‘No.’

Another look at the body on the floor, the bloodstained walls. ‘He’s here to do a job. He wants that baby. No time to mess about. He’s escalating again. More ferocious this time, less focused.’

She then did something that she wouldn’t have believed herself capable of doing. She knelt down before the body, peered at the stomach wound. ‘He knew what he was doing. This is controlled. The cutting isn’t frenzied or hurried. The rest of the attack is.’

She let her eyes rove over the other injuries. ‘He didn’t have time to tie her down, to control her as he did Claire Fielding. The restraints, the spreadeagling. I bet there’s no drugs, either. Maybe he couldn’t get them in time. Maybe he’d run out.’ She looked again. ‘Or maybe he doesn’t want to use them any more. Maybe he’s really getting a taste for this. He’s doing a job, but he’s starting to enjoy it. Really, really enjoy it…’

She checked the position of the body. ‘Right. So he pushes her down…’ She saw the action on her mind’s eye. ‘Not content with that, he smashes her arms, her legs. She’s not going anywhere. Then he… he wants her to stay still, be controlled. No drugs, so he improvises. Finds what’s at hand to do the job of keeping her in place. Then he gets to work.’

‘What does that tell us?’ asked Phil. ‘What’s your impression? ’

She kept staring at the body, thinking. Phil and Anni waited. ‘I don’t think it’s an escalation in the sense of him getting out of control,’ she said eventually. ‘But this is a fierce attack and it’s come right after the last one. Usually in cases of this nature there’s some time between them. The perpetrator likes to rest up, let his lusts die down, play with his trophies until the urge builds again. There’s nothing like that here.’

‘Why not?’ asked Phil.

‘Because…’ An idea struck Marina. She felt cold and empty as it took hold of her. ‘The baby’s dead. The last baby he took. Claire Fielding’s. That’s it. That’s why he’s back again so quickly. He wants a replacement.’

‘And this baby could still be alive?’ said Anni.

‘Not my department. But I hope so. I’d guess so.’

‘And the position he’s left the body in?’ said Phil.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Marina, staring at the body. ‘I don’t think there’s any significance. He’s got what he wanted and he’s off.’

‘So this confirms things,’ said Phil. ‘That it’s not the woman who’s the target; it’s the baby.’

‘Right,’ said Marina. ‘She’s just a… a husk, a carrier. He doesn’t care what happens to her. Like you don’t care what happens to an eggshell when you crack it and take out the egg.’

Phil and Anni stared at the body, taking in what Marina had said.

Eventually Marina turned to Phil. ‘Can we step outside now, please?’

‘Certainly.’

They did so. Marina was surprised at what she saw. Teams of white-suited police were going about their jobs in what was once a peaceful suburban street. Now it looked like it was the centre of a chemical attack. Nothing had been spared. Fingertip searches were taking place. The house and surrounding area were being examined in forensic detail. She saw door-to-door inquiries being carried out. A mobile police station had been set up by the end of the turning for anyone to give information anonymously. Nick Lines and his pathology team had arrived.

The press were behind the barriers at the end of the road, erected to stop them actually seeing anything, their cameras and lights adding to the police lights, creating an unreal film-set atmosphere. They were getting restless, hovering, hoping for that one glimpse, that overheard remark, the mistake that would provide them with their story.

Phil stopped walking. Spoke to the other two. Started to take charge once more. ‘Anni, chain of evidence. Follow the body to the mortuary. Get Nick Lines over here now. I want timelines established for Graeme Eades, for Caroline Eades and for this Erin woman. I want her found and questioned. See if she wanted a baby and he wouldn’t give it to her. I want Forensics working overnight, I want everything double-checked. He must have left some trace here, he must have done…’

‘Who’s going to do all this?’ asked Anni.

Phil sighed. ‘I wish we still had Clayton. The Birdies should be here soon. I’ll make a couple of calls. Get all available ranks here and working on it.’

Marina looked over at the press once more. Flashbulbs popped in her direction as she did so. ‘Should have brought Ben Fenwick after all,’ she said to Phil. ‘He could have kept them quiet.’

‘I suppose he does have his uses,’ said Phil.

‘We’re going to need to tell them something,’ said Anni.

Phil nodded. Looked up. ‘Would you two do it?’

Anni and Marina exchanged surprised glances.

‘Aw, boss,’ said Anni, ‘that’s not my thing. Come on…’

‘You’ve had media training, you can do it,’ said Phil, warming to his theme. ‘Both of you. Together. Say what’s happened – don’t give details – then if you, Marina, could look at the camera and make some kind of plea to…’ He shrugged. ‘Whoever’s got the baby. Ask them to give it back, ask them to come forward and we’ll help them, that kind of thing.’

‘You think that’ll help?’ asked Marina.

‘It won’t hurt.’ Phil sighed, and Marina saw just how much stress he was under. ‘I know it’s not what you signed up for, but if anyone knows the words that’ll hit this person’s buttons, it’s you.’

She just looked at him.

‘Please.’ He glanced over at the news crews, then back to Marina and Anni. ‘It’s national now, not local. We need as much help as we can get.’

Marina shook her head, looked at Anni. ‘Well?’ she asked.

‘I will if you will,’ said Anni.

‘Thank you,’ said Phil.

The two women walked over to where the press were waiting, Anni complaining that if she’d known she was going to be on TV, she would have remembered her make-up. Phil watched them go. He couldn’t hear what they said, but the audience seemed to lap it up. Anni was surprisingly poised, he thought. And Marina sincere. He noticed that she kept touching her stomach as she spoke, in that new nervous habit of hers. Then they were finished and walking back towards him. Flashbulbs popping once again.

‘Well done,’ he said.

Marina smiled. ‘Thank you. I can now add media star to my CV,’ she said with a grim smile.

‘Yeah,’ said Anni. ‘Judge on X Factor next.’

Marina smiled once more. It covered the weariness and the tension.

Phil looked away, but she kept scrutinising him. His hand went to his chest, clutching it as if in sudden pain. She knew he was hiding it from Anni and his team, but she caught it. She knew what it was too. A panic attack.

She felt suddenly protective of Phil as he stopped rubbing, took a few deep breaths.

‘Come on then,’ he said, turning back to them. ‘Let’s get started. Time’s running out for that baby.’

He turned, walked away towards the mobile incident room. Marina caught up with him.

‘Thanks,’ he said, keeping his eyes straight ahead, his jaw set. ‘I owe you one.’

Marina didn’t reply. Just smiled.

55

The baby was quiet. Finally. Hester had picked it up, held it, shushed it. Rocked it from side to side. The motion must have made it sleepy. It closed its eyes. Eventually it had woken up and wanted feeding. She had given it milk. It had taken it. Hester felt good. Proud. Like she could cope.

Now the baby was sleeping in its cot. Hester had the TV on. Hester loved the TV. Especially the adverts. The stuff in between them she often didn’t understand. She saw people doing things and heard laughter at the result but didn’t know what was supposed to be funny. She watched people being serious with each other but couldn’t work out what they were so worried about. She heard singers and dancers getting whooping applause and failed to see what the audience was getting excited about. You had to phone in and vote for the best one. She couldn’t work out 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 – her surrogates – had given up their babies for her. So she could be a mother. She felt a tingle inside herself when she watched. She picked a word that the reporter used – random. She frowned. It wasn’t random, it was her list. Pinned to the kitchen wall, the ones already used crossed out, the ones still to go unmarked. And there were lots more to go. She shook her head, frowned again. Some people…

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.

He was watching the TV alongside Hester when the woman came on. Speaking to the camera, looking serious. Begging whoever had the baby to give it up. At first he was surprised. He recognised her but couldn’t think from where… then he got it. Leisure World. The yoga class. Same as the last one. He smiled. She was pregnant too.

That gave him something to think about. Something to consider…

The baby kept crying.

Shut that fuckin’ noise up, or I will…

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.’

Her jaw dropped. Phil was treated to the sight of some expensive dental work and wondered whether Graeme Eades had paid for that too. ‘Are you… but I was with Graeme… do you think I did it?’

Her Essex accent had started to creep back, Phil noticed.

‘No.’

‘You think I know who did it?’

‘Do you?’

‘No!’ Her accent had returned completely. ‘Course not. Oh my God… Did they… what happened? Did they get away with much?’

Phil knew Marina would have noticed that remark. Not asking whether Mrs Eades was all right, but was there anything taken. From that, he knew that Erin didn’t have anything to tell them. It would just be a matter of sorting out timelines. Ruling out rather than ruling in.

‘Robbery wasn’t the motive, we don’t think,’ he said. ‘She was murdered.’

Her hand flew to her mouth. Stayed there. Her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God…’

‘I just need to know what time you were with Mr Eades from and what time you left.’

‘Oh my God…’

‘Please.’

‘Oh…’ Erin O’Connor became thoughtful. Before she spoke, her eyes narrowed. ‘Am I going to lose my job for this?’

‘That’s not for me to say,’ said Phil. He had had enough of this woman. ‘You’ll have to talk to Graeme Eades about that.’

‘Oh…’

‘What time were you there from, please?’

She thought. ‘About half one, two-ish, I think. I left, we left, about five. Something like that.’

‘Can anyone verify that? Did you check out?’

She shrugged. ‘Graeme paid for the room. It was all done upfront. When we were finished we just walked out.’

Phil blinked again, stifled a yawn. He shouldn’t be doing this. He was too tired. A voice came from his side.

‘Would you describe Graeme as your boyfriend, Erin?’

Marina. Her voice soft and gentle. No longer uncomfortable. Phil didn’t look at her, kept his eyes on Erin. Waited to see what her response would be.

She frowned again, took a sip of wine. She seemed more at ease with Marina. ‘I suppose… we’re…’

‘Lovers?’ suggested Marina.

She nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s it. Lovers.’

Marina smiled. ‘Seems an odd match. I mean, you’re young and very attractive…’

Did Phil notice Erin O’Connor blush?

‘And Graeme’s… well. I met him.’ Marina smiled. ‘I would have thought you could have done better.’

‘He’s my boss,’ she said, as if that explained it. And in a way, thought Phil, it did.

‘Does he have lots of girlfriends?’ said Marina. ‘Lovers who he’s the boss of?’

‘I don’t know. He said he doesn’t.’

‘Did he promise to…’ Marina shrugged, as if the question had just come to her. ‘I don’t know… advance your career?’

‘That’s exactly it!’ Erin O’Connor almost shouted as she jumped enthusiastically on the suggestion. ‘He said I would get promotion if I slept with him.’

‘And did you?’

‘He promised I would. He was going to do it. Start the ball rolling tomorrow, he said.’

Marina shrugged. ‘I think all that’s changed now, don’t you?’

Erin nodded. Then she became reflective. Phil looked at Marina, impressed. Marina stifled a small smile. Phil knew they would get no more from Erin O’Connor. He knew she would just move on to the next man who fell for her charms. He made to stand up. Then Erin O’Connor spoke.

‘You know what he said?’ There was a bitterness in her tone, as if she was realising not only that she wouldn’t be getting her promotion through Graeme Eades, but that she had wasted all that time with him when she could have targeted someone else.

Phil stopped moving, stayed where he was. ‘What? What did he say?’

‘Today. This afternoon. He was… when we were… doing stuff. And I… I asked him if it was okay. If he liked what I was doing. And d’you know what he said?’

Marina and Phil waited, knew it was a rhetorical question.

‘He said, at least I don’t have to pay for it any more.’

‘Charming,’ said Marina.

‘At least I don’t have to pay for it…’

There was nothing more to say. They said goodbye and left Erin O’Connor to her thoughts, her wine, her small house and her plans for the future.

Outside in the street, Marina pulled her coat tightly around her. Phil looked at her.

‘Waste of time,’ he said. ‘Just another gold-digger.’

Marina shrugged. ‘See a lot of them, do you?’

He smiled. ‘Only professionally. Not personally. Come on. I’ll get you home.’ He started walking towards the Audi. Marina hesitated, then stayed where she was.

‘No,’ she said.

He stopped, waited for her to catch him up. She didn’t move. He had no choice but to turn round, walk back up the street towards her. ‘What’s up?’

She didn’t answer immediately. Phil waited, saw an expression on her face that he couldn’t read. She looked like she was at war with herself. Eventually she spoke.

‘I… I… don’t want to go home.’ She kept her eyes away from his.

Phil didn’t know how to respond. ‘Why? What’s… what’s wrong at home?’

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘Well…’

Phil felt a flutter in his chest. Not a panic attack, he knew that. But something just as dangerous. Hope?

He stood directly in front of her. When he spoke, his voice was soft, gentle.

‘Is something wrong? Tell me.’

‘It’s…’ Her hand went up to her face. She dabbed quickly and sharply at the corners of her eyes, as if angry with herself for crying. Certainly in front of Phil.

‘What? Tell me.’

Marina sighed, looked round, looked anywhere but at Phil. The street was narrow, tight. Terraced houses on both sides, cars parked either side of the street, allowing only single-file traffic through. The night was cold. When they exhaled, their breath left their bodies as clouds of steam.

‘I…’ She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t going to do this. I said I wasn’t going to do this…’

Phil waited. Watched the clouds leave his mouth, dissipate in the dark.

‘I saw things today… I can’t, can’t just go home after that. Take them with me.’ Then, in a quieter voice, almost to herself, ‘Again.’

‘There’s nowhere else to go, Marina.’ Phil wasn’t sure he meant those words. But he had to say them.

She shook her head. ‘There is.’ She looked up. Eye to eye.

Phil didn’t know what to say. It was the moment he had been waiting for for months. It was the moment he had been dreading for months.

She turned away, looked up and down the street once more. They were the only people there. ‘I… I missed you. I missed you…’

‘I missed you too,’ he said, not daring to believe his luck.

‘But I couldn’t. We couldn’t. Not after…’ She sighed. ‘And then today. Everything that’s happened today…’ She looked back to him. ‘I saw the kind of things today that I only ever deal with in books. How can I go home after that?’ Her voice fell away, as small and fragile as a child’s whispers. ‘What if I have nightmares?’

‘I’ll be there for you.’ He smiled. ‘I might be having them as well.’

She smiled, the tears starting again. Phil gently put his arms round her. She fell into his embrace. She turned her face upwards to his, eye to eye once more. The tears in her eyes making them glitter like diamonds in the streetlights.

On that cold, narrow street, they kissed.

And Phil, tired beyond endurance only a few minutes ago, had never felt more alive.

57

The Hole in the Wall pub was, as it claimed, in a hole in the wall. The old Roman wall that ringed the town loudly proclaimed its heritage, having been preserved and patched up over the centuries. Built into the Balkerne Gate, an old Roman entry point, the pub had its own kind of heritage. It was near the town centre but didn’t attract squaddie or townie drinkers, which meant less violence, which in turn meant, for Clayton, less chance of bumping into colleagues.

He walked inside, unused to the surroundings, trying quickly to get his bearings. Not a coppers’ pub, he thought, then amended that: he could imagine Phil in here. But certainly no one else.

Walls bare except for flyers advertising gigs at the Arts Centre and plays at the nearby Mercury Theatre; stripped floorboards; deliberately mismatched old wooden furniture. At a table sat a bunch of people in paint-splattered overalls, scenery painters and designers on a break from the theatre. Some goth types sat at the bar, and despite their spiked piercings and fierce tribal make-up, Clayton presumed they were harming no one but themselves.

The layout of the pub was haphazard. It looked as if sections had been added over the years. Consequently the floors were uneven, with steps up and down to various levels. There were open spaces and hidden spaces, high ceilings and lower, sloping ones. Clayton scoped the place, frowning at the noise coming from the jukebox, something thrashing and insistent, something he would never appreciate if he lived for ever, looking for the person who had texted him. He found her sitting on a leather sofa in a secluded section at the back of the pub, underneath slanted wooden roof beams.

Sophie.

She was sitting with a drink in front of her – vodka and Coke, he imagined – wearing jeans, boots and a shiny black padded jacket. He noticed there was a very large handbag at the side of the sofa. He crossed over to her, looked round once again to make sure there was no one he knew in the pub.

‘They let you go then?’ he said.

‘Had to. Had nothing to keep me on,’ she said, taking a mouthful of her drink.

He sat down next to her. ‘I’m takin’ a big risk meetin’ you here. This better be worth it.’

She put the glass back on the low table, moving her shoulders back, thrusting out her breasts in the process. A faint, fleeting smile played across her lips. ‘I’m worth it.’

Clayton said nothing.

Sophie’s mood changed. The smile disappeared, to be replaced by something darker. ‘I’ve left him,’ she said.

‘Brotherton?’

‘Who else?’ Her voice matched her features.

Clayton wished he had bought a drink at the bar now. ‘What did he say?’

Her face dropped, her eyes on the table. ‘Haven’t told him yet. Just went home, grabbed my stuff and left. He’ll find out when he comes home.’

‘He’ll be well pissed off.’

‘That’s his problem.’ She took another mouthful of her drink, a large one.

Clayton sneaked a look at his watch. Wondered what Phil and the team were doing. He felt bad about being dropped from the team. Like a striker who was having a goal drought. He knew that wasn’t the case, but that was how it felt. He was embarrassed about it. His first thought: what do I tell my mum? She was always so proud of his achievements. And he gets dropped from the highest profile case he’s ever worked. Not his fault, but how would she feel when she found out? He should have been out there, working, investigating. Not sitting here worrying about his future. But he knew he had no choice. So when Sophie called, he didn’t know what it was about, but if it was something that could save his career he had to go. And now he knew.

‘Well, good luck.’ He stood up, made to go.

‘What you doing?’ She looked up at him.

He turned, stood over her. Looked right down her cleavage. Well, he thought, it was there, rude not to. ‘Leavin’. Nothin’ more to say, is there? You’re leavin’ him. Good luck.’

Anger flashed in Sophie’s eyes. A kind of anger Clayton hadn’t encountered before. ‘That’s it, is it? Good luck? Good fuckin’ luck? Oh no you don’t.You owe me, Clayton.’

Clayton felt anger of his own begin to build. ‘Really? I owe you? Yeah? You’re a big girl, Sophie.You make your own decisions. ’

He started to walk away. She stood up, came round the table, grabbed hold of his arm. There was a surprising strength to her grip. Her fingers dug in. He turned.

‘You walk out of here, Clayton, you walk out on me, and you’ll be sorry. Really fucking sorry.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Because there’s still things about you I can tell your boss. Or your mate. DC Hepburn, isn’t it?’ A smile crept back on to her face. No warmth, just a sick, calculating coldness. ‘She doesn’t like you, does she? Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s her problem. Perhaps she’s the one I should talk to. Tell her about your past. What d’you think?’

And once again, Clayton felt scared of Sophie. Not just because of what she could reveal – he had experienced that before – but because of the way she was behaving. This was a side of her he hadn’t seen before. One he didn’t want to see again. Not just scary, unnerving. He opened his mouth to speak. She stopped him.

‘And don’t tell me I wouldn’t. ’Cause you know I would.’

Clayton sighed, too angry, too scared to speak. She smiled again, and this time there was warmth in it. Or an approximation of warmth.

‘Why don’t we sit down again?’ she said. ‘Talk this through.’

The grip on his arm relaxed, becoming a gentle guiding hand. Another smile. This was more like the old Sophie. The one he knew. Or thought he did. He allowed himself to be led, sat down next to her.

‘Right,’ she said, as if they were two old friends together. ‘Let’s discuss this properly.’ She took another mouthful of her drink, prepared herself. ‘I’ve left Ryan. I’ve got nowhere to go, nowhere to live, Clayton.’

A shudder passed through him as he realised what she was saying. ‘You’re jokin’.’

‘No I’m not, Clayton.’

Saying his name again, building up repetition, like a sales-person trying to sell him something. That was what she was, he thought. That was what she had been as long as he had known her.

‘No.You can’t…’

She leaned in close to him, the warmth in her voice now spreading to the hand she placed on his thigh. Another smile. If anyone glanced over from the bar they would just assume that they were a courting couple sitting in a private part of the pub, having a close, intense conversation that would end up in bed.

‘I’m staying with you, Clayton.You live alone, you started this.You’ve got no choice.’

He sighed, said nothing.

‘Besides, when Ryan finds out what I’ve done, he won’t be happy, will he? He’ll come after me.’ She moved in closer, her hand snaking round his arm, her thigh against his, slowly moving backwards and forwards. ‘I’ll want protecting. And who better to do that than a big, hunky policeman…’

Clayton felt his head spin, his hands shake, as if his whole body was in a whirlpool and he was being sucked down into some dark vortex. But he felt something else, too. Something that he shouldn’t have been feeling. Because despite her words, her threats, he was getting an erection.

Sophie guessed what was happening, shifted her eyes to his groin. She smiled, snaked her hand gently over it. He gasped.

‘Ooh,’ she said, ‘is that for me?’

He couldn’t reply. She laughed.

‘Well,’ she said, pulling away from him and throwing back the remainder of her drink in one go, ‘now we know where we stand, I think we’d better get going.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Back to your place,’ she said, as if explaining the obvious to a slow child. She patted the bag at the side of the sofa. ‘I brought my stuff.’ Her eyes darted to his groin once more. ‘And I thought you’d want to get there quickly so I can show you my gratitude.’

He stood up, adjusting his overcoat around his erection. He felt terrible, as if he had a virus or food poisoning, shaking like he was going to throw up.

Sophie grabbed her bag, stood up too. She put her arm through his, guided him to the door of the pub. Once outside, she stopped, looked at him.

‘You hungry? I haven’t eaten all day.’ She hugged him again. ‘And I’ll need my strength. Let’s get a bite to eat.’

Food was the last thing on Clayton’s mind. But he knew he had no choice. From the moment he had laid eyes on Sophie in Brotherton’s metal yard and recognised her, he’d known he had no choice. He wondered again what his mother would say.

‘Come on, then,’ she said, and almost skipped along the street.

Clayton allowed himself to be dragged along with her, as eager as a death-row inmate with an imminent appointment in the mercy seat.

58

Marina walked into the living room, looked round.

‘Look familiar?’ Phil was closing the door behind him, coming down the hall. He joined her in the middle of the room.

She kept looking, taking in everything about the man that he had put on show. His books she remembered from before. His CDs likewise. His small collection of DVDs. Mainly old films, Hitchcock, film noir. Despite the lack of feminine touches, it didn’t seem overly masculine, just comfortable; two sofas, and table lamps offering subdued lighting rather than one harsh overhead light. Prints on the wall showed surprising taste, she thought, for a police officer: Rothko, Hopper. But then he was a surprising man. She turned to him, smiled. ‘Just like I last saw it,’ she said.

‘Good job I tidied up this morning.’

Her smile became teasing. ‘You were expecting to bring someone back tonight?’

He opened his mouth to reply and for a second he seemed about to give a serious answer, but then a smile split his face, equally teasing as hers. ‘I’m always expecting to bring someone back.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, you’re pathetic.’ She made to sit down but her attention was drawn to a CD case on the sound system. She crossed, picked it up. Smiled. Elbow.

Phil tried to shrug. ‘Good album.’

‘Course it is, Mojo man.’ She nodded, put it down again. Sat down on the sofa, her mood suddenly changing. She sighed; her smile disappeared.

Phil looked at her, concerned. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah,’ said automatically. Then another sigh. ‘No. Sometimes when you see what we’ve seen today… I just… Why do they do it, Phil?’

‘You’re the psychologist, you tell me.’

Her hands clasped and unclasped. ‘I said something to you once.You probably don’t remember.’

‘Try me.’

‘When we were out. That first time. You asked why I became a psychologist. I said it was to understand my father. I lied. It was to understand me. I also said that all psychologists are just looking for a way home. That’s not strictly true either. It’s not just psychologists, it’s all of us. Everyone. We’re all looking for a way home.’ She lifted her head, fixed him directly. ‘Even you.’

He didn’t contradict her. He said nothing.

She continued. ‘We all want to be safe, to find some place in the world, in our heads, our hearts, where we can be understood and that we can understand. Where we can belong.’

Phil nodded, saying nothing.

‘Then I think of what we saw today. And what we have to do to catch them. What’s their idea of home? Where’s their head and their heart at? I’ve got to understand them. That’s my job. I have to look into my head and my heart and find parallels. That’s what I have to do.’

‘And the abyss looks into you and all that; that’s the job.’

‘I know.’

He turned to her. ‘Look, Marina. You’re the best I’ve worked with.You know you are.You’ll manage.’ He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Then back to her eyes.

She smiled. ‘This isn’t doubt, Phil. It’s just… I can ascribe reasons for aberrant behaviour. I can examine chains of cause and effect. But we’ll never understand, will we? We’ll never truly know what makes a monster. Or what makes someone do monstrous things.’

‘You always said we create our own monsters.’

‘And we do. But…’ She sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose what I mean is, that’s all for tomorrow. Tonight I just want to be somewhere… safe.’

They looked at each other, eyes locking once more. Phil moved towards her. Marina seemed to be moving to him but she stopped herself.

‘You let me down, Phil. That’s why I couldn’t see you again.’

Phil stopped moving, sat back.

‘You let me down and I could have been killed.’

‘I…’ This was it, he thought. The chance to tell her everything he had wanted to say, to speak aloud all those speeches and conversations he had rehearsed in his head over the months. To explain where he was and why he was needed. Because Lisa King’s body had just been discovered. Because I had to track down a killer. And I couldn’t let you know because you had your phone switched off. And everything else. On and on. But he didn’t. Instead all he said was, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It wasn’t just that. It was… I knew. I had a choice to make. And if I chose you, then that was what it was going to be like. I might never feel safe again. And I wasn’t sure I could handle that.’

He said nothing.

‘I said I wanted to be somewhere safe tonight,’ she said. ‘So I can put myself in the mind of a monster tomorrow. And safe… didn’t mean home for me. It meant you. Even though you let me down. Even though… I was scared. What d’you think of that?’

‘It was Lisa King,’ he said. ‘The start of this case. Her body had just been discovered. I phoned you.’

‘I know.’

‘Lots of times.’

‘I know.’

He sighed. ‘I didn’t know what would happen… no one could know…’

She said nothing, looked at his face, scrutinised his eyes, reading them as if looking for any trace of a lie, an untruth, a hesitation. Found nothing but pain in his voice, his features. Sincerity and honesty.

‘I’ll never let you down again. Ever.’

She smiled. ‘You’d better not.’

They kissed.

They were hungry for each other, wanted to consume each other.

They had started on the sofa, kissing. Breathing hot, warm, wet breath into each other’s mouths. Tongues twining. Phil ran his hands over Marina’s face, neck, down over her shoulders, the tops of her breasts. Marina put her hands round Phil’s neck. Stroking, touching, experiencing the sensation of the other’s skin beneath their fingertips, reacquainting themselves, confirming that they were both real, that this was actually happening once more.

Pressure increased, bodies pressed closer together. Fingers became more confident, more probing. Passion, need became urgent. Breathing came in harder, shorter gasps. Hands roved, explored, found buttons and zips, began undoing.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ Marina said, her words gasped, whispered.

They pulled apart reluctantly, not wanting to separate but wanting to take it to the next level. Phil stood, Marina came with him. Hands, mouths still locked. They stumble-walked up the stairs.

Into the bedroom. Phil turned on the bedside light.

‘No,’ Marina said. ‘Keep it dark.’

‘I want to see you… look at you…’ His hands were on her again, finding clasps, zips. Uncovering her shoulders, his mouth tracing down her neck, kissing her bared skin. Marina gasped. His hands moved further, pushing her top from her body. She helped him, responded. Pulled out his shirt, began unbuttoning. He shrugged it off, was naked to the waist. She did likewise with her top.

Phil smiled, lifted one bra strap, then the other, easing them down her arms, unclasping it from behind. He looked at her, drank in her nakedness in the half-shadowed room.

He smiled. ‘You’re beautiful.’

She smiled in response, then began unbuckling his belt. Remaining clothes and footwear were stripped in a blur. Naked, they held each other, feeling the sensation of each other’s body through their own skin. Kissed once more, then pulled apart. Phil took Marina in once more: the shape of her breasts, the colour of her nipples, the way she had trimmed her pubic hair, her soft thighs. Her belly perhaps curved more than he remembered it. It didn’t matter. She did the same for him: his broad shoulders, lightly haired chest, strong thighs, his penis, hard for her. She smiled.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said once more.

‘So are you.’

Time froze. It was a moment both had fervently wanted but neither had believed would ever happen again. It felt so right, so comfortable. But beyond the passion, they were both terrified. It was more than just sex. They both knew that. It was a line. Once it was crossed, neither could retreat back over it.

‘I love you.’ The words were out of Phil’s mouth before he could stop them.

‘I know. Don’t let me down.’

‘I won’t.’

The line had been crossed.

They moved to the bed.

Together.

59

Marina heard voices. Strong, opinionated voices. Her eyes jolted open and for a few seconds she didn’t know where she was. Then, as a lost piece of jigsaw completes a whole picture, she remembered. Phil’s bed. The radio alarm clock had just gone off, Radio Four’s Today waking her up. Her eyes closed again. She smiled.

They had made love another three times, eventually drifting off to sleep some time in the early hours. It had been beyond what she remembered, beyond what she had imagined: intense and sacred at times, hot and filthy at others. But always physically and emotionally satisfying. She had drifted off to sleep with Phil’s arms encircling her. She had felt safe. Coming back to Phil’s house had been the right decision.

Now she lay there, letting the voices from the radio wash over her. It was familiar, the same show she woke up to at home.

Home.

She thought about Tony. She had phoned him as they left the crime scene, telling him she wouldn’t be back, giving him an excuse about pulling an all-nighter to work on the latest murder. He had been his usual understanding, reasonable self, asked her if there was anything she wanted, anything he could do to help. She had felt guilt at those words. But not because she wanted to be with him. Just because he was so good to her. Like a father should have been. She thought of the cottage in Wivenhoe. Not warm and comforting, just hot and enclosing. Maybe it was time to leave home.

She turned over, stretched out her arm, expecting to feel Phil. Nothing. His side of the bed empty. Opening her eyes once more, she sat up, looked around. Just in time to see the door open and Phil enter carrying two mugs of coffee – freshly brewed, from the smell. He crossed to the bed, placed one on the table at her side, one on his own, took off his dressing gown and slid, naked, back under the sheets with her.

‘Thought you’d gone to work without me,’ she said, smiling.

‘As if I’d do that,’ he said. He took a mouthful of coffee.

She took a sip. Lovely. Milk, no sugar. Just as she liked it. She replaced it. ‘You remembered how I take it.’

He frowned. ‘Why should I forget?’

Warmth spread inside her at his words. He had always been a good listener. ‘Why should you?’

The smile lingered on his face as he turned and looked at her. His eyes began to travel down her body.

‘We haven’t got time,’ she said.

He gave a mock sigh. ‘I know.’

A thought struck her. ‘Should we go in to work together or separately?’

‘Nobody else’s business.’ He placed the mug on the bedside table, lay back. ‘Does it bother you, what people might say?’

‘Does it bother you?’

‘Did last time. The gossip. What people were thinking, what assumptions they were making.’

‘And now?’

He looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps for the investigation. If anyone tries to use this as an excuse for us not getting results, it would bother me. But other than that, no, I don’t care.’

She snuggled in to him. ‘Good.’

They lay there in silence for a while, both sleep-and-sexhungover, comfortable in each other’s silence.

‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘what happens next?’

‘I’m going to leave him,’ Marina said. The words, said aloud, surprised her. Like an idea made real by speaking it. She hadn’t known that that was what she was planning until she said it.

‘For… for me?’

Silence once more. Then, from Marina, ‘Let’s see.’

Phil nodded. Said nothing. Eventually looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get going.’ He threw back the duvet, got out of bed. Found his dressing gown once more. ‘You want the shower first?’

‘No, I’m okay.You go.’

He started to walk to the door, turned before he reached it. ‘I… look. I meant what I said. Last night. I won’t let you down.’

‘Good.’

‘Right.’

And he left the bedroom.

Marina reached for her coffee, took another mouthful. Replaced it. Sighed. She heard the sound of the shower. She stroked her stomach, felt the baby moving inside her. Thought of other conversations she had to have with Phil.

She finished her coffee, then got out of bed. It would all have to wait until later.

She had a monster to catch.

60

‘Phil? Call for you.’

Phil looked up from his desk, where he was gathering notes and photos together, preparing for the morning briefing. Adrian was holding up the handset on his desk, motioning to him. Phil mouthed the words, ‘Who is it?’ Adrian mouthed back, ‘Solicitor.’

Phil picked up the receiver, transferred the call. ‘Detective Inspector Phil Brennan,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Detective Inspector,’ a female voice said. ‘You’re CIO on the dead babies inquiry?’

Phil said he was.

‘Linda Curran of Hanson, Warnock and Gallagher.’ She paused as if he should know them. He certainly did. He had dealt with them, and Linda Curran, before. Many times.

‘Hello, Linda, how can I help you?’

‘I’m representing Ryan Brotherton, Detective Inspector, and I’m informing you that my client has instructed me to sue Essex Police, and in particular your department.’

Phil’s features hardened. His grasp on the receiver tightened. ‘Is that right?’ he said.

‘Indeed it is,’ Linda Curran said. From the tone of her voice, she took no particular joy in the message; she was merely doing her job.

‘Oh come on, Linda,’ he said. ‘That’s ridiculous. What is it? Harassment? How does he work that one out? We’re charging him with attempted murder.’

There was the rustle of paper down the phone. ‘Harassment, wrongful arrest, deprived of basic human rights whilst in custody, loss of earnings and emotional distress. ’

‘Okay,’ said Phil, ‘let’s go through these. Can I do that? Or will it prejudice the case?’

‘Feel free.’

‘Okay. Harassment. Brotherton’s name came up several times in a murder inquiry. We went to see him at work, and when he attacked my DS, we brought him in for questioning. He was never arrested.’

‘He attacked your…? You allege he attacked your DS?’

‘Dropped a ton of metal on him. Or would have done if he hadn’t got out of the way in time. No “allege” about it. Didn’t he mention it?’

Silence. Linda Curran clearly hadn’t been informed of the circumstances. ‘And that’s the attempted murder?’

‘It is in my book. What about this basic human rights thing? When did that happen?’

‘In custody.You denied him access to a solicitor.’

‘News to me. Warnock’d been called but was unavailable. You were on your way; we were just… chatting till you arrived. What was the next one?’

‘Loss of earnings.’

‘Blaming me for the credit crunch now, is he? And emotional distress.’

‘Apparently his girlfriend has left him.’

‘Good for her. Let’s hope she finds someone who doesn’t want to use her for target practice. Is that it?’

Another rustle of paper. ‘Yep. That’s everything.’

‘Right,’ said Phil, a weary smile on his face. It was all just part of the game. He sighed. ‘Well, thanks again, Linda. Always nice to talk to you.’

‘You too, Phil.’

‘I wouldn’t want to do your job.’

She gave a small laugh. ‘And I wouldn’t want to do yours. Let’s catch up sometime.’ She hung up.

‘Or let’s not,’ he said to the dead line, putting the phone down. They had once gone out on a date. One of his least successful ones. And that was saying something. She must just be saying that out of politeness, he thought.

He leaned back in his chair, stretched. That was all he needed. Brotherton making trouble. He wasn’t worried, though. He could make it go away. It was just extra hassle he didn’t need, something to divert his time and energy.

He drained the last of his coffee, threw the paper cup in the bin. He had driven Marina in to work, then gone off to get takeaway coffee from a nearby sandwich shop. That way, he thought, it wouldn’t look like they were arriving together. Phil imagined, once again, all eyes on them as they entered the building. Questioning, knowing. That was one of the reasons he had gone out again. In reality, no one paid them the slightest bit of attention. Still, he couldn’t think about that now. Not with a briefing for the whole team in less than five minutes.

He gathered up his papers, made his way to the door.

‘Ben Fenwick sends his apologies,’ said Phil, sitting down

Marina fought the urge to smile smugly.

‘Over to you.’ He gestured to Marina. She nodded, looked round. Phil, Anni, the Birdies, herself. The core members of the team. Phil was trying his best to pretend he wasn’t watching her with more than professional interest. She tried not to look at him too much.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Right. We know it’s not Brotherton. If the profile didn’t help, the last murder did. I’ve had a look at Caroline Eades’ murder and tried to fit it in with the others. And there are some interesting developments. Not to say worrying ones.’

She looked down at her notes, back to the room.

‘Serial killers usually work to a routine. And yes, we’re using the phrase serial killer now. I don’t think there’s any doubt. They usually follow a pattern. Same type of victim, some method of death, same type of location. But with this killer, there have been some striking deviations. I don’t know if they’re significant; I think they may be.’

She felt a twinge of pain in her stomach, automatically pressed her hand on it. She noticed Phil watching her.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘the first time a serial killer kills – or at least the first time we hear about it; there will have been other incidents before this – they usually kill in an area of geographical significance. It could be where they live, work, where they lost their virginity, whatever. So far, we haven’t found anything significant about the first murder.’

‘But we’re still working on it,’ said Phil. ‘Every new case that comes in, we match against it.’

‘Good. But I don’t think the location is significant in this killer’s case. There’s something more important to him than that. Each murder has presented an escalation. With Lisa King, the baby was killed too. Susie Evans, the baby was beside the body. Claire Fielding, the baby was missing. Same with Caroline Eades. But the timing is also significant with the latest one.’

‘Why?’ said Anni.

‘Because serial killers don’t just enjoy killing, they enjoy having killed. They usually take a trophy or two from the scene, take it back to their lair and…’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I’ll leave that to your imagination.’

Everyone’s face registered disgust.

‘But that doesn’t seem to be the case here. Which would suggest that he’s differently motivated.’

‘Bit of an understatement,’ said Adrian.

‘Indeed. But even amongst the noble brethren of serial killers, he’s different. For most serial killers, the primary motivation is usually sexual. I don’t think that’s the case here. He wants the babies. He doesn’t care how he gets them. The women are nothing.’

She turned to the whiteboard behind her, took out a marker pen. Started making notes. ‘So this is what we’ve got. Different locations, different victims. The only thing they have in common is pregnancy.’

‘And some kind of link to Brotherton,’ said Phil.

‘All except Caroline Eades,’ said Marina.

‘At the moment,’ said Anni.

‘Too many links, though,’ said Phil, ‘and I don’t believe in that many coincidences. Maybe someone’s trying to set Brotherton up? Shift the blame? Draw our attention, misdirect us, make us look at him to avoid looking at the real killer…’ He put his hands behind his head, frowned. ‘But that would have taken a huge amount of planning.’

‘True. Next thing, escalation. Caroline Eades’ death looked improvised. He didn’t have time to restrain her properly, so he used whatever was at hand. And used it very crudely. Which leads me to believe that the baby he took from Claire Fielding is dead. He wanted this one as a replacement.’

‘You sure about that?’ asked Anni.

‘As sure as I can be, given what I saw last night.’

‘What about this baby?’ said Phil. ‘Is it alive?’

‘I’ve spoken to Nick Lines,’ said Jane Gosling. ‘And he says that judging by the health of the mother and how far gone she was, plus looking at the way the baby was cut out – and he’s getting better at that, apparently – there’s every possibility that it is.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Marina. ‘So let’s assume that it is. But there’s something else, as well. A question of gender. Normally, serial killers are male.’

‘This big woman thing again,’ said Adrian. ‘But we’ve got a picture, CCTV. Millhouse has got the techies working overtime on it, but it’s still not sharp enough. And we don’t want to rush it. Might get the wrong person.’

‘It could be a woman,’ said Marina. ‘Or it could be a man and a woman working together.’

‘Or a man providing for a woman,’ said Phil.

‘Exactly,’ said Marina. ‘Now, there are usually two kinds of serial killers. Psychopathic and sociopathic. The psychopaths are wild. They prey on victims, don’t care if they get caught. Sociopaths are harder to find. They can blend into society, hold down jobs, lead normal lives. Then one day something goes. And they have to feed their desires.’

‘Will they have a job?’ asked Anni.

‘They might do,’ Marina said, ‘but it won’t be anything prestigious. They won’t be head of Microsoft or anything like that. They can use a knife. Maybe slaughter animals? Farm worker? Abattoir? Something along those lines. Also the disregard for the victim. Just another piece of meat.’

She looked round at the assembled faces. She had their total attention.

‘At first I thought our killer was the first kind, a psychopath. Which, on reflection, might be better. This person lives on the edge. Single-minded. Not interested in taunting us or leaving messages. They’re doing this for a reason. They want something. The baby. They don’t see themselves getting caught because they don’t think about getting caught. They’re clever, cunning. Like an animal. This, theoretically, should make them slightly easier to catch. However…’

They waited.

‘If there’s two of them, one may be the psychopath, one the sociopath…’ She could feel an idea coming to her. ‘If… if there are two of them, then one, the contained one, the sociopath, could be finding the victims…’

‘And the other one ripping them up?’ said Anni.

‘It’s a theory.’

‘If that’s the case, then there’s another idea,’ said Phil.

They all looked at him.

‘Split personality. Is that viable?’

‘Could be,’ said Marina. ‘Two in one. I think that’s even scarier, actually. But the same principles apply.’

‘So how do we catch them?’ asked Phil.

‘Well, I don’t think they’re based in Colchester. I think they’re coming in to do this. The geographical profiling supports that. And because they’re all over the town, I think that means he’s targeting them another way.’

‘How?’ said Phil.

‘I don’t know,’ said Marina. ‘But I think that’s the key. Find out how he’s choosing them and we’ve got him.’ She nodded at Phil. His turn.

‘Thanks, Marina. Right. I want all the individual cases re-examined today.’ He scanned the room, making sure his words registered. ‘Similarities flagged, everything. Old reports gone over, the lot. Marina, would you help with that, please? I’d like you teamed with Anni.’

‘Sure.’

‘Good. Anything that sticks out, flag it up. We can cross-reference it against Brotherton and Caroline and Graeme Eades. Look for another match. Forensics are still going through the data from the last two crime scenes. No conclusive DNA yet, but they’ll keep looking. And there’s something else. I don’t know how significant it is.’

They waited.

‘Sophie Gale has done a runner. Brotherton’s solicitor was on the phone this morning.’ He told them about the call.

‘Good luck to her,’ said Anni.

‘Let’s keep an eye out for her, though. We should still talk to her again.’ He scanned the room once more. Despite the tiredness, he could see that they were all ready to go. ‘Get pounding those files, those streets. Good old-fashioned police work. We might have lost one baby but there’s another one out there and the clock’s ticking. Let’s get going.’

They all filed out.

As Marina got up, Phil moved in to talk to her.

‘Marina,’ said Anni, ‘come on.You’re with me.’

She looked at Phil, gave an apologetic little shrug and turned away. Phil walked out alone.

61

Clayton couldn’t concentrate. He looked round the bar, at the walls, through the windows. Anywhere but where he was supposed to be looking. Down at the report in front of him.

He was deskbound, tasked with paperwork. Unable to work the case, unable to function like the copper he wanted to be, believed himself to be. He hated it. He saw faces, clocked movements. He knew what they were doing, what they were thinking. About him. They knew. They knew.

His heart was hammering in his chest, his hands shaking. But how much did they know? If it was everything, then that was it, finito. But if wasn’t… he might have a chance. A slim one. He shouldn’t have done it. Let Sophie stay at his place. He shouldn’t have taken that blow job from her in the car the other night. Hell, if he traced it all the way back, he shouldn’t have got involved with her in the first place.

All he wanted to be was a good copper. Well respected by his peers, well liked by his colleagues. And the ladies. But he couldn’t see that happening now. Because he was weak. And being weak made him do stupid, cowardly things. Like getting involved with Sophie.

He looked round again. Phil was at his desk, attacking a pile of paperwork he had allowed to accrue. He kept his head, down, focused on his task. Didn’t catch Clayton’s eye. Millhouse was geeking away at his computer, in his own virtual world as usual. But it was Marina and Anni that he felt most scared about. Anni had pulled her chair up to Marina’s desk and was sitting alongside her, poring over reports and statements, scrutinising photos. Every once in a while Clayton would look across, find Anni staring back at him. He would look quickly away, his eyes nervous, shifty. Guilty.

She hadn’t told. He knew that. Otherwise Phil would have said something. But it was only a matter of time. She wouldn’t keep that to herself. She was as ambitious as he was, and hard-working. She wouldn’t want to be seen to collude in mistakes he had made.

They would find out where Sophie was. Because they might still need to talk to her. And when they did…

He had to get a grip, think about what to do next. Get a damage-limitation plan in operation. Clayton sighed, went back to his paperwork.

Still unable to concentrate.

Anni read the statement over once again. Geraint Cooper, Claire Fielding’s friend at school. She reached the end. Read it once more. Put it down, rubbed her eyes.

‘Nothing?’ said Marina, looking up.

‘I think it’s just… I want to see something there, find a connection so much that I’m imagining things…’

‘Take a break,’ said Marina.

Anni shook her head. ‘Not yet.’ She took a mouthful of bottled water. ‘Right. Let’s go again. Connections.’ She looked down at the list she had made in front of her. ‘Lisa King. Killed in an empty house. Had shown properties to Ryan Brotherton. Susie Evans. Prostitute. Ryan Brotherton one of her customers.’

‘And Sophie Gale,’ said Marina. ‘Where he met her.’

Anni nodded. ‘And she informed for the police. In return for certain leniencies. Right. Claire Fielding. Julie Simpson. Girlfriend of Brotherton and her best friend. Then Caroline Eades.’ She looked through the piles of paper on her desk. ‘No connection. None.’

‘Caroline Eades. Never worked?’

‘Her husband’s an area manager for a recruitment agency. She was a stay-at-home mum. No connection with any of the others.’

Marina sat back, thoughtful. Sucked one of the arms of her reading glasses. ‘What do we know about Sophie Gale?’

Anni rifled through her pile of papers, brought one out. ‘Born Gail Johnson. First known address is in New Town.

Pulled in on a raid, let go, works for us. Changes her name to Sophie Gale.’

‘Reinvents herself.’

‘Up to a point. Then appears with Ryan Brotherton.’

‘So we have to assume they’ve known each other for a number of years. And in a number of capacities.’

Anni nodded. ‘We’ll never know now. She’s gone.’

‘Won’t she turn up again?’

Anni gave a small smile. ‘Probably. One way or another. They usually do. And usually attached to a man.’

Marina got a quick mental image of Erin O’Connor then. Sitting in her little New Town house, looking like she wouldn’t be there too much longer. Erin O’Connor. Sophie Gale. Both sounded like made-up names. Manufactured girlie names. Names a man might enjoy saying, especially at certain times and in certain situations…

‘Marina? You all right?’

Marina blinked. Anni was looking at her, concerned. ‘Sorry?’

‘You’d gone for a few seconds.’

She shook her head. ‘Yes… miles away…’ She was still thinking, grasping for something…

Something Erin O’Connor had said: At least I don’t have to pay for it any more…

‘Phil and I went to talk to Graeme Eades’ girlfriend. Erin O’Connor.’

‘His alibi.’

‘Have you checked to see if she’s got a record?’

Anni sat upright. It looked like electricity had been run through her already spiky hair. ‘What kind of a record?’

‘Prostitution.’

‘I’ll check.’

‘I may be wrong,’ said Marina, thinking how disgusted the woman had looked when she had said the phrase, but wondering if that could have been an act put on for their benefit. ‘I may be doing her a great disservice, but I just get the feeling there might be a connection.’

‘Go with your gut instincts. That’s how it works.’ Anni stood up. ‘I’ll go and check.’

She walked across the office. Marina watched her go.

So did Clayton.

Anni asked Millhouse to run a check on Erin O’Connor. While she waited, she looked round the office. Clayton was sweating like it was midsummer. And shaking like he had Parkinson’s. She hadn’t told anyone about his involvement with Sophie. Not yet. And if he didn’t give her cause to, she wouldn’t. But he didn’t know that. She bit back a smile. Good. Let him suffer.

‘Urm… yeah…’ Millhouse was staring at his screen. ‘Here… No, er… nothing…’

Eloquent as ever, thought Anni.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘what about Graeme Eades?’

‘The victim’s husband?’

‘The very same.’

‘Right…’ He started pressing buttons, scrolling through information.

Anni waited. As patiently as she could.

‘Uh…’ said Millhouse eventually, ‘here. Yeah, here. God… wow…’

Anni bent down to see what he was looking at. And there it was.

‘Graeme Eades, picked up, cautioned,’ she said. ‘Four years ago. Was anyone picked up with him? Either buying or selling?’

‘Uh, yeah, I’ll see…’

Millhouse worked away on the screen. Anni felt excitement rising within her. She tried not to let it show. So many times in similar situations she had allowed herself to hope, only to have those hopes dashed by reality. So when Millhouse asked her to look at the screen, she tried not to harbour too much hope.

‘Here…’

She smiled. Felt her toes curling. For once, her hope hadn’t been misplaced.

‘Fantastic, Millhouse. I could kiss you.’

‘Erm…’

She smiled. She could almost see the phrase ‘does not compute’ running through his mind. She all but ran back to Marina.

Clayton watched her go. He didn’t know what it was she had discovered, but he doubted it was good news. Anni didn’t even sit back down next to Marina, just leaned over the desk and spoke hurriedly to her. Marina then got up, and in a similar hurry to Anni, rushed over to Phil’s desk.

Oh God, oh fuck… She’s found something. There must have been a record left of his connection with Sophie. She had discovered it. That must be it. He was breathing so hard he thought his heart would develop an arrhythmic problem. Like having too much coke.

He tried to calm down. Think straight. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe they had discovered something that would further the investigation. A breakthrough. That was it. It might not be about him after all.

He forced his heart rate down, his breathing to steady. There was only one way to find out. He stood up from his desk, crossed the office to where Millhouse was sitting.

‘Hi,’ he said, aiming for nonchalance, but missing by several miles.

Millhouse barely grunted in response.

‘What was, er… what was Anni looking for just now?’

‘Graeme Eades,’ said Millhouse, clearly upset at being disturbed from whatever he had been doing. Obviously Clayton didn’t hold the same appeal that Anni did for him.

‘Can I have a quick look?’

‘You’re off the case.’

Clayton gave a smile that he hoped said they were all mates together but somehow just died on his face. ‘Come on, Millhouse.You know what it’s like. Please. Just for me.’

Millhouse sighed, went into the system. ‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s what she wanted to see first.’

Clayton swallowed hard. ‘Right. First? What did she look at next?’

Another grunt and a sigh, as if Millhouse was being asked to move a mountain with only a teaspoon. ‘This.’

He put the screen up, sat back. Clayton looked. And felt the shakes returning. Big time.

He stood up. Walked slowly back to his desk, as if in a trance.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Millhouse after him.

But Clayton didn’t hear. He sat down before the screen. Oh God, oh fuck…

The door to Phil’s office opened. Phil came out, shrugging into his jacket, Anni following. They both made their way to the front door.

Clayton sat there, watching them go. He had to do something, but he was too stunned to move. He had to be careful. Whatever he did next was important. Very important. His future career depended on it. He had to think. Find a way to make this work, come out of it clean.

Yes.

But first he had to make a phone call.

62

Graeme Eades opened the door. He looked to Phil like a different man. Like he had aged enough to become his own father in the space of a day. But worse than that, he looked like a ghost that hadn’t realised it was dead yet. Guilt will do that to you, thought Phil.

He was staying in a Travelodge on the outskirts of Colchester. His own house was being treated as a crime scene, examined for potential forensic clues, and would be for some time.

‘Would have thought he’d had enough of cheap hotels by now,’ Anni had said as they had walked up to the front desk and shown their warrant cards.

Phil hadn’t answered, just asked for directions to Graeme Eades’ room.

‘Mr Eades?’ he said. ‘Just a few more questions, please. Won’t take long.’

Eades opened the door fully, walked back into the room. He was dressed in a pair of chinos and a sweatshirt. It looked as if he had slept in them too. He needed a shave and his remaining hair had been sculpted into interesting swirls and whorls. He sat on the bed and waited, head down. Like a death-row inmate awaiting execution. But from the look in his eyes, he was already dead.

Phil stood before him, leaning against the built-in set of drawers. Anni sat in the chair.

‘We’ve been looking into your background, Mr Eades, and there are a couple of things we’d like you to clear up.’

No response.

‘Four years ago you were picked up and cautioned for kerb-crawling, is that correct?’

Eades looked up. He frowned. ‘What?’

Phil started the sentence again. Eades cut him off. ‘What’s that got to do with… with…’

‘So that’s correct? You were kerb-crawling? Looking to buy sex?’

He put his head down, sighed. Humiliation piling on top of guilt. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice a broken thing, ‘yes, I was.’

‘Just the once, or more often?’ said Anni. ‘Was this a regular thing?’

Eades looked up, eyes away from Anni. ‘Does it matter?’ He tried to hide his embarrassment, worked it up as anger instead. ‘How does this have any bearing on… on my wife? Is this relevant? Is this part of the inquiry?’

‘Yes it is, Mr Eades,’ said Phil, keeping his voice steady but authoritative. ‘We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.’ He said nothing more, waiting for an answer.

Eventually, Eades, seeing that they weren’t going away until they got an answer, sighed. ‘I used prostitutes… a bit.’

‘A bit?’ said Anni.

‘A fair bit. All right, quite a lot.Yes, I paid for sex. Happy now?’

Phil took a photo out of his jacket pocket, handed it to Eades. ‘Do you recognise this woman?’

Eades looked at the photo. Susie Evans’ face was smiling up at him. He frowned. ‘She looks… familiar. A bit.’

‘Have you had sex with her?’ asked Anni. ‘Was she one of the women you picked up?’

He kept looking at the photo. Eventually shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so. Not really my type. But she does look familiar.’ He handed the photo back.

‘She was murdered a couple of months ago,’ said Phil, repocketing the photo.

Eades’ head jerked up, eyes wide. ‘And… and you think… the same person did it?’

‘It’s a possibility we’re looking into,’ Anni said.

‘We’re exploring all avenues,’ said Phil.

Anni took a photo out of her jacket, handed it to Eades. ‘What about her?’

Eades looked at it, and there was no disguising the fact that he knew her. He sighed as he looked at her face.

Phil picked up on it straight away. ‘You know her?’

‘Has she been killed too?’ It sounded like genuine concern in his voice.

Phil ignored the question. ‘Do you know her?’

Eades looked again at the photo. ‘Yes.Yes, I remember her very well.’

‘You met more than once?’ said Phil.

‘Yes. Regularly. We met… she had a flat we went back to. I didn’t pick her up on the street. Sometimes in a hotel. Yes…’ He drifted off at the memory.

‘And would you say you developed a relationship with her?’ said Anni.

‘Well, I think so. We were together for… we used to see each other for quite a while.’

‘And you talked about… what, exactly?’ said Phil.

‘Oh, all sorts. Life, my family. Everything.’

‘So why did it end?’ asked Anni.

‘I met Erin,’ he said.

Anni folded her arms. ‘And you didn’t have to pay for it any more.’

‘That’s right.’ Eades looked up, realised what he had just said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that…’

‘That’s all right, Mr Eades,’ said Phil. He held his hand out for the photo.

Eades seemed reluctant to hand it over. He sighed, looked at it once more. ‘Oh, Sophie,’ he said.

Phil and Anni exchanged glances. They made to leave.

Graeme Eades stood up.

‘Please,’ he said, looking unsteady on his feet. ‘Please. Find my baby. My girl.’ He looked up. ‘It was a girl, you know…’ Then away again. ‘And she’s the last part of…’ He couldn’t bring himself to say his wife’s name.

He crumpled to the bed, curled up and sobbed.

They left him to his grief.

Outside, Phil shook his head, as if to dislodge Graeme Eades’ voice, the image of him lying there.

‘We have to find her,’ said Phil. ‘And fast.’

They drove back to the station.

Clayton stood outside in the car park. It was freezing, wind whipping his jacket back, promising ice and snow. He didn’t notice. He had his phone to his ear.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘pick up…’

It switched over to answerphone. ‘Hi, this is Sophie. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you really, really soon.’ Her voice dropped, low and teasing, on the last three words, holding the promise of fun and sex. It worked. Clayton knew that.

‘Listen, Sophie, it’s me, Clayton. I need to see you. Now. It’s important. I don’t know where you are, but go back to the flat, I’ll meet you there.’ He ended the call. Sighed.

Fuck…

He put his phone away. Thought. Took it out again. He would try his flat. Maybe she was there already. In the shower or something. He dialled, waited. Heard his own voice on the answerphone.

He started to leave a message.

‘Sophie? It’s Clayton. If you’re there, pick up.’ A long pause. Then a sigh. ‘Okay. Look, I’m coming back to the flat now. I really need to talk to you. Now. I’ve left a message on your mobile. If you’re there, wait.’ Another sigh. ‘This is so fucked. I’ve… we’ve got to…’ Another sigh. ‘No. I can’t say on the phone. We have to talk it through. We have to sort it.’ The message ended.

Across the room, sitting on one of Clayton’s dark leather armchairs, Sophie Gale took another drag on her cigarette, held it, let out a long plume of smoke.

The red light on the answerphone flashed. She didn’t move. Just put the cigarette to her lips once more, took down another mouthful of smoke, slowly exhaled.

Waited.

63

Phil was pushing the Audi as fast as he could without breaking the speed limit down the Avenue of Remembrance on the way back to the centre of Colchester. Beside him, Anni was feeling troubled.

‘Boss,’ she said, with evident trepidation.

‘Yeah?’ he said, not taking his eyes off the road.

‘I think there’s something I should have told you.’

He risked a glance at her. Her head was angled away from him but he could clearly see the tension in her neck. ‘Go on.’

The engine seemed to roar in the silence between them. Eventually Anni spoke. ‘It’s about Clayton.’

Phil waited.

‘He’s…’ She sighed. ‘I saw him. The other night. When I was staking out Brotherton’s house.’

Phil looked at her, frowning. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

‘He was… he brought Sophie Gale back home. In his car.’

Phil took his eyes fully off the road. ‘He did what?’

‘And…’ She had to keep going. There was no turning back now. ‘And she gave him a blow job. In the car.’

Anni turned her face away to the window once more. She could feel Phil’s eyes on her, burning into her intensely. The road taking care of itself.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ His voice quiet, controlled.

Anni knew that wasn’t a good sign. ‘I… I didn’t know if it was my place, boss. I just thought he was being a dick. I confronted him with it.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he would tell you. Sit down and tell you everything. ’

‘Everything? What’s everything?’

Anni sighed, shook her head. ‘About… Clayton used to work vice. He knew Sophie from back then. Was one of the team she used to be an informant for.’

‘Why the fuck didn’t he tell me?’ His voice seemed all the louder in contrast to its previous quiet and control. His hand left the steering wheel, began massaging his chest. Anni noticed he seemed to be having problems with his breathing.

‘You okay, boss?’

He ignored her question. ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

‘I don’t know. He said he was going to. But he didn’t. But it made me look into her background. That’s when I came up with the whole prostitute thing.’

‘Which he wasn’t going to say anything about.’

‘I… I don’t know. Boss.’

Phil sighed and kept sighing, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

‘Boss…’

‘Christ…’ His hand clenched harder at his chest. Anni began to worry that he might be having a heart attack.

‘Shouldn’t… shouldn’t you pull over?’

Phil gave an angry shake of his head. ‘Call him. Phone him now. I want to know what the hell he’s playing at.’

Anni took out her mobile, speed-dialled Clayton. She waited. Looked at Phil. ‘Answerphone.’

‘Bastard… leave a message. Tell him I want to see him back at the station. Now.’

Anni did so, hung up.

‘He was in the office when we left,’ said Phil in between gasps. ‘Call them. See if he’s there. No, call Marina. Ask her.’

Anni did what she was told, spoke to Marina, listened to the reply. Rang off.

‘He’s gone. Left just after we did.’

Phil seemed to be breathing through clenched teeth. ‘Did… did she say why?’

‘She said he went to talk to Millhouse just after I did. Then left in a hurry.’

‘And you were asking Millhouse about Sophie Gale.’

‘Yeah.’ Realisation hit her. ‘Oh God…’

‘You know the way to his place?’ said Phil.

Anni nodded.

‘Direct me. Now.’

Phil put the siren on.

64

‘Oh God, oh God…’

Marina stood in the toilet cubicle, the door locked. She didn’t care if anyone heard her or not.

After Anni’s phone call she had started to feel unwell. She couldn’t describe what it was exactly, just a pain in her lower stomach. Sharp, stabbing. She knew that wasn’t right. She hurried off to the toilets, locked herself in. And had her worst fears confirmed.

Blood. She was bleeding.

‘Oh God… the baby…’

The baby. All the conflict she had been undergoing disappeared in an instant. There was something wrong with the baby. She had to get it sorted. She clutched her stomach as another wave of pain rippled through her. She gasped, rode it out. Then reached for her phone. Speed-dialled her GP. Hoped he could see her straight away.

Her call was answered, an emergency appointment booked. She made a note of the time, closed her phone. Case or no case, this was important. She hadn’t realised just how important until this moment.

She flushed the toilet, just in case anyone was listening outside, rearranged herself, went off to the doctor’s.

‘Sophie?’

Clayton rushed into his flat, left his keys on the side table in the hallway, ran into the living room, looked round. He saw her over by the window. She was sitting in an armchair, unmoving. The blinds were drawn behind her. He let out a sigh of relief.

‘Thank Christ, I thought somethin’ had happened to you.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, without moving.

Her voice sounded strange, remote. Not at all like he was used to. But he didn’t have time to think about that. He had too much to tell her.

‘Listen,’ he said, crossing the room, sitting on the arm of the chair, ‘they’ve found a connection. Between you and Graeme Eades, the husband of the last victim. From when you used to… when you were workin’.’

She said nothing. Clayton frowned. He had expected a bigger reaction than that. He pressed on.

‘They want to talk to you, yeah? So we’ve got to think of the best way to do this. How it looks like I’m gettin’ in contact with you and you’re comin’ in, yeah? To chat. How we goin’ to do that, then?’

Sophie said nothing. Just continued to stare straight ahead.

Clayton began to get exasperated. ‘Sophie…’ He stood up quickly as if the arm of the chair was too hot to sit on any longer, paced the floor until he stopped in front of her. ‘Have you been listenin’? Sophie, we’re in trouble.’

She moved her head to the side, inclined her eyes upwards to him. ‘You’re in trouble, Clayton.’

‘What? We both are! We’ve got to, got to…’ He put his hands to his head, screwed his eyes up tight, beat his fists against his temples. Opened his eyes again, looked at her. ‘We’ve got to sort this. Now.’

Sophie said nothing for a while. Just as Clayton was beginning to think she hadn’t heard, she sighed. There was no sense of resignation in the sigh, just a weary acceptance of a tedious situation. She kept her eyes on him.

‘I suppose it had to happen sometime. Sooner or later.’

‘Yeah, it did.’ He stopped. Was she talking about the same thing? ‘What had to happen?’

She stood up, moved towards him. Pressed her body right against his as she spoke. ‘There’s no point in pretending any more. I should say it’s been fun. But I’d be lying.’ She put her hand on his chest, started moving it slowly in circles. ‘And we’ve had too many lies, haven’t we?’

‘What… what you talkin’ about?’ He stared at her, seemingly hypnotised by her touch.

‘A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. I learned that working in a scrap metal yard. Same with a police investigation. And that’s you, Clayton.’

He was totally confused now. ‘Wh-what?’

‘Finding you were on the team was a bonus. Something I could work with. And when it all went wrong with Ryan, moving in with you seemed the perfect thing to do. Keep an eye on you, keep them away from me. But now it seems like that won’t work out.You’re off the team. And they’ve found out about Graeme Eades and me.’

‘So? We can sort it. We just need to get our story straight…’

She gave him a sad smile. ‘No, Clayton. I think it’s got beyond that. We’ve all got to make sacrifices now.’

‘What you talkin’ about?’

‘Family, Clayton. Family. Family ties. Stronger than anything. ’ There was sadness behind her words.

She was still stroking him, pressing her body against him. He didn’t understand her words but he enjoyed the feeling. Despite everything, he found himself getting an erection.

‘So I’ve got to go now.’

‘No, listen-’

‘Sorry, Clayton.You are the weakest link. Goodbye.’

He didn’t feel the blade at first. Not the first blow. Or the second. But by the third he was feeling it. The pain had caught up with the shock by then. Sophie moved away. He looked down.

She had stabbed him in the stomach. Hard, fast. His shirt front was covered in blood. No longer required to make its way to his heart, it was pumping out of him in gushing torrents.

‘No, no…’

He put his hands on his stomach, tried in desperation to catch the blood in his fingers. Couldn’t. It just ran straight through.

‘Oh God, oh God…’

He stumbled round, not knowing what to do, his panic increasing the rate his blood pumped out at. He looked to Sophie for help. But she had put on her coat, grabbed her holdall, which had been at the side of the armchair. She wasn’t even looking at him.

‘Help… help me…’

His voice, like the rest of him, was becoming weaker.

She ignored him, walked towards the door.

Something clicked inside him. He mustn’t let her get away. He had to stop her. Call an ambulance, call for assistance. He fumbled inside his jacket for his mobile, his fingers slippery with blood. Eventually he got it out, punched in 999. No use. He had turned it off on the way to the flat.

‘Oh God…’

He tried to thumb it on. Waited for it to power up, to find his network.

‘Come on, please… come on…’

Dancing black stars were moving into the edges of his vision. He tried to blink them away. But every time he blinked, they just seemed to increase in number. He looked round the room, tried to focus. He was aware of Sophie reaching the door.

‘No…’

The phone had eventually found a signal. He managed to dial 999, held it to his ear. It was ringing. His legs were weak. He felt like he wanted to sit down. He fought it, remained on his feet. Waited for the phone to be answered.

It was. He was asked which emergency service he wanted.

‘Ambulance. I’ve been… stabbed…’

Sophie heard his words, turned. She crossed the room, took the phone from his hand, threw it as far away from him as she could. It hit the wall. Broke. She nodded, pleased with her action, turned, walked back to the door.

‘No…’

His legs were ready to give way. With one last surge he managed to lurch across the room, blood following him, keeping pace as he went. He reached her by the door, put his hands on her. She turned, ready to swat him away.

Clayton knew he was fighting for his life. He knew his last breath wasn’t far off and he had to do something. He grabbed her, tried to remember his training. Hung on to her as hard as he could.

They were fighting by the door when the entryphone buzzer went.

65

‘This the place?’ said Phil.

Anni nodded. ‘Yeah.’

They shared a grim look. She pressed the button, waited.

Clayton and Sophie stopped struggling, looked at the buzzer in surprise. They both had an idea of who it would be.

Clayton reached for the receiver, ready to press the release button. But Sophie got there before him. Stopped him from pressing it.

The black stars were increasing. He knew he didn’t have long left.With all his remaining strength he knocked her hand away, pressed the release button. Shouted down the receiver.

‘Help… help me… somebody fuckin’ help me…’

Phil and Anni looked at each other. They didn’t need to hear any more.

‘Which floor?’ asked Phil.

‘Second.’

They ran inside and up the stairs.

Clayton’s strength was gone. His legs would no longer support him. The black stars were almost obscuring everything else before him. He crumpled in a heap in front of the door. Before his eyes closed, he felt a pang of guilt in amongst the pain. His mother. How he had failed in the dreams she had for him.

Then his eyes closed. For the final time.

He didn’t feel Sophie drag him by the legs, try to move him out of the way.

‘This one,’ said Anni, outside Clayton’s flat.

Phil pushed the door. It was locked. ‘Fuck.’

Then, to his surprise, it began to open.

He gave a quick glance at Anni. She was prepared too.

The door opened. There stood Sophie Gale. She stopped moving, surprise on her face. She was hurrying, clearly expecting someone to arrive, but not expecting them to be there waiting for her.

Phil began to read her her rights.

‘Sophie Gale, I-’

He didn’t get any further. She dropped her holdall, gave him a swift kick between the legs with her booted foot. He crumpled over as pain flooded through him. He thought he was going to throw up; he thought he would never feel the same again.

Sophie Gale tried to step round him.

But Anni was waiting for her.

Although small, Anni was a fierce fighter. She had studied martial arts, picked up a few moves to give her the advantage against someone bigger or stronger than her. Before Sophie could try anything, she curled the fingers of her right hand inwards and flattened the palm of her hand. Then, with as much speed and strength behind the movement as she could manage, she hit Sophie just between her nostrils and her upper lip.

It was, as Anni knew, a part of the body with plenty of nerve endings. It didn’t take much to have an effect. And Anni had hit hard.

Sophie Gale’s hands flew up to her face. She screamed in pain. Anni pressed forward.

‘Sophie.’

The other woman’s hands dropped. There was real anger in her eyes. She was readying herself to fly at Anni.

Anni did the same again, even faster and stronger this time.

Sophie went over backwards. Anni moved over her, knelt beside her. Punched her in the nose this time. Hard. Blood flowed even faster.

Then she took a pair of PlastiCuffs from the back pocket of her jeans, grabbed Sophie’s wrists, pulled them behind her back and secured them as tightly as she could.

She looked at Phil. ‘You okay, boss?’

He was getting to his knees. ‘Yeah…’ He pointed at the open doorway. ‘Get Clayton…’

Anni jumped over Sophie’s prone body, saw what was waiting for them in the flat.

‘Oh my God…’

‘I’ll… I’ll call an ambulance,’ said Phil, getting out his phone.

Anni moved sadly to the door, stood there, head down.

‘Too late for that, boss. He’s dead.’