The Surrogate

66

Hester looked down at the baby as it lay sleeping in its cot. It was pinker, bigger, healthier than the last one. It was just like she’d seen on TV and in the books. It was everything a baby was supposed to be. And as she looked at it, she expected to feel an overwhelming outpouring of love for it, like the books said. But she didn’t. In fact, she didn’t know what she was feeling.

No, it wasn’t love. Or at least she didn’t think it was. Because love didn’t make comparisons. Love didn’t judge one against the other. She kept thinking of the last baby. She knew this was a different baby from the last one, with different needs and everything, but even though that one had been sick all the time, she still thought it was better than this one. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with this one. It was big and strong, like a baby was supposed to be. But Hester felt nothing for it. Why was that?

She had read somewhere that this happened sometimes, mothers not bonding, rejecting their babies. They got depressed and wouldn’t do anything for them. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was rejecting it. Maybe she was wrong about not looking back and it was too soon after the last one. Maybe. Or maybe she just wasn’t interested any more. Bored with babies, time to do something else.

She was thinking all this while she was staring at the TV. The news was on. Hester was watching again to see if they said anything. Something seemed to be happening, because the reporter looked even more serious and the smooth policeman, the one she liked, was talking to the camera again. She couldn’t understand the words, though.

The phone was ringing in the background. Hester didn’t like answering the phone, so she closed her eyes, called for her husband. Asked him to answer it. He didn’t reply and it was still ringing. She would have to do it herself.

Reluctantly she crossed the room, picked up the receiver. Listened.

It was for her. And it wasn’t good news.

Call finished, she replaced the receiver and stood there. It was like she had been physically hit. Punched in the face. And that punch had more than hurt her; it had rocked her world on its axis. She closed her eyes, absorbing the impact. Opened them again. And in that instant her world changed.

Her head was spinning, mind reeling. She looked at the TV, still spitting out news. It didn’t seem important now, not as real as what was happening here. She felt like crying. She felt like screaming. So she did both. It woke the baby but it also made her husband appear.

Shut it, woman.What’s that fuckin’ noise for?

‘They’ve got her.’

Who?

‘They, they’ve got her. They know about the babies. And that means they’ll be comin’ for us…’

Tell me.

She told him. Everything. Where the list came from, who had supplied it. He listened, silent. Not a good sign.

I knew, he said eventually. Where the list came from.You really think I didn’t?You thought you were bein’ clever, keepin’ it from me, but I knew.

‘But… why didn’t you say somethin’?’

Why should I? Was what you wanted.What I wanted.

‘But it was…’

Didn’t matter.

She was relieved that he wasn’t angry. But that wasn’t important now. She could feel panic overwhelming her. ‘So… we’ve got to do somethin’.’

He didn’t reply.

‘I said we have to do somethin’!’

The baby started crying. Hester ignored it. This was more important.

‘We could run,’ she said. ‘Yeah. Go somewhere where they wouldn’t find us. Take the baby. Be a family.’

No reply.

‘Talk to me! Tell me what to do!’

The TV was still on. He stared at it, tried to concentrate, decided what his next move should be.The news.The smooth detective was still talking.Then the image changed and it was the woman from last night, the one he had seen outside the leisure centre.The pretty one.The pregnant one. He thought she was saying the same things again until he realised it was just a recording of the previous night. He watched her mouth move. Smiled. A plan was forming.

All hunters needed a strategy. Especially an exit strategy.

He put on his overcoat and went outside.

Work to do.

67

Phil parked the Audi in the car park, got out, closed and locked the door. Then leaned against it, sighed. Eyes closed. Clayton Thompson. His DS. Dead.

He shook his head, whether in disbelief or to clear it of the images from Clayton’s flat he didn’t know. Probably both. His DS, the one who had irritated him no end but who somehow he had still found likeable, lying twisted and broken on the floor of his flat. The walls and floors covered in his blood, thrashed out of his body as he fought against death, struggled to live. All in vain.

There was a moment in every murder investigation in which Phil had taken part that made him contemplate, usually after a couple of drinks on his own, the big issues. Life and death. The human condition. Why we were here, alive in this universe. God and a divine purpose versus blind evolutionary chance. He would look into the faces of the family left behind as they struggled to fill the void that the death of their loved one had created and know they were thinking the same things. If the victim was one of the lost souls he saw all too often, with no one to love them in life or grieve for them after it ended, his questioning was just intensified.

It was a regular process he went through. And he never found any answers, formulated any convictions or reached any conclusions. But during those alcohol-fuelled dark nights of the soul, he often imagined the dead were calling to him. Asking him to be their champion, to avenge their deaths, bring peace to their families. He would usually sober up the next day; carry on with his life, his job. Rationalise the night before as merely bottle-induced dark fantasies. And then, more often than not, he caught the murderer. Solved the crime. And the ghosts would disappear.

But he was never completely sure they were truly gone. Because when the next murder occurred, they returned, another added to their number. And now, on top of all the pregnant women, Clayton would be joining them. Joining the three a.m. line-up, imploring Phil to help them, avenge them. He knew it.

He shook his head once more, opened his eyes. The station was directly in front of him. He played the events of the inquiry over and over again in his mind. Re-examined Clayton’s every word, every look. Tried to find something, some clue or indicator that might have told him what was going on. He found nothing. His heart felt as if it had been attached to a rock by bonds of guilt and regret and thrown into the River Colne. Sinking fast, on a one-way, bottom-bound journey. As that happened, he felt the familiar bands begin to constrict his chest, like an invisible boa constrictor he carried with him always that had to remind him of its presence every so often.

His breathing quickened, pulse speeded up. He couldn’t take it any more. He needed rest. He needed escape. He needed…

Marina.

The thought hit him like lightning cracking a tree trunk. Marina. It was so simple. It was so complicated. Marina.

Taking strength from that thought, he crossed the car park, went into the building. All the way to the bar. As he entered, he felt all eyes on him. Unspoken questions, condolences, affirmations of solidarity. He knew they wanted to step forward and speak, all of them, but he also knew that none of them would dare. Eventually they stopped looking, went back to their work. They needed something. They needed him to say it.

‘Listen up,’ he said, standing still. ‘Everyone.’ He waited until he had the whole team’s attention. Took a deep breath, ignored the tightening in his chest. ‘Right. You all know what’s happened. And it’s a blow. One of the biggest we’ve ever had. But we’ve got the person who did this. So that’s something. And we’re going to make sure that the rest of this case is wrapped up as tightly and securely as possible. Clayton was a good copper. He was a friend to a lot of you. He was my friend too. And I’m going to miss him.’ He took a deep breath. Continued. ‘But we’ve got a job to do. So let’s get on with it. Thanks.’

He sat down.

Silence.

One person clapped. Then another. And another. Until the whole team were applauding. Phil smiled, blinked wet eyes. ‘Get back to work,’ he said.

Refocused and re-energised, they did as they were told.

Phil put his head down, looked at the work in front of him, the reports. Knowing they weren’t going to write themselves, he got on with it.

Eventually he became aware of someone standing before him. He looked up. There was Marina. Coat on, bag over her shoulder.

‘Hey,’ she said.

‘Hey yourself.’

‘Good speech.’

‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘They needed something.’

She nodded.

‘You heard.’

‘Whole place has heard. Everyone wants to get her in an interview room, have a crack at her.’ She glanced round the office. ‘They’re taking this one personally.’

‘How could they not?’

‘What about you?’ she said. ‘You still on the case? Personal interest and all that.’

He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. Thought of the questioning he had undergone at Clayton’s flat. They were his own people, they had been sympathetic. He and Anni had brought in Sophie Gale and there was no question she had killed him. But, like him, they had their jobs to do.

‘Well I suppose I shouldn’t be. But the Super at Chelmsford wants me to do the interview. So…’ He shrugged.

She smiled, nodded. But her eyes were downcast. ‘Good.’

‘I want you working with me again. We’ve got to get this one right.’

‘Well…’ She glanced about, at anything and anyone but him. ‘Sorry. I can’t.’

He frowned, looked at her. ‘What d’you mean?’

She lowered her voice, as if she was almost embarrassed by what she was about to say. ‘I… can’t stay. I have to go.’

‘What? But I need you.’ He closed his mouth quickly, wondered how that statement had been received. Wondered how he had really intended it.

‘Sorry. I can’t.’

‘Why not? Is it money? I know we can stretch the budget, get some cash from the Home Office-’

‘It’s not money. I want to stay. Believe me.’ Their eyes locked. Honesty passed between them. He believed her. She sighed.

His voice dropped. ‘What then?’

‘I need… I have to go to the doctor.’

‘A doctor’s appointment?’ Phil almost laughed. ‘Well that’s okay.You can get it rearranged.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘Yes you can, just-’

‘No.’ Her voice louder, sharper than she had intended. She looked round quickly to check no one had heard. They hadn’t. ‘I’m pregnant.’

Phil stood, unblinking, unbalanced, like he had been hit and was reeling, about to fall backwards.

Marina put her head down, averted her eyes from his. ‘I’m sorry.You shouldn’t have found out like this.’

Phil said nothing. He looked round, saw the office, felt the unreality of the situation.

‘I’ve got to go.’ She made to move away. He put his hand on her arm, stopped her.

‘Is it… mine? Ours?’

She looked away once more. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Is it?’

As he spoke, her hand went involuntarily to her stomach, massaged the bump that her baby made. Phil saw the action, looked up. Caught her eye to eye. A sheer, nakedly emotional connection. Neither could look away.

In that moment he knew. And she knew it too.

The baby was his.

‘Look, I have to go. There’s a… something’s not right with it.’ She reshouldered her bag even though it didn’t need it. ‘There’s a chance I might lose it. Stress, the doctor said. I’m sorry.’

‘Marina…’

She looked at him then, eye to eye once more. ‘I really didn’t want you to find out like this. I’m sorry. But we’ll talk. Soon. I promise.’

‘We need to talk now.’

She looked round, like a cornered animal checking for escape routes. ‘No, not now. No stress, remember…’

‘But-’

Anni appeared at the end of the room. ‘Boss?’

He looked between Anni and Marina, torn. ‘Marina…’

‘Later,’ she said, using the distraction as an excuse to leave. ‘We will talk. Later. Promise.’

And she was across the room, out of the door.

Phil watched her go, then caught sight of Anni, still waiting in the doorway. He shook his head once more, went to see what his DC wanted.

68

Phil stood outside the interview room. Flattened himself against the wall. His head was spinning, everything spiralling and pinwheeling, making him feel nauseous and giddy. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply. Tried to clear his mind of everything that was going on around him, jettison the lot, narrow his attention down to just one thing. One person. One objective.

Getting Sophie Gale to talk.

Brotherton’s interview had been big, but this was even bigger. The biggest so far.

He took a deep breath, then another. Willing his heart rate to slow as he did so. Calm. Concentrated. Focused. Not an angry man wanting to avenge the death of a colleague. Not a grieving friend. He couldn’t allow any of that to spill over in the room. There would be time enough for that later. For now, he was a professional with a job to do.

He checked the file under his arm, flicked through the pages once more. Paid close attention to the paper that Anni had given him. Then he closed the file, opened the door, went inside, closed it behind him.

Sophie Gale sat at the table, staring straight ahead. She was sitting upright, not slumped, as he might have expected, her hands on the table in front of her, crossed at the wrists. Her hair hung down lank at either side of her face. She didn’t look up as he entered. The only sign that she acknowledged his presence was a double blink.

He sat down in front of her, put the file on the table, looked at her. And was surprised at what he saw. What glamour she’d had was now gone, her cheap sexual allure dissipated. Her face was blank, white, her eyes inexpressive, like a death mask. She wasn’t even looking at him, just staring in his direction.

Phil studied her. His first reaction would have been that she was in shock. But that didn’t seem right; he didn’t get that feeling from her. He got no sense of the emotional imbalance that shock often engendered. He looked at her once more, deep into her eyes. And found a spark there, a dark, burning spark. He sat back, understanding. She had no more need to pretend. The masks she wore, the ones that had fooled Brotherton and Clayton, were no longer necessary. She had stripped them away, leaving only her death-like face on view, her rage-fuelled inner core still driving her.

Now, thought Phil, he had to find the reason for that rage and work with it. That would be the only way to get answers about what had happened, to work out what was going on, to find the baby and stop a murderer.

He took a second or two to compose himself; then, aware that the custody clock would start ticking with his first question, he started. First he introduced himself to the tape, then he introduced Sophie; he remarked that she had waived the right to legal representation at this stage.

‘So what happened, Sophie?’

No response, just those same staring eyes.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you killed Clayton. Clayton Thompson. Why?’

Nothing.

‘Did you have an argument? A fight? Did he… did he try to come on to you?’

A slight reaction, a twitch of her lips, then nothing once more.

Phil sighed. ‘Come on, Sophie, help me out here. How can I understand, how can I try to help you if you won’t let me?’

He waited, sure that his words would get a response, one way or another. He was right.

‘You can’t.’ Her voice was small and empty. It perfectly matched the expression on her face.

‘What d’you mean, I can’t? I can’t help you or I can’t understand you?’

She shrugged. ‘Both.’

His voice dropped low, talking like a counsellor or a friend. ‘Why? Tell me. Make me understand.’

She sighed. ‘It’s too late for that.’ She shook her head, her lips lifting in an approximation of a smile. ‘Too late.’

‘For who? For what?’

‘It’s always been too late.’ Her head fell forward, her hair forming a curtain between herself and Phil’s questions.

Phil tried a new approach. ‘Why Clayton, then? Hmm? Why my DS, why him?’ He mentally pulled back. Kept his rage and guilt in check. ‘Why not Ryan Brotherton or… I don’t know. One of your earlier clients. Why Clayton?’

She put her head up once more, her eyes still staring straight ahead. She seemed to be giving the question some thought. ‘Because… because he stopped helping me.’

‘Helping you? Helping you to do what?’

‘To…’ She shook her head, looked away. He had lost her once more.

Another change of approach, Phil thought. He opened the file he had brought with him. This one wasn’t for show. This one had facts and details in it. ‘Sophie Gale,’ he said, reading down the first page. ‘Real name Gail Johnson. First came to our attention six years ago, when you were arrested for soliciting. You came to an agreement. Became a paid informant. Then you gave it up and disappeared. Why?’

‘Got sick of the life.’

‘Fair enough. Then you turn up again with Ryan Brotherton. And he’s wanted for questioning in relation to a murder inquiry. At first we think he may be the killer. There’s a lot of evidence to suggest that. Hell of a lot. But it’s not him, is it?’

No response.

‘No. It’s not. But it does look like someone has gone to a lot of trouble to get us interested in him. Now why would that be?’

No response.

Phil sat back, looking at her again. ‘You like magic, Sophie?’

Her eyes met his. She looked confused.

‘It’s not a trick question. D’you like magic? Illusions, I mean. Not like Harry Potter and stuff.’

She shrugged. ‘S’pose so.’

‘Thought you might. You know how magic works? You don’t have to answer, I’ll tell you. Misdirection. If a magician’s very good, he gets you looking where he wants you to look, seeing what he wants you to see. You don’t see what he’s really up to. You don’t see the coins being tucked away and palmed, ready to be pulled out later, the cards placed where he wants them. The things up his sleeve. Just what he wants you to see. Right?’

Another shrug.

Phil leaned forward, his words hard, his voice soft. ‘And that’s what you did with us, Sophie. You got us looking at Ryan Brotherton. Got us thinking that he was a murderer. Looking for connections with all the other victims, not just Claire Fielding, throwing doubt on his alibi, making yourself out to be a poor little battered wife-in-waiting. Scared of the big bad man. All the while you were playing him. And us. Covering for the real killer, making us miss the real connections. Misdirection.’

She said nothing, but the set of her jaw had changed. Phil wasn’t sure, but he sensed that she was taking pride from his words.

He was pleased that what he was saying was having the right effect. ‘Regular little Paul Daniels. Except it all went wrong, didn’t it? That last one, that wasn’t mean to happen, was it? Not so soon. Certainly not while we had Brotherton in custody and could give him a watertight alibi.’

He studied her face once more. She took his words in, processed them. Clearly not happy with what he was saying.

‘Now we know it isn’t you. Because you were here when the last one happened. But we do know that you know who’s doing it. So tell me.’

Nothing.

Phil sighed. ‘Look, Sophie. We’ve got you for murder. No argument.You’re going to do time for that. And since it was a policeman you killed, lots of time, I should imagine. So if you want to make it easier for yourself, tell me what I want to know. And I’ll do what I can to help.’ He couldn’t believe he had said that, but he needed her on side.

He sat back, waited. Sophie smiled. That humourless grin she had given earlier, just a skeleton display of teeth. ‘It doesn’t matter.You wouldn’t understand.’

Phil felt himself getting angry and knew that wouldn’t help. He had to channel it, make it work for him. He leaned in to her. ‘Then make me understand, Sophie. Tell me.’

Nothing.

‘Look,’ he said, trying not to give in to his anger, ‘Clayton Thompson had a family. A mother. Two sisters. I’ve lost a friend and a colleague. They’ve lost a son, a brother. How d’you think they feel? Hmm? How d’you think they feel about what you’ve done to him? To one of their own family?’

Sophie reacted. The word ‘family’ did it. She sat back, recoiling as if she had been slapped. Phil saw the advantage, pressed on.

‘Yeah, Sophie, his family. They’ve lost him. Because of you. How would that make you feel? Have you got a family?’

And then she laughed. It was a dry, rattling sound, matching her grin. ‘Yeah,’ she said, the words drawling out of her. ‘I’ve got a family.’

‘And how d’you think they’d feel if they knew what you were doing?’

She gave another laugh. ‘You really have no idea, do you?’ she said.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘The family. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’

‘What d’you mean? Tell me.’

‘Family. Family ties. Blood. Thicker than water. Stronger than…’ Her eyes fixed his. ‘That’s right. Isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ Phil didn’t know what she meant, though he knew it wasn’t good. But there was something in those words that struck him. On impulse he took out the piece of paper Anni had handed him before coming into the room. Turned it round, slid it across the table.

‘Would this be a member of your family, then?’

Sophie looked at the paper. It was a photo of the man seen entering and leaving Claire Fielding’s apartment on the night of her murder. She glanced up quickly.

Phil caught the expression on her face. Tried to keep the emotion out of his. Because he had her.

69

Tony Scott stared at the page, read the line again. And again. He sighed, stretched. No good. He just wasn’t taking this book in.

He put it down on the side table beside the armchair, open at the place he had left it, where it lay, pages curling outwards and upwards, like a cumbersome bird unable to take flight. He gave a small smile of enjoyment as he picked up his glass of wine. The perfect simile for a book he was unable to get into. He should write that down.

He took a mouthful of wine, replaced the glass. Stretched out in his chair, Ray LaMontagne playing in the background. Tony was the first to admit he didn’t like much pop music, but this guy had it sussed.

He checked his watch. Almost six. Marina had phoned, said she was finished, on her way home. He had scanned her voice for hints as to her emotional state but found nothing in particular that gave her away. She sounded tired, distracted even. But Tony was sure the work was to blame for that. And the baby. One must be putting a strain on the other. That would be it.

He took another mouthful of wine, thought of picking up the book once more. Looked at it, thought better of it. He had heard so much about it that he’d felt sure he would enjoy it, but that clearly wasn’t the case. But then, he thought, taking yet another sip of wine, perhaps it wasn’t the book. Perhaps it was him.

Marina had stayed out last night. That thought wouldn’t dislodge itself from his mind. He had thought things were getting better between them. They had hit a bit of a rough patch around the time of Martin Fletcher. That was understandable. Then there was the pregnancy, and her desire to leave the university. A decision he was completely behind. But now she was working for the police again.

On the last job she had been fired up, talking about the case all the time when she came home. One name in particular kept cropping up in her conversation: Phil. The CIO on the case, she told him, proud of the new phrase she had picked up. For a couple of weeks it was Phil this, Phil that, so much so that if Tony hadn’t known better, he would have assumed she was having an affair. But he knew she wouldn’t. Not Marina. Well, maybe he didn’t actually know, but he felt pretty certain.

But then came the business with Martin Fletcher, and everything changed. Only to be expected. She’d nearly died. And he had been there for her, comforting, offering words – and gestures – of support. Consoling her. She had responded. And everything had been fine.

Until she’d stayed out again last night.

The track finished and another one came one. It sounded the same to Tony, but then that was why he liked the album. Well-crafted tunes, not much variation, but solid and dependable.You knew what you were getting. Qualities that, if he was honest, he admired.

He checked his watch again. It shouldn’t be long now until she was home. He hadn’t cooked; he was going to take her out for dinner. To celebrate her finishing the job and just to show how much he loved her. He hoped she would appreciate it.

He picked up the book, took another mouthful of wine. He waited, drinking, unable to concentrate on the book, listening to safe music in his small house. Yeah. He sighed. That was him. His world and everything in it.

A knock on the door stopped any further thoughts. Tony stood up, the book still in his hand, crossed to it.

Must be Marina, he thought.

Another knock. Harder this time, more insistent.

‘Coming,’ he called. Maybe it wasn’t her. Jehovah’s Witnesses, probably, he thought irritably. No one else called round. Most of their friends they met in bars or restaurants or at their homes. Shame he had called out, though. If it was Jehovah’s Witnesses he could have pretended he wasn’t in. Avoided any potential confrontation.

‘Marina?’ he called. ‘Is that you?’

No reply. Just another knock.

Tony sighed, opened the door. Ready for whoever was there. Frowned. Didn’t know this person but didn’t like the look of them.

Then the hammer appeared.

His book fell to the floor.

And before he could speak – before he could even think – his world, and everything in it, went black.

70

‘You know him, don’t you, Sophie?’ Phil tapped the photo. ‘You know who this is.’

Sophie said nothing. Just moved her body slowly back from the table. Eyes on the photo all the time.

‘Good likeness? Yeah?’

Again, nothing. Phil could see that she was thinking. Deciding what to say next. What he most wanted to hear. What would help her most.

‘So,’ he said. He leaned forward, looked at the photo with her. They had done the best they could with it, but it was still blurred, impossible to make out sharp features. But Sophie knew who it was. That was enough. ‘What relation is he to you?’

She sat back, unmoving. The overhead lights shadowed the hollows of her eyes, made them appear as empty sockets in a skull.

‘Brother? Husband? Father?’

She closed her eyes as he said the words so Phil couldn’t read her response. He pressed on. ‘One of them, is it? Which one, then? Which member of your family killed Claire Fielding and Julie Simpson? Not to mention Lisa King, Susie Evans and Caroline Eades. Come on, Sophie, tell me.’

Again Sophie said nothing, and again Phil was aware of the calculation behind her eyes. But they held something more than that. He had seen it before. Madness. And something else. Damage. He could guess which one came first.

He kept his voice low, steady. As unemotional as possible, despite the subject matter, despite the adrenalin that was pumping round his system. ‘So, this member of your family, he’s stealing babies. To keep the family going, is that it? And you’ve been setting up his victims.’

She gave a slight nod.

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Families have to grow. Or they die.’

‘And this was the only way to do it? Ripping unborn babies out of their mothers’ wombs?’

‘They’re not mothers, they’re just carriers,’ said Sophie, her eyes alight. ‘Babies have to bond. You don’t want something second-hand.’

Phil sat back, trying to process everything she was saying, tamp down his rage and revulsion, keep going with rational questions that would make her open up.

‘So where is he now? Where can we find him?’

She shrugged. Then a smile spread over her features. A sick, twisted smile. ‘Out hunting, probably,’ she said.

A shiver ran through Phil. ‘Out hunting?’ He leaned forward. ‘Where?’

She shrugged.

‘Where is he?’

Sophie said nothing, just closed her eyes.

Phil balled and unballed his hands, tried to hold his emotions in check. If he gave in and railed at her, he knew he would lose her completely. He leaned forward once more, measuring his words carefully.

‘Sophie, tell me. If you don’t, his picture, this photo’ – he held it right in front of her face – ‘will be on the TV, newspapers, the internet by tonight. I know, it’s not a great likeness. But someone will recognise him. And then we’ll have him. So you may as well tell me now.’

Nothing.

‘Does he know you’re here?’

A nod. ‘I phoned when I came in.’

‘You didn’t need a solicitor?’

She shook her head. ‘Had to warn…’ She paused. ‘Him. Had to warn him.’

Shit, thought Phil. That was probably the worst thing that could have happened. He had to think quickly, find a way to turn the situation round, make it work for him.

‘He’ll think you did this to him, Sophie,’ he said, hoping his words worked, ‘whether you tell me or not. If that picture goes out and we get a tip and go after him, he’ll think it’s because you gave him up.’ He sat back. ‘D’you want that?’

No response.

‘So tell me.’

Nothing.

He leaned back in to her, his voice low and confiding, like a priest about to take a confession. ‘Look, we’re going to get him. One way or the other. So you may as well tell me all about it.’

He waited. Eventually she looked up, those mad eyes catching his once more. And that same twisted smile returned. ‘I’ll tell you. Everything.’

Phil tried not to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Good.’

‘But it’s a long story. You have to listen to it. You have to understand. I can’t tell you if you don’t understand.’

Phil breathed deeply. And again. He wanted to leap across the table, grab her by the throat, scream at her to give him up, tell him where he was and what he was doing. Slap her, punch her, whatever it took. But he didn’t. Instead he just said, ‘I’m listening, Sophie. I’ll understand.’

He looked at the grainy photo and hoped that, whatever he was doing, wherever he was, they would still be in time to stop him.

Marina opened her front door.

She walked into the cottage, her head down as she removed the key from the lock. She was tired, aching and wanted a bath. She needed to relax, along with a bit of privacy, give herself time to think about what to do next.

She stopped moving.

The cottage was wrecked. Furniture tipped over, books pulled off the walls, ornaments and crockery smashed on the floor. The polite, tasteful, carefully ordered life she had built up with her partner was gone. The breath went out of her as she surveyed the damage, her hand going automatically to her mouth. Then she saw the centrepiece of the display. And her whole body began to shake.

Tony was lying in the middle of the room, on his back, his body twisted. At first she didn’t recognise him because his face was covered in blood. She identified him by his clothes. She crossed to him, knelt down beside him. Blood was pooling around his head. There were injuries to his forehead and the side of his head. She touched them. His skull was soft, yielding, like an empty, cracked eggshell, only held together by an inner membrane.

She pulled her hand away quickly, feeling revulsion at the touch, and let out a whimper.

Behind her, the front door slammed.

She turned quickly, jumping as she did so. A figure in an old overcoat was blocking her exit. In one of the intruder’s hands was a hammer, blood still dripping from it. In the other, a hypodermic needle.

Marina knew instinctively who it was.

She tried to get to her feet but couldn’t do it fast enough; her maternal instinct to protect the baby meant no sudden movements. Then her assailant was on her. She opened her mouth to scream, but they were too quick for her. They dropped the hammer, clamped a meaty hand over her mouth. It was rough and callused, yet slick and wet with Tony’s blood. It was held firmly on her mouth. No sound would pass.

She struggled, tried to grab on to her attacker, punch, kick. No good. They were bigger, stronger than her. She was held firm, pulled right into the overcoat. She breathed through her mouth. The overcoat stank.

She was twisted round, but the intruder still held her tight. Marina saw the needle coming towards her, tried to fight even harder. She barely felt it break the skin as it entered her neck.

She didn’t feel her eyes close or her body go limp.

She was unaware that her attacker held her until she was completely unconscious, then, careful not to put too much pressure on her stomach, dragged her out of the house.

71

‘You know what they used to say about those villages, the ones that are miles away from anywhere?’ said Sophie.

‘I’ve heard lots of stories about them,’ said Phil. ‘Which ones do you mean?’

She gave her twisted smile once more, the overhead light glinting off her mad eyes. ‘That you never knew whose baby is whose.’ She laughed, then her face became more serious. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

‘Ah,’ said Phil. ‘Those ones.’ Growing up in the area, he had heard all the stories about the isolated coastal and rural communities. And knew from experience that most of them were true, at least at one time.

‘If a baby died in a family, then one would go missing from another family to replace it.’

‘That kind of thing, yeah.’

She nodded. ‘And nobody would ever say anything.’

‘No,’ said Phil. ‘Because then they would have to admit where the first baby came from.’

Sophie laughed. ‘You’ve heard them as well.’

‘But those villages aren’t that isolated now, are they?’ said Phil.

Sophie stopped laughing. She looked almost regretful.

‘Main roads and all that.’ But they were still bleak, he thought. Windswept and inhospitable.

Sophie sighed.

‘So where are we talking about?’ said Phil, probing for her home town. He mentally scanned a map of the Essex coast. ‘Was it coastal? Jaywick? Walton? Not Frinton?’

She didn’t respond.

‘What about on a river? Bradfield? Wrabness?’

A flicker of something behind her eyes. He hoped there was someone watching on a monitor to catch it.

‘So come on,’ he said, trying to hurry her up. ‘You’re telling me a story. About your family. I’m here, I’m listening.’

Sophie put her head back, her eyes upwards, as if receiving a signal or instructions from some unseen source. ‘There were four of us…’ she began. ‘Me, my brother, my father…’ She paused, her eyes changing, an unreadable expression on her face. ‘And my mother…’

She stopped talking again, lost in her reverie.

‘What about your mother?’ Phil prompted her.

Sophie’s head snapped forward, her eyes on Phil once more. ‘She died.’

‘She died.’

‘Or… disappeared. I don’t know which. Something like that.’

‘So then it was just the three of you.’

She screwed up her eyes, her forehead, as though she was thinking hard. ‘I remember… other kids. Or at least I think I remember other kids. I don’t know.’ She shook her head as if to dislodge the memory. Like it was an awkward shape that didn’t fit in properly. ‘Anyway, there were the three of us left. Me, my brother and my dad.’

‘And this was when you were Gail?’

She looked confused for a moment, then smiled. ‘I was never Gail. Not till I came here, to Colchester. I was always Sophie. Or Sophia.’

‘Sophia.’

‘My mother loved film stars.’

‘Sophia Loren,’ said Phil.

Sophie nodded. ‘Right.’

‘And your brother?’

‘Heston. After-’

‘Charlton Heston.’

Another nod. Then her face darkened. ‘Yeah…’

‘Go on then, Sophie,’ said Phil, trying to get her back on track. ‘You were telling me about your mother. She died? Or disappeared?’

‘Yeah…’

Phil waited. Nothing. She needed another prompt. ‘And then what happened?’

‘It was just the three of us. And that’s how it always was from then on.’

‘And were you… happy?’

Another darkening of her eyes as more memories swam through her mind. ‘My father…’ Her forehead creased up. ‘My father… he had… needs…’

Oh God, thought Phil, here we go. He had been expecting this. The damage that came first, that led to the madness. He dropped his voice still further, asked a question he knew the answer to. ‘What kind of needs?’

‘Man’s needs.’

‘And… you took care of them?’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’ Her voice seemed to have shrunk, regressed. Smaller, more childlike. ‘I had to take care of them.’

‘And how old were you then? When he started?’

She shrugged. ‘When Mother died. Disappeared. From then on.’

‘Remember how old you were?’

She shook her head. ‘Little,’ she said, in a voice matching the word.

Phil swallowed hard, kept going. ‘Just you? Not your brother?’

Another furrowing of her eyebrows, another darkening of memory. ‘No. Just me.’

She fell silent. Phil waited, wondering whether to interject, hurry her along. Then she began speaking again.

‘He did try, though.’

‘Who? Your father?’

‘No… my brother. He tried. Tried to stop my father. From… doing stuff to me.’

‘And did he succeed?’

She looked at him as if she couldn’t believe he had actually asked that question. ‘Course not. He was just a kid. Our father smacked him about if he did that, played up. Really smacked him about.’

‘He hurt him?’

She nodded.

‘Bad?’

She sighed. ‘He was always on at him. Heston wasn’t good enough. Heston was useless. Worthless, no good. Heston couldn’t even do what Sophia did for him, he was that useless. Then he would beat him. Hit him. Whip him. Anything he could.’

‘And did he ever hurt you? I mean apart from…’

She shook her head. ‘No. Never. I could do no wrong. Not like Heston. He could do no right.’ She fell silent again. Then gave a small, unexpected laugh. ‘You know what? What was funny? Heston got really jealous.’

‘Because… you were getting the attention?’

Sophie nodded. ‘He hated what our father was doing to me. He was always shouting, what’s wrong with me? Why won’t he do it to me? Because he was jealous that our father was doing it to me instead of him. Because that was love. What my father was doing to me was showing love, he said. And Heston hated not having that.’

Phil was silent. He couldn’t think of anything to say in response.

‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘how long did this go on for?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘Dunno. Well, yeah. I do.’ Her hands on the table began to tremble. ‘I…’ Her head went down, her hair flopping forward, making her features unreadable.

Phil waited. Sophie had reached the stage, he thought, that often happened in interviews like this. No matter what they had done or what had been done to them, they wanted to unburden themselves. Speak it out into the open. Remove the weight from themselves. Not caring about transference, that the person listening would then be carrying that weight.

But not this time. All Phil could think about was what she had done to Clayton.

She continued talking. ‘He…’

Phil’s voice dropped even further, barely above a whisper. ‘He made you pregnant.’

She nodded, head still down. Her hair swayed backwards and forwards as she did so.

‘And…’ Phil’s voice careful, compassionate. ‘And did you… have the baby?’

She shook her head. ‘I… it died. In me. I wasn’t… wasn’t strong enough, he said…’

Phil felt rage and confusion rising within him. Sophie had done some awful things, he thought, but they didn’t happen in a vacuum. Someone had formed her, made her capable of doing them. And that man was a monster. Phil stamped on his emotions. He couldn’t allow himself to feel sympathy for her, no matter what had been done to her. In fact, he could-n’t feel anything for her while he was questioning her. So he kept his professional mask in place.

‘You lost the baby.’

She nodded.

‘And then what?’

‘I’d had enough. I got some pills. Tried to take them…’ Her shoulders began to shake; her breathing became erratic as her words were intermingled with sobbing. ‘Heston found me. Put his fingers down my throat. Stopped me. Saved me, I suppose. Then we talked.’ She looked up, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘And I knew I had to get away. ’Cause I mean, what’s the worst that could happen to me? Nothing. It had already happened. So I… I felt strong after that. Like, like I was reborn. I told Heston, I told him I had to get away. And he said he’d help me.’

‘Why didn’t he go with you?’

‘Because… because someone had to stay behind. Look after our father.’ She spoke the words with a simple clarity.

‘Okay,’ said Phil. ‘So you ran away. And Heston stayed.’ Sophie nodded. ‘What happened to him? When your father found out you’d gone?’

A bitter laugh. ‘He went mad. Really mad. He wanted to get at me but he couldn’t. He tried to find out where I’d gone, but Heston couldn’t tell him, ’cause he didn’t know. Didn’t stop him trying, though. Beat the shit out of him.’ She gave a childlike giggle, as if the memory was too horrific to contemplate and the only response was to laugh. ‘Nearly killed him, he did.’ She sighed. ‘But Heston recovered.’

‘And he’s still there now?’

‘Heston?’

Phil nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Sort of…’

‘What d’you mean?’

She looked over his shoulder, not answering. Phil decided to let that one go for now, continue questioning her.

‘And you came to Colchester. And you started-’

‘You know about me.’ The words clipped, snapped. ‘You know what happened to me from then on.’

‘What about your brother? What happened to him?’

She put her head back, thinking again. ‘Things changed. The village changed. Like you said, we weren’t so cut off. People from town started to move in. New houses got built. New estates. Luxury executive homes.’The words curled out of her mouth like soil-covered worms.

‘I bet your father hated that,’ said Phil.

Another bitter laugh. ‘Yeah. People talking to him, wanting to be friendly… He hated it. He hated attention. And he couldn’t find anyone to… provide for his man’s needs.’

‘So what did he do?’

‘Made Heston do it.’ The words as matter-of-fact as possible. ‘But not like he was. ’Cause he wasn’t queer, my dad.’ Another laugh. ‘Oh no. Whatever he was, he wasn’t queer.’

Phil felt a sense of dread building with each word he heard. He had a feeling he knew where this confession was going. ‘So…’ He was almost frightened to ask the next question. ‘What did he do?’

‘Dressed him up.’

Phil nodded. That was what he had been expecting. He looked at Sophie’s face, sensed there was something more. ‘What else?’

‘Did what he wanted, made him…’

‘Into you?’

Sophie’s eyes were downcast. She nodded. Phil felt a small sense of victory amongst the unease about what she was saying. That look, that movement meant there was still something in her, some basic shared humanity underneath all the damage, the madness. He had to work on that, bring it out.

‘So Heston took your place.’

Another nod. ‘But our father wasn’t happy.’

‘Because he wasn’t queer.’

She nodded again. ‘He went along with it at the time. But afterwards…’ She shivered, as if recounting it from personal experience.

‘Afterwards, what? What happened afterwards, Sophie?’

‘He hated himself,’ she said, bitterness dripping from her words. ‘He hated himself and he hated Heston. For what they were both doing. He used to beat him. Whip him again.’

Phil suppressed a shudder. ‘And Heston took all this?’

Another nod. ‘He was scared. He didn’t have any option.’ She looked round then, as if coming out of a trance, seeing the room for the first time. ‘I want a drink. I want to stop. I want a drink.’

‘Not long now, Sophie. Let’s keep going. Just a little while longer.’

No. I want a drink. I want to stop.’

Phil couldn’t stop, he had to go on. He wanted to go on. He was making a breakthrough, just about to reach her. He couldn’t stop now. She had to keep going. Had to…

He looked at her. All vestiges of her earlier self were now long gone. No sexuality, no allure. Just a damaged woman with a damaged mind. She had clammed up and wouldn’t start again until she was ready. He sighed, checked his watch. Leaned over to the tape.

‘Interview suspended at…’

72

Hester’s husband had returned. She had felt his presence but hadn’t heard his voice. She had tried talking to him but got nothing in return. So she had given up. And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he had gone again, leaving her alone. With the baby.

She felt anxious, uncomfortable. Unable to concentrate on anything. Her heart was pounding, her mind spooling through all the possibilities of what might happen. They could storm into her home, take the baby away from her. She looked down at it, sleeping again after her husband’s departure. She was still trying to feel something for it, something positive and nurturing, but it wasn’t happening. Maybe they should take the baby. Leave her in peace. In peace with her husband.

She closed her eyes, tried to call him. Nothing. No response. She called again, louder this time. Nothing. The baby stirred as she did so. She ignored it, waited, listening.

Still nothing.

A shudder ran through her. Maybe he had gone, her husband. Maybe he wasn’t coming back; maybe he had left her.

Her head was spinning, her mind reeling.

No. He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t leave her alone once more. Like it used to be. Like the old days. She tried not to think about those days, it just made her sad. Made her cry, if she thought about them too much. But she couldn’t help it.

She tried to block them out, but those times, years ago, when she was alone and afraid, scared and crying all the time, came into her mind. Before her husband turned up to love her, before they became one. There was an unpleasant emotion rising inside her, one that was mixed with loneliness and fear from the old days, one that she had dragged with her all her life. Her most hated feeling: fear of being alone. Of being unloved.

And now her husband was unreachable. And they were closing in on her.

Well she couldn’t have that. Couldn’t be left alone. It would kill her. She needed him. She had to find him.

She called for him, shouted as loud as she could.

Nothing.

And again.

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

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

The baby kept crying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when I’ll get rid of it.

And then run.

73

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Okay.’

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

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

‘Wish me luck,’ he said.

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

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

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

Phil switched the tape on.

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

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

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

‘Heston, was it?’

She nodded.

‘Johnson?’

She frowned, looked slightly confused.

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

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

‘Gale, then.’

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

‘So what’s your real name?’

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

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

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

‘He… hated it…’

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

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

‘He killed himself?’

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

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

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

Phil flinched, hoped she didn’t see it. But Sophie was back in her story.

‘He took it and… he…’ Her voice dropped away. ‘Cut his own cock off.’

74

Phil said nothing. Her words had hit him almost physically. He felt light-headed, his legs shaking, his breathing difficult. He hadn’t been expecting that. Nothing as bad as that.

‘Oh my God…’ He couldn’t help it. The words just slipped out.

Sophie nodded, as if agreeing with him. ‘Cut his cock off,’ she said in a hushed, almost reverent tone. ‘Wanted to be a woman. Wanted to be loved…’

‘Did he… survive?’

Sophie nodded. ‘Lost a lot of blood. Nearly died. Our father found him, helped him.’

‘Took him to the hospital?’

She shook her head, gave a bitter laugh. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Cauterised it.’

‘With what?’

She shrugged. ‘Something hot. Metal. Some tool.’ Her voice matter-of-fact.

Phil still felt short of breath. He didn’t know what to ask next. Thankfully, Sophie kept talking.

‘After he was well again, I helped him. On the quiet. Said if he wanted to live like a woman I would make him one. Found people to do stuff.You know, procedures.’

‘What kind of people?’

‘Extreme body modifiers.’

‘How did you find them?’

She shrugged again. ‘Few contacts from work.’

‘And what did they do?’

‘Made him a woman. Changed his body. As much as they could.’ Sophie frowned, thinking. ‘But I think something happened to him. To his mind.’

‘What, he lost it?’

‘He was never the same again. In any way.’ She took another mouthful of tea.

‘So did he move out then? Or stay with your father in the house in Wrabness?’

‘Stayed with him in Wrabness.’ She stopped talking, looked at him. ‘How did you know that? I didn’t tell you that.’

She sat back from the table, angry. Phil kept looking at her, his gaze level, his voice steady. He knew Anni would be trawling through documents right now.

‘You told me yourself.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘Maybe not in so many words. But you told me.’

She still looked angry. He shrugged.

‘There’s no point in being mad at me, Sophie. It’s all going to come out, so you may as well tell me. What’s your surname?Your real surname.’

The anger dissipated, to be replaced by a cunning smile once more. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you about my brother.’

‘Okay.You keep telling me about him, then. He was living in Wrabness.’

She nodded.

‘With your father, still?’

She opened her mouth to answer, stopped herself. Smiled once more. ‘No. He’s gone.’

‘Gone where?’

She shrugged. ‘Just gone. And Heston’s not Heston any more. He’s Hester. My sister.’

‘Right. Hester. And he – your sister, she lives alone?’

Again that crooked, sick smile. ‘No, she’s not alone. She’s got a husband now.’ She laughed.

Phil was confused. ‘Why is that funny?’

Another shrug. ‘Just is.’

‘And he’s there with her?’

Another laugh. ‘Always.’

‘Right.’ Phil had to move on. ‘So… Hester wanted a baby, is that right? And you went and got one for her… for them?’

Sophie looked at her fingernails. They were painted, but broken and chipped. She sighed. ‘Yeah.’

He sensed he was losing her. He had listened to her story and he was sure she felt better for putting it on to him. With that done, she could revert to type. But he was not going to let that happen. It was time for him to ramp things up, he thought, get the answers he wanted.

‘So tell me if I’m right. Hester and her husband want kids. But they can’t have them. So they ask you to find pregnant women so that they can rip the babies out of them and claim them as their own?’

Sophie kept her eyes on her nails. ‘Yeah. That’s it.Yeah.’

‘Ones that were nearly full term. Ones you knew.’

Another nod. ‘Yeah.’

‘So.You made Ryan Brotherton the scapegoat. Shifted the blame on to him, deflected attention away from yourself.’

Sophie yawned. ‘Right.’

Phil was starting to get angry now. He tried to keep it down, work with it. Channel it. It was a struggle. ‘What about Clayton? Why him? Why kill Clayton?’

She shrugged. ‘He was useful. Then he wasn’t.’

Phil leaned in closer, his voice rising. ‘Because he got too close? Because he knew what was going on?’

‘Yeah, something like that.’ She picked up the mug, put it to her lips, grimaced. ‘This tea’s cold. Can I have some more?’

Phil slapped the mug from her fingers, snapping off one of her nails in the process. The mug went flying across the room, hitting the wall and breaking, leaving a wet brown explosive patch where it had hit.

‘Fuck the tea!’ he shouted. ‘Talk to me!’

Sophie looked up at him in shock. She flinched, pulled her hands away from him, curled up into herself. Phil kept on at her.

‘You fucking listen to me! You fucking murderer! Wrabness. Hester is in Wrabness, yes?’

Sophie nodded hurriedly.

‘Where? Which house?’

She kept whimpering.

‘Where?’

She jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘There’s a… house off the main road…’

‘Name? Number?’

She curled herself further into a foetal ball. ‘Please don’t hit me…’

‘Name of the house. Number.’

‘It’s… Hillfield.’

‘Right. And your real surname?’

She whimpered once more, subsiding into tears. Phil didn’t care. ‘Now!’

‘Croft, it’s Croft. Please, don’t hit me…’

Phil stood up, his head spinning. He didn’t know how that display would stand up in court against PACE procedures, but he didn’t much care. He could deal with that later. Right now, he had a solid lead to go on.

He looked at Sophie sitting curled in the chair. He should have felt pity and knew that once his anger subsided he might do. But not at the moment. His eyes fell on the photo on the table. And he was hit by a sudden thought.

He pointed to the photo. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’ he said.

Sophie didn’t reply.

‘In the photo. That’s him, your brother. Heston. Hester. Is that right?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, kept talking. ‘The husband doesn’t exist, does he? There’s just your brother. That’s why he wants these babies. Because he can’t have children himself. That’s it, isn’t it?’

Sophie didn’t raise her head, just nodded.

Phil was breathing heavily, like he’d just run a marathon. ‘Hillfield. Wrabness. Croft… yes?’

She nodded again. ‘But he won’t be there…’

He looked down. Sophie was still curled in on herself.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I phoned him. When I was brought in. If he’s got any sense, he’ll have gone by now.’

‘Where?’

She shrugged. ‘In the wind…’

‘Shit…’

The door opened. Phil turned, ready to shout at whoever was there, throw them out physically if need be. But it was Adrian Wren. And Phil knew he wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t important. The look on his face told him so.

‘Boss…’ Adrian gestured to him.

Phil told the tape the interview had been terminated, stepped outside.

‘We’ve had Wivenhoe on the phone,’ Adrian said. ‘Marina’s place has been trashed. Her… partner?’

‘Tony,’ said Phil, remembering his name this time.

‘Right. He was found lying on the floor, head smashed in from the look of it. Ambulance is on its way.’

‘Any sign of-’

‘No, boss.’

Marina. The baby…

Phil felt the familiar bands stretch across his chest. His head was spinning, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He hoped he had heard wrongly, but he was sure he hadn’t. Then something struck him. ‘Ambulance? He’s still alive?’

‘Barely. But they’ll see what they can do. Attacked with a hammer, it looks like.’

‘Just like Caroline Eades…’

Phil nodded, eyes on the floor. He remembered his promise to Marina. He would always be there for her. He would never let her be harmed again. Panic rose within him. He fought it down. He looked at the closed door of the interview room.

‘And she knows? Sitting in there, she fucking knows…’

He lunged for the door, ran inside the room. Sophie looked up from the table, startled, then terrified as Phil came hurtling towards her.

He didn’t get far. The door opened and two uniforms rushed in, restraining him.

‘Bad news?’ said Sophie, once she realised she was in no immediate danger. She laughed.

He was screaming as they pulled him away. Out of the door and into the corridor.

‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Marina…’

75

Marina opened her eyes. It made no difference. It was as dark with them open as it was with them closed.

She tested her arms. They were sore, as was the rest of her, but untied. Was that a good thing or not? Was it an oversight by her captor? Or had she been placed somewhere she had no chance of escaping from?

She stretched out one hand, felt around. Slowly, cautiously, not sure what unpleasant, unexpected surprises she would find in the dark. Nothing. Just a hard-packed earth floor. She lowered her head, smelled it. Musty, damp. Underground, she thought. A cellar or basement?

Panic began to well inside her. Trapped. Underground. Palpitations took hold of her chest, made her breathing difficult.

‘No, oh no…’

And there was Martin Fletcher in her mind. Standing in her office, blocking the only escape route. And she was once more praying for Phil to come and rescue her but fearing he wouldn’t.

‘No, not again, not again…’

Sobbing now, in terrified desperation, she stood up. Stretched her hands tentatively towards the ceiling. It was low, crossed by wooden beams. Definitely underground.

She sat back on the floor once more. Curled into herself.

Phil said he would never let her down. Never place her in danger again.

Phil had lied.

She screwed her eyes up tight, opened them again quickly, hoping that light from somewhere would filter in once they became adjusted. Nothing. Just pitch-black darkness as before.

She felt her stomach. No rest now. No relaxation now.

She tamped down the hysteria that was rising once more within her.

Hoped that Phil – or someone – would be coming to get her.

Ignoring that little voice in the back of her mind that said she had been lucky with Martin Fletcher. She had got out alive. She wouldn’t be that lucky again. No one would find her. She had been abandoned.

She hugged her arms about herself.

Not daring to move.

And cried.

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ said Phil. ‘Very unprofessional. Won’t happen again.’

He was in Fenwick’s office, facing him over the desk. Sweating and dishevelled and wanting to get moving but knowing he had to go through this before he could do anything else. He had been hauled in as soon as he had been pulled off Sophie Gale. Anni and the rest of the team were following up the leads that had come from the interview.

Fenwick regarded him from the other side of the desk as coolly and levelly as possible. It looked like he was also struggling to remain calm and professional.

‘I shouldn’t have done the interview, sir. I was too closely involved. And you probably don’t want me to go to Wrabness now. I understand.’ Phil’s voice, his stance said he didn’t understand at all.

Fenwick sighed. ‘What a mess,’ he said. ‘All round. And I can’t have a go at you for what you’ve done because you can just come back at me for…’

‘Your earlier interference.’

‘Thank you for reminding me.’ Another sigh from Fenwick. ‘But at the end of the day…’

Here it comes, thought Phil, King Cliché rides again…

‘At the end of the day, we’ve got to work together. So you’re still CIO on this case and you’re going to Wrabness.’

Phil felt relief flood through him. ‘Thanks, boss.’

‘But no more mistakes. If we screw this up, the CPS will be on us like a ton of bricks.’

‘Sir.’ Phil turned to leave the office.

‘And Phil?’

He stopped.

Fenwick looked pained and tired. As if he’d learned something but that knowledge had been forced on him. ‘I don’t blame you. I’d have probably done the same. But well done on the interview.’

‘Thank you, boss.’

Phil left the office, went to the bar. It was alive with activity. The team were getting suited and tooled up, uniforms putting on protective gear. A firearms unit had been called out. Anni was in the centre of it, co-ordinating. She looked up as he entered. He crossed to her.

‘I’m still on the team,’ he said to her unanswered question, taking in everyone within earshot as he spoke. ‘In fact I’m still your CIO.’

‘Glad to hear it, boss.’

‘So, what we got?’

She checked the computer in front of her. ‘Hillfield is owned by the Croft family. Smallholding.’ She looked up. ‘Farmer…’

‘Right,’ said Phil. He felt that familiar tingle when a case began to fall into place. ‘Fits the profile. Name?’

‘Last name on the deeds is Laurence Croft.’

‘The father?’

‘Looks like it, judging from the date of birth. No date of death, but he’s not listed as living there now. Just…’ She scrolled down the screen. ‘Hester Croft. One person. That’s all.’

‘Sex?’

‘Female.’ She looked down further. ‘The house is on a couple of acres of land. They own some cottages.’ She read on. ‘No they don’t, they were demolished a few years ago, land turned into a caravan park.’

‘And I’m assuming it’s in a suitably out-of-the way location?’

Anni gave a tight smile. ‘Well, it is in Wrabness.’

‘Right,’ he said. He looked at the rest of the assembled team.They stopped what they were doing, looked back at him. Expectant. Fired up. ‘We ready? Then let’s go.’

76

The baby was still crying. Hester was on the floor in the corner of the kitchen, as far away from it as possible. Her hands over her ears, her long, thick legs tucked underneath her body, she had tried to curl herself up as small as possible.

‘Ssh… ssh…’

But the baby kept on crying.

She had wanted to get rid of it but couldn’t bring herself to do it when it was awake. So she had waited for it to go to sleep. But it wouldn’t go to sleep, it just lay there, wailing.

The baby was bad enough, but something worse than that had happened. She had called out for her husband but he hadn’t appeared. She had closed her eyes, tried to will him to her. Nothing. No sound in the house, except her sobbing and the baby crying. She had to face it. She couldn’t hear his voice any more, couldn’t sense his presence. Could feel they were no longer joined. She was all alone.

Her husband had left her. He had gone.

She kept her eyes tight shut, tried to drown out the noise of the baby with her own crying. The baby. It was all the baby’s fault. If the baby hadn’t come along to disrupt things, then they would still be happy together, like they used to be. Just Hester and her husband. Alone and together. Their whole world each other. But no. They had to have a baby. It was supposed to make their lives complete. Instead it had forced them apart.

Hester felt impotent rage build up within her. Her body thrashed as she screamed, forcing it out of her.

‘No… no… no… no…’

She wanted it to be over. She wanted time to be rewound, things to go back to how they used to be. Just the two of them. She stopped screaming, and the sound withered and died in her throat. Hopeless. It was hopeless.

She didn’t know what to do. She knew that if her husband had gone, there was no point in her staying in the house with the baby. But she couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it. He had to be there, had to be coming back.

Hester stood up. She would make one last attempt to find him, and if that failed then she knew that he was gone for good and she had to decide what to do next. She crossed the floor to the back door, closing her eyes as she passed the baby, not even wanting to see it, acknowledge its presence.

She opened the back door, stepped into the yard. Stood still, listening. The river was making its usual background sound, low static on an untuned TV. She found it comforting, usually, something that reminded her of home. Now it just sounded lonely, like a call for help or attention that would never be answered.

She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, then looked round the yard. She knew all the shapes and the shadows of shapes. It was her home. She knew everything that was there. She scanned, checking. Saw nothing, no one. He wasn’t there.

But she wouldn’t give up. Not just yet. She would make one last attempt. She opened her mouth and screamed. No words came out, just inarticulate yearning and desire, loneliness and abandonment. She knew that would be enough to make him come calling if he was there. She hoped that would be enough to make him.

She stood still, listening. Nothing. Just the river.

Hester sighed and turned, going back into the house. The baby was still crying, and this time she didn’t bother to cover her ears or avert her eyes as she walked past. It was there and he wasn’t and that was that.

She went back to her place in the corner, staring at the baby. Making her mind up. She was thinking, trying to sort out in her mind what had happened. She came up with some things. Everything was fine before the baby arrived. Life was good. But now the baby was here and her husband was gone. So, she thought, if she got rid of the baby, her husband might come back…

She didn’t know if that was true, but it was worth a try. She had thought that earlier, though, and hadn’t been able to get rid of it while it was still awake. Now, however, with the constant screaming in her ears, she thought that didn’t matter. She could get rid of it. If it made her husband appear again, she could get rid of it.

She stood up.

Walked towards the cot.

77

A light went on. At first Marina thought she was imagining it. It was distant and weak, but it was still a light, nonetheless.

She sat up, focused her eyes, managed to assess her surroundings. Brick walls, dirt floor, overhead rafters. It confirmed her earlier impression. She was in a cellar or basement. But not just a square space; it was a room with alcoves and archways. Crouching, she slowly and silently made her way towards the light. Before her were other rooms, knocked through and interconnected with tunnels. Where it needed it, the ceiling was held in place by heavy wooden struts and supports. Electric cable was strung along it.

She shivered with the cold, looked at herself. She was filthy, her clothes black with dirt. There were cuts and bruises up her arms and legs.

She looked at the walls. There was a workbench set against one of them, huge and heavy-looking, with a scarred and pitted surface. There were tools nailed to a board above the bench, old and rusting but still workable. Marina looked round, tried to listen. She couldn’t hear anything, see anyone. But she knew someone was there. They must be. Moving slowly, she crept over to the workbench, looked at the tools hanging on the board. Hammers of varying sizes, chisels, a hand drill. Her eyes alighted on the screwdrivers. All different sizes, displayed in order from the smallest to the largest. She took the largest from its hook, looked at it. The wooden handle was worn, the paint flaking, but still solid. The metal shaft was rusted but intact. She checked the end. Flat and sharp. Used often. That would do.

She held it in her hand, clutching it hard. She looked round again. There was no way out from where she was; the only way forward was down the tunnel that the light was coming from.

Her heart was hammering in her chest. There were still pains in her stomach but she didn’t dare think about the baby, whether there was anything wrong with it. All she knew was that it needed protecting. And as a mother, it was her job to do it.

A mother. That was the first time she had ever thought of herself in those terms.

Clutching the screwdriver as hard as she could, she slowly began to creep down the tunnel towards the light.

The circus was on the move again.

Phil and Anni were in the lead car on the way to Wrabness. Other cars and vans followed, creating a heavy police presence on the road. They had used the sirens and lights to get out of Colchester, moving the remains of the rush hour to one side. But on the smaller roads just their sheer number had been enough to get other vehicles to move out of the way.

Phil sat in the back seat. He ignored the satnav, looked at a map of Wrabness, tried to focus his mind on the task ahead. Trying not to think about Marina. He sighed, unable to concentrate. It was always the same in situations like this. He was supposed to be trained for what was to come, to evaluate matters on the spot and take appropriate action according to what was needed. But every situation was different. He could look at the map, prepare all he wanted, but he knew it would be pointless. He had to wait until he was there, actually in the thick of it, before a course of action would present itself.

He looked across at Anni sitting next to him. She had been silent since they got in the car. No doubt psyching herself up in the same way he was.

‘You okay? Up for this?’

She looked at him, startled, as if pulled out of a trance or a power nap. ‘Yeah. Fine.’

‘Sure?’

She nodded. Phil sensed there was more, so waited, still looking at her.

‘I’m just trying to…’ she said. ‘Trying to get my head round it all, I suppose. Clayton; now this.’

‘Tired?’

‘Utterly shagged. Caffeine, sugar and adrenalin, that’s all I am now. But that’s not what I meant, boss. It’s just… everything’s fine now. But tomorrow, whenever, when the comedown hits, what happens then?’

Phil shrugged, tried to show nonchalance. He had been asking himself a similar question. ‘That’s why we have counsellors, I suppose.’

She nodded, seemingly satisfied, and fell silent again.

Phil couldn’t think about tomorrow. He couldn’t think about the rest of the night or what they were about to do. He tried not to think about Marina.

But failed.

He had once read a story, in a comic when he was a boy, about a supervillain who had all the powers you could think of. When the hero thought of a particular power, the villain ceased to have it. That was how he felt about Marina. He tried to imagine all the fates that she could be undergoing. No matter how horrible or upsetting. He hoped that, like that superhero, if he could imagine it, it wouldn’t happen.

He couldn’t think of the comedown or the day after. All he could think of, all his world had come down to, was catching a killer, making sure Marina and Caroline Eades’ baby were safe. And Marina’s baby. But that wasn’t due for months. A shudder ran through him. Maybe Hester had already taken her away, absconded to somewhere they couldn’t find them. He hoped not. He couldn’t… He just hoped not.

It was a hope he clung on to as the angry procession approached Wrabness.

78

Hester picked the baby up. Looked at it. Eyes screwed up. Still wailing.

‘Time to go to sleep,’ she said.

She held the baby girl almost tenderly, rocking her from side to side. Shushing her as she rocked. Talking all the while.

‘Yes,’ she said to the baby, her voice low, ‘sleep. Sleep. That’s right…’

The baby’s wailing began to subside slightly. Hester looked at it, at her, smiled sadly. ‘You’ve got to go to sleep, little one. Yes… Because my husband won’t come back while you’re here. No… he won’t…’ Shushing her again. ‘So I’m afraid you’ve got to go… got to go…’

The baby was quietening down. Listening to Hester’s words, or at least the tone of her voice, allowing herself to be calmed by them.

‘Ssshh… that’s it…’

Hester smiled as the baby became still, settled.

‘Good, good baby.’ She remembered its sex. ‘Good girl…’

She smiled again, pleased she had remembered that.

The baby began to close her eyes.

‘That’s it, good girl… go to sleep… everything will be easier once you’ve gone to sleep…’

Hester began to stroke the baby’s neck.

The baby’s eyes shut.

‘So this is Wrabness, then,’ said Anni, looking round. ‘Drabness, more like.’

Phil gave a tight smile. ‘Bet they’ve never heard that one before.’

They couldn’t see much in the dark, but Phil doubted it looked better in the daytime. It was flat, bleak. Fields and trees stretched away behind them, back to the horizon. In another place those features might have seemed bucolic, but here they just made the few houses that sat on the lane look abandoned, cut off.

They had followed directions to Hillfield, the Croft house. It had taken them off the main two-lane road and on to a single-track one. They had parked at the side of the road, blocking access if anyone or anything wanted to get past. Uniforms had already started stringing up tape at either end of the road, erecting barriers.

Phil joined Anni in looking round. The trees were winter bare, the fields desolate in the darkness. He could see the river and, beyond, the lights of Harwich port burning far away on the other shore, looking as distant and unreachable as a mirage. A sign by a five-bar gate gave directions down a dirt track to the beach.

‘House is down there,’ said Phil. ‘That’s our route.’

Everyone was piling out of cars and vans. The firearms unit were good to go, guns ready, body armour in place. Everyone had been briefed. Everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing, where and when. The night was cold and sharp, yet hot and alive with adrenalin and testosterone.

‘Right,’ said Phil to the assembled team, ‘we all ready?’

Grunts and nods of assent.

‘Everyone know what they’re doing?’

More grunts and nods.

‘Good. Come on, then.’

He went to the gate, opened it. Started to walk down the dirt track. It sloped downwards towards the beach. It was unlit. The further they got from the streetlights, the darker it became. They had been issued with torches and, loath though Phil was to use them for fear of giving themselves away, he had no choice. He switched his on, still leading the way.

Down past an old house with so much junk collected in the back garden that it looked like a contemporary art installation, then past a series of brick walls, overgrown with moss, lichen and ivy. A gate at the end. Phil shone his torch in. A caravan site. Small, the vans old, at least thirty years, he would have said. Most of them were well maintained, but one in particular stood out. Even older, mildewed and rusted. He wondered briefly what kind of person came to Wrabness for their holiday. Kept going.

At the bottom of the track they came to the beach. He stopped.

‘When we reach the beach,’ said Anni next to him, ‘it means we’ve gone too far. It’s before that.’

Phil looked around. He made out the silhouettes of stilted beach houses against the starless sky, looking like marauding misshapen aliens from a fifties sci-fi film. The beach was dotted with old, rusted boats sitting marooned on the dirty wet sand. Chained and abandoned, it looked like they had come there to die. He squinted back up the track. On the opposite side to the caravan site was a field. Beyond the field was what looked like a large shack or barn. Black slatted wood, partially derelict in appearance. He turned to Anni.

‘Think that’s it?’

‘I reckon so,’ she said.

He turned to the assembled team. ‘There’s the target,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

He stepped into the field.

‘Now remember,’ he said when he had the attention of the whole team. ‘According to the witness, we’re dealing with someone who has a separate identity. The name is Hester, she’s a transsexual. But there’s another identity she calls the husband. And that’s the one we have to watch out for. The murderous one. She might be Hester at the moment, she might not. But whatever we do, we don’t want to deal with the husband. So let’s do this quickly and cleanly, right?’

The team followed him, as carefully and quietly as they could.

79

The baby’s eyes closed.

‘That’s it… good girl, that’s it…’

Hester held the baby with one hand, stroked her neck with the other. So fragile, so small, the difference between life and death. Like a toy, a child’s toy.You could play with it for years but then one day you decide to burn it, or hack away at it. Just to see what happens. And you do see what happens. But after that moment’s gone, you’re left with a melted lump of plastic, or something broken and useless. Only good for throwing away.

And that’s what the baby was now. It would only take a moment, just a few seconds, less than a minute, even. And it would all be over. Then things could go back to normal. Her husband could return and they could be together again.

Just one moment.

The baby’s breathing changed. She was asleep. Hester smiled again. She had done it. She had talked to the baby, rocked her, got her to sleep. Like a real mother would do.

She sighed.

A real mother.

But it didn’t matter. Not now. She had a plan. She had to follow it through. She had to make things happen.

She placed the baby back in her cot, careful not to wake her. Covered her with the blanket. Looked at her. Then knelt beside her, placed her hands gently round the baby’s throat.

And something sparked within her. Stopping her.

She. She had called the baby she. Not it. She. Like a mother would do.

Maybe that meant something. That she was a proper mother after all. That she didn’t hate the baby; she was capable of looking after it.

She closed her eyes, her head starting to hurt. No. She had to do it. Had to kill it. It was the only way for her husband to return. He wouldn’t come back so long as the baby was there, she knew that. Whatever else she felt, she knew that.

So she had to do it. Had to.

She placed her hands round the baby’s neck again. Tried to speak. Couldn’t get the words out. Noticed for the first time that she was crying. It stopped her.

‘Buh-bye bye, buh-baby…’

Still sobbing, but as quietly as she could so as not to wake her, she placed her hands tenderly around the baby’s neck.

And began to squeeze.

80

The house was surrounded.

Phil couldn’t believe anyone actually lived there. His initial impression had been right. It looked almost totally derelict, with black plastic sheeting and hardboard patching up holes and rotting areas in the wooden cladding. Tiles were missing off the roof and the yard outside was so full of junk it looked like a health and safety officer’s worst nightmare.

It was the right place. He was sure of it.

The team were in place. Phil was standing beside what he supposed was the front door, next to a team armed with a battering ram, ready to break it down. He spoke into his radio.

Gave the signal.

The battering ram was in place.

The door was smashed off its hinges.

They charged in.

Hester’s hands were round the baby’s neck when she heard the noise.

It was a huge crash, like an explosion. At first she wondered if it was an earthquake or a bomb. And her immediate thought: she hoped it didn’t waken the baby.

But then she heard movement behind her. Shouting, running, lights, bodies.

In her home. In her home.

She turned, shocked, tried to take in what was happening. Couldn’t. Didn’t know what was going on. All she knew was that she was scared.

There were men. And women. Some holding fearsome guns. All shouting at her. Telling her to do things. Step away, lie down, things like that. She looked from one to another in turn, trying to make out what it was they wanted her to do. Lie down, step away. Pointing their guns.

Her heart was beating like it was ready to burst. She didn’t know what to do. She turned away from them, heard them shout even louder, move closer to her. She looked at the baby. She was starting to wake up. They had made so much noise they were waking up the baby.

In desperation, she grabbed hold of her and pulled her out of the cot. She had to rock the baby back to sleep. Couldn’t have her awake, not now. She clutched the baby to her chest, turned round again.

They had taken a step back. Still shouting at her, but there were more words in the orders now. Put the baby down, step away, lie down, put your hands on your head. It was like a game she didn’t know the rules for and that she couldn’t keep up with.

So she clutched the baby to her.

The baby started to cry.

She closed her eyes. Tried to will them all away.

Anni focused on the scene before her. She saw Phil at the front of the team, commandingly issuing orders. She quickly took in her surroundings. First she checked for exits and entrances, anywhere they could be attacked from. Task-force members had positioned themselves there. She looked round.

She had seen squalor before, but this place was one of the worst. It looked like someone had been squatting in a dilapidated garage or outhouse. There were attempts at homeliness: armchairs and a settee with antimacassars draped over them. But the furniture was worn and old, like it had been salvaged from some tip. A rusted old tin bath had been set up as a cot; there was an attempt at a kitchen area, but Anni wouldn’t have wanted to eat anything prepared there.

The most frightening thing was the person holding the baby. She had expected something, or someone, out of the ordinary. But she hadn’t been prepared for the sight of the figure that greeted her. Tall, over six feet, wearing a faded flowered sun dress over what looked like at least two layers of vests and T-shirts, with filthy old denims and boots. A badly fitted wig had slipped back to reveal a shaven head, and make-up had been applied as if without a mirror. There was also facial stubble where this person hadn’t shaved for a day or two.

Anni tried to hold her revulsion in and concentrate. She thought instead of Graeme Eades, and the last time she had seen him as he lay sobbing in the cheap chain hotel, thoroughly repentant and guilt-eaten, begging them to return his baby, the only link to his dead wife. That sharpened her concentration.

She looked at Phil, standing in front of her, using the calm and reasonable voice he used in interviews to make suspects open up. The earlier shouting and gun-brandishing hadn’t worked, just made Hester cling even tighter to the baby. So he had changed his approach. He was asking her to put the baby down, to move away. But his words, no matter how softly spoken they were, didn’t seem to be having any effect either. Anni thought she knew why.

She softly placed her hand on Phil’s sleeve. He looked at her, stopped talking. She gestured with her eyes: let me try. He nodded. She stood alongside him.

‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘My name’s Anni. Is your name Hester?’

Hester’s eyes were all over, roving about, trying to take in what was happening. Fluttering round the room like a swallow trapped in a barn. Her hands were back on the baby’s neck. Anni knew that the slightest application of pressure could kill the baby.

‘You are Hester, aren’t you? That’s your name?’ Anni tried to keep her voice soft, but had to raise it to be heard over the crying of the baby. She kept looking at Hester, willing her to look back.

‘Hester…’

Hester’s eyes stopped fluttering round the room, began to focus on Anni and her softly spoken words.

‘Your name is Hester, isn’t it?’

Hester held her eyes, blinking rapidly. She nodded.

‘Good. Listen, Hester, I’m not here to hurt you. Nobody wants to hurt you, okay? We’re just worried about you. You and the baby.’

Anni waited, hoping the words had sunk in. She kept on talking, still using that soft, soothing tone.

‘Look, Hester, why don’t you put the baby down, yeah? Then we can talk. Talk properly.’

Hester looked down at the baby, began shushing and soothing it. The baby’s crying began to gradually subside.

Anni edged a couple of centimetres forward.

‘You’re good with babies, Hester. Very good. Now why don’t you put it down, yeah? Then we can talk…’

Hester frowned, still clutching the baby tightly to her. Rocking it from side to side. ‘Wh-what about? Why…’

‘You’re out here on your own, you’ve got a baby to look after, you need help, Hester…’

‘I’ve got my… my husband, he’ll… he’s away, he’s… got to come back…’

‘Your husband. Right.’The last thing they wanted was for the husband to return while Hester was holding the baby. ‘Listen, Hester, don’t worry about your husband now. He’s not here. Just think about what’s best for you and the baby. I can help you, Hester. Give you the support that you and the baby need.’

Another step forward.

‘Come on, Hester, let’s talk, yeah? Just two women together.’

She risked another step. Hester, still rocking the baby, had reacted when she had said ‘two women’. Clearly that was the right thing to say. Anni kept going.

‘Look,’ she pointed at the team behind her, ‘don’t worry about them. They’re men. They don’t understand. Guns and that, shouting, that’s how they respond to things.’ She turned back to Hester, looked her directly in the eye. ‘Women are different, aren’t we? We know how to talk properly, without all that. So come on.’ Another step forward. ‘Let’s talk. Just you and me.’

Hester looked between Anni, the baby and the tooled-up task force. It seemed, from the confusion in her eyes, that she genuinely didn’t know what to do. She kept rocking the baby from side to side. It was silent now.

Anni risked another step forward. She was almost level with her now.

‘Come on, Hester, you must be tired standing there. Are you tired?’

Hester thought about it, nodded.

‘Thought so.’ Anni held out her arms. ‘Let me put the baby down, then we can talk. Properly.You and me.Yeah?’

Anni smiled. Hoping she looked trustworthy and honest.

Hester looked at the baby and then at Anni, her world having shrunk down to that choice. She began to release her grip on the baby, to hand it over.

Anni’s heart was racing, her hands shaking. She hoped it didn’t show too much.

‘Come on, Hester. Let me take the baby and we can have a chat…’

Hester, with the simplicity of trust that a child would have, hesitantly stretched out her hands, the baby held firmly in them.

Anni stepped up close to her, smiling all the while. She placed her hands beneath the baby, took her gently from Hester.

She held the baby tightly to her. She looked up, saw Hester’s face. Expectant, waiting. Trusting. It really was like betraying a child, she thought.

She nodded to Phil, who gave the order. Hester was rushed. Grabbed by the task force, pushed to the ground. She let out a cry of rage that turned into a wail of sorrow.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Anni, but her words were lost in the noise.

She carried the baby away from Hester, right to the back of the house. Phil followed her.

‘Well done,’ he said.

‘Get the paramedics,’ said Anni, without turning round. ‘I’m going outside.’

And she left the house, clutching the baby to her chest. Still not turning round.

Not allowing anyone to see the tears on her face.

81

‘We’ve searched the whole house, sir,’ said one of the uniforms. ‘No sign of Marina Esposito. No sign of anyone. But we found this.’ He handed Phil a piece of paper. ‘It was nailed to the wall in the kitchen.’

Phil looked at it. Couldn’t believe his eyes. They were all there. Lisa King, Susie Evans, Claire Fielding, Caroline Eades. Other names followed them. Beside each name was a date. Due dates, thought Phil. But it was the name at the bottom of the list that concerned him most.

Marina Esposito, it said in handwriting different from but no better than the earlier entries. And next to it, from the coppers.

Phil tried to keep panic, desperation from his voice. He addressed the uniform again. ‘You’ve looked everywhere. What about basements? Lofts? Anything like that?’

The uniform shook her head. ‘Nothing. We’ve checked.’

‘Outbuildings?’

‘Checked them too. Apart from some chickens and pigs, there’s no one else here.’

‘Keep looking.’

Phil moved swiftly outside. Hester was just about to be escorted away. He ran to the van, confronted Hester. The policemen holding her didn’t let her go.

‘Where is she?’ he said. ‘Where’ve you put her?’

Hester just stared at him, mouth hanging slackly open, fear in her eyes.

Phil brandished the list before her face. ‘Here,’ he said, stabbing the name with his finger, ‘Marina Esposito. Here. Her name. Now where is she? Where’ve you put her?’

Hester tried to back away from him, terrified. She started whimpering. Phil kept going.

‘Where is she? Where is she?’

Hester cowered away from him, turning her face into the arms of one of the officers holding her. ‘No… no… don’t, don’t hurt me… go away, go away…’

‘Where is she…’ Phil realised that his words weren’t working. Hester didn’t know.

It wasn’t her. She didn’t know.

He turned away. ‘Oh God…’

They bundled her into the police van.

Phil stood there watching her go, his heart as black, dark and heavy as the Wrabness night.

He was lost.

Marina crept along, bent low, walking slowly. The light was getting brighter as she reached its source, the shadows lengthening, flickering as they came round the corners. It was accompanied by noise. Rhythmic pounding. Hammering.

She pressed herself in tight against the wall, gripped the screwdriver firmly in her hand. Risked a look round the corner.

The walls were lined with shelves containing canned food, cartons of milk, bottles of water. It was like a survivalist’s larder. In the centre of the space, a figure was kneeling down, hammering nails into wood. Marina looked closer, tried to work out what was being made.

There were huge squares of wood, metal mesh. The wood was being turned into frames, the mesh covering the frames. Marina was chilled by something more than just cold. She knew what was being made.

A cage. A cage for her.

She gave a gasp. Involuntary, unplanned. Cursing herself for doing it.

The figure stopped hammering, looked up.

He smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

82

The baby had been taken to hospital in an ambulance. The paramedics had given her a cursory examination and decided she was quite well, considering, but really needed full nursing care. Graeme Eades would be contacted.

Anni was sitting on the step, looking out towards the beach, her coat pulled tight round her, a blanket over that.

Phil sat down next to her.

‘Hey,’ he said.

She nodded, kept staring straight ahead.

‘Well done in there,’ he said.

She sighed. ‘I lied.’

‘You did what you had to do. What was best.’

She shook her head. ‘I lied to a vulnerable, damaged human being. I just made someone who’s lonely and fucked in the head feel even worse about themselves.’

‘You did your job, Anni.’

She didn’t reply, just continued to stare.

‘You coming back inside?’

She didn’t reply at first. ‘I think I’ll stay here a bit longer. If you don’t mind, boss.’

‘Okay.’ Phil stood up, looked round. Took in the desolation of the place once again. He looked across the field the way they had come, passing his eyes over the caravan site. Who would want to come here for their holidays? he thought, not for the first time.

Something jarred within him.

The caravan site.

‘Anni…’

She looked up.

‘When you checked the details on the Croft family, didn’t it say something about owning a caravan site?’

Anni looked up, startled out of her reflective mood. ‘Yeah, yes it did…’ She stood up, joined him in looking. ‘D’you think…’

‘Worth a try,’ he said. ‘Tell the rest of them where I’m going. If I find anything I’ll come back, let you know.’

He picked up his torch, started hurrying across the field.

Marina started to back away from the man. She held the screwdriver out in front of her.

‘Don’t…’ Her throat felt dry, parched. Her voice small, croaking. ‘Don’t come any nearer… I’ll… I’ll stab you…’ The words sounded unconvincing, even to her.

The man smiled again. Shook his head. ‘No you won’t.’ His voice sounded like he looked: rough, callused, feral and powerful. He was tall, his body thick-limbed and bulky. Dressed in old suit trousers, braces and a once-white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he was sweating and dirty. Work boots on his feet, an old, festering overcoat on the floor beside him. He was bald, but his thick, powerful arms were covered in hair. He had a large stomach protruding over his trousers and straining his shirt buttons, but it looked as solid as granite. He turned, giving Marina his full attention. His eyes looked like dark, stagnant, treacherous pools, his unshaven face red like bad blood. He smiled, his teeth yellow and stained.

‘It’s… it’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one who’s been taking all the… all the babies…’

‘That idiot bitch of mine. She wanted them. Wouldn’t fuckin’ shut up about it. On an’ on… so I had to. Kept her quiet.’ He smiled again. It reached those stagnant eyes. ‘Can’t say I didn’t enjoy it, though.’

‘So…’ She kept backing away as she spoke. ‘Why… why am I here?’

He pointed to her stomach. ‘What’s that you got growin’ inside you? Eh?’

Marina felt her legs weaken.

He laughed. Deep and rough, it sounded like the prelude to an animal roar. ‘Can’t keep goin’ with her any more, can I? Not when your lot are on to me.’ His voice dropped, became cold and sharp. ‘An’ I’m not givin’ up. I might have to hide for a bit. Go underground. Keep out of their way.’ Another smile. ‘An’ I’ll need some company down here. Then when the kid’s born we’ll go up again. Find somewhere else.You an’ me an’ the kid. Bring it up properly.’

Marina shook her head. She could barely comprehend what she was hearing. It seemed so unreal. A nightmare. ‘But… but why me?’

‘’Cause I saw you.’

‘On TV?’

‘Yeah. An’ outside the leisure centre. Filed you away. I’ve had my eye on you. Knew you’d come in handy.’

‘They’ll… they’ll be looking for me…’

‘Look all they want, they’ll never find you.’

Marina stopped moving, stared.

‘An’ you won’t escape neither. There’s no way out for you. Not down here. So get used to it.You’re gonna be here for a long time.’ He picked up the hammer. ‘I’m gonna get this done. Your new cage. Then you an’ me are gonna get to know each other properly.’

And with that he turned his back to her, knelt before the frame, started hammering.

Marina’s heart was beating so fast she felt it could grow wings and escape her body. That was it, she thought. That was it. No Hollywood rescue. No escape. And Phil. No Phil. Despite his promises, despite what he’d told her. How he would never let her down again, always be there for her. He wouldn’t be. This was it. For the rest of her life.

She crumpled into a heap.

Started sobbing.

83

Phil reached the brick wall, shone his torch past it into the caravan site. He stepped off the dirt track, on to the grass. Looked round.

There weren’t many vans. And each of them was in darkness. He stood still, listening. He could hear distant movement from his team in Hillfield, but there was no movement from the site. He shone the torch round again, settling on the caravan tucked in behind the gate nearest the wall. It was the one he had looked at on the way down. Filthy, old, rusted and mildewed. The others didn’t look like anything special, but this one was completely uninviting.

Phil stepped nearer to it. And tripped over something.

He dropped the torch, beam shining back at him, bent down to pick it up. As he did so, he tried to see what had caused him to trip. He ran the beam along the ground, found a raised edge that he traced back to the brick wall. He knelt down, examining it. It was the remains of another wall, knocked down but not completely.

He turned in the other direction, followed the raised line with the torch. It led to the middle of the site, turned left. He walked along it, following. There were raised areas all the way up the field. Like the grass had grown over foundations of houses that were once there.

Phil thought. Something about owning houses… He remembered. Laurence Croft had owned a row of houses that had been knocked down and the land turned into the caravan site. It figured, he thought. Judging from Croft’s DIY legacy in the house, he would have expected a job like this.

He turned back to the mildewed caravan. Something wasn’t right about it. The others had their Calor Gas bottles hooked up outside; this one didn’t. The others had their curtains open; this one had them closed. And he really couldn’t imagine anyone coming to stay in it. So why was it there?

He moved in closer, shone the torch over it. He bent down to look at the step beneath the door. There were tracks in the grass, muddy tracks, like someone had been dragging something. Or someone. The tracks led up the step and into the caravan. Heart thumping, Phil turned the handle. It opened.

He pulled the door open slowly, kept his head back, his body out of the way, not knowing what might jump out at him. He shone the torch in. Held himself ready to fight.

Nothing. He swung the torch round. Dirt everywhere, seating with rotting covers, work surfaces with chipped and peeling Formica, a table with a broken leg, filthy curtains. But nothing else. No one else. The caravan was empty.

Phil stepped inside. It wasn’t just the dirt, it was the smell. Like something that had been closed up too long. A tomb. He looked round, swinging the torch, taking it in. It definitely wasn’t a holiday home. But it had some purpose, he was sure of that. He just had to find out what it was.

He shone the torch round the cupboards, under the table, on the chairs, on the floor. And found it.

The muddy track marks led to a square in the centre of the floor. It was of matching carpet to the rest of the van, but had been cut out. Phil knelt down, rolled it back. A square had been cut out of the floor, hinged, then replaced. A trapdoor.

He knew what he should do. Call the others. Get a team over here, get that trapdoor open. See what was in there. But he couldn’t leave it to them. He had made a promise to Marina. If she was here, then it didn’t matter. He would have found her, one way or the other.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the trapdoor.

It wasn’t what he had been expecting. It wasn’t a crawl space or a shallow grave. It was a tunnel leading downwards. A wooden ladder was clamped to the side, a thick black cable fastened to the opposite side of the shaft. Electricity, Phil thought. Whatever – whoever – was down there, they had rigged up power.

He shone his torch along the floor, found a ridge in the carpet where the cable snaked in. Must be a hidden generator somewhere, he thought.

He looked down the hole again. It was dark down there, pitch black.

He should call the others over, let them lead the way.

He looked down again.

And swung his legs over, began climbing down.

84

‘Shut up! Fuckin’ shut up! If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a whingein’ bitch!’

Marina’s kidnapper was standing over her, anger blazing in his eyes. He had walked towards her, exuding an almost primal energy, bent down and smacked her across the face.

It stopped her crying immediately. It also hurt like hell. The blow had been so fierce she had felt like her head was coming off.

She had no doubt that he was more than capable of killing her. And she realised that, even with everything that had happened to her – Martin Fletcher, finding Tony on the floor of their house – until now she had never truly experienced fear.

He bent down again. She tried to get to her feet, but couldn’t. Still sitting, she scuttled away from him.

He reached her quickly. She pushed herself back into the wall. He stood over her, bearing down. She began to whimper.

Then remembered the screwdriver, held it out in front of her with both hands, point towards him. Hoped he wouldn’t notice how much her hands were shaking.

‘Don’t… don’t…’ Her voice was failing her.

He looked down at her. ‘You gonna use that? Eh?’

She kept pointing the screwdriver at him, her hands still shaking.

‘You gonna use that on me?’ He laughed. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘You’d better. You do that again, pick up somethin’ and point it at me, you’d better be ready to use it. ’Cause baby or no baby, I’ll stop you.’

He moved in towards her, his hand outstretched again.

Marina started to cry once more.

Then the lights went out.

‘Bastard…’

The darkness was all-enveloping. Phil was trying to use the torch as he went down, hoping to see how far he had to go, but he was finding it difficult to hold on to it and the ladder at the same time. He missed his footing and the torch fell from his grasp. The light bounced and swung as it dropped down to the bottom of the shaft.

He put his arm out, tried to grab it, and lost his balance, almost following it. Desperately he cast around for something to grip on to and found the black cable attached to the other side of the shaft. He grabbed at it, hoping it would steady him, but when he pulled, transferring all his body weight to it, it came away in his hand.

He flailed around in the dark, trying not to fall. Luckily, his other hand managed to get a grip on the ladder once more. He clung to it, steadying himself. Took a few deep breaths, continued his descent.

As he neared the bottom, he noticed a dim light shining upwards. His torch. Thank God it was still working, because he was sure he had pulled out the power cable. He stepped off the ladder, picked up the torch. Looked round.

He quickly worked out that he was in the cellar of the house that had once stood above him. A quick examination of the walls bore that out. Bare brick with overhead rafters and a hard-packed dirt floor. He swung the torch’s light into every corner. No sign of Marina.

He looked round again, saw a door set into the wall. Heavy and old, made of solid timber. He almost ran to it, trying the handle. Locked. He tried pulling it. Too thick to budge.

‘Shit…’

Then something caught his eye. Against one wall was an alcove. He assumed it must have been a fireplace at one time, with a chimney leading up to the rest of the building. Someone had customised it. Bricks were piled at one side of the opening and it looked as if a tunnel had been hollowed out through the fireplace.

He examined the hole with his torch, making mental measurements. There was no other opening in the room, no door in or out, so this must be the only way through. Phil hated confined spaces. Tried to avoid lifts, even, whenever possible.

But he got down on his hands and knees, the torch clenched in his teeth. He really should go back, tell the others, get them down here. Send them into the tunnel. He tried to look along it, see if there was any light, hear if there was any sound.

Then came a scream.

‘Marina!’

And he was on his knees and into the tunnel, his fear of enclosed spaces on hold.

In the sudden darkness, Marina could feel her assailant in front of her. She didn’t think something like this would stop him getting hold of her. Stop him hurting her. Using the wall behind her as a brace, she pulled herself up to a standing position. Adrenalin kicked in. It was either do something or submit. And she wouldn’t give in without a fight.

‘Bloody generator,’ he mumbled. ‘Bloody power cuts…’

It was now or never. She gripped the screwdriver tightly in both hands and thrust it forward as hard as she could.

It connected. She could feel it hit something solid. She kept pushing, hard. Harder.

He screamed. In anger or pain, she couldn’t tell.

She put all her weight behind the screwdriver, drove it in as far as she could, letting it take her body with it. Then, when she could push no further, she let go of the handle.

‘Bitch…’

She closed her eyes, tried to remember the layout. Turned right, away from where he had been building the cage, and, keeping as low as she could, moved quickly away from him.

‘Fuckin’ bitch…’

She could hear him thrashing about behind her, coming for her.

Her heart felt like it was about to burst as she felt her way along the wall. Her fingers came to a corner. She followed it round. It was some kind of alcove, a recess. An old fireplace, perhaps? Something like that. She didn’t care. It was somewhere she could pull herself into, curl up and hope he wouldn’t find her.

She squeezed inside, aware that the baby was stopping her from getting any further in. She hoped the baby was still all right. There was nothing she could do if it wasn’t. She had to save her own life first.

She made herself as small as she possibly could, held her breath.

Prayed to a God she had long since ceased to believe in, that he wouldn’t find her.

Prayed that she would just survive.

85

Phil crawled.

Using his elbows to propel him, he worked his way through the tunnel. The torch was heavy in his mouth, his teeth gripping it as hard as he could, his jaw cramping up. He wanted to let it drop, take a rest, but he knew if he did that he would never get it back between his teeth again. There wasn’t room in the tunnel to move his arms, get his hands to place it back there. So he kept moving.

He was committed now. He couldn’t go backwards. There was just enough space for him to keep moving forward. The walls and ceiling of the tunnel were right in on him. Brick, stone and dirt all around, with what looked like prop shafts keeping the ceiling up. It didn’t look too sturdy. If he disturbed it in any way, pushed too hard, it could all come down on top of him at any second.

He was starting to feel light-headed. Air was in short supply. He tried to keep calm, not panic, concentrate on moving forward. The only alternative he had was to stop. And that was no alternative at all.

And then it started. A panic attack. He felt his chest constrict, his breath come in ragged gasps.

‘No… not now…’

He screwed his eyes up tight. Willed it to pass quickly. It wouldn’t. He had to fight against it, keep going. But he had no strength in his arms, no power in his body. He couldn’t move.

He had to. He didn’t have the luxury of staying still. He had to fight it, work through it. Not give in to it. He pushed, pulling himself along with his arms, taking huge breaths in between. And again. And again. Good. He was doing it, he was fighting it, he was winning…

Then the tunnel began to narrow.

‘Oh God…’

And it was on him even more. He closed his eyes, kept going. Felt tears begin to run down his cheeks. Ignored them. Just kept going.

The air changed. Became slightly less stale. And he knew. He had done it. He had come through to the other side.

He pulled himself out of the tunnel and lay on the ground, on his back, panting like he had just run a marathon. His legs felt weak, his chest ablaze, but he didn’t care. He had made it.

Then there was another scream.

‘Bitch, sow…’

He had found her. Marina screamed as he grabbed her hair, pulled her out of the alcove.

‘Come ’ere… thought you would escape, eh? From me? I built this place, bitch, I know every corner of it…’

He dragged her free. The pain shot through her head and down her neck. She struggled, screamed, fought. No good. He was too strong for her.

‘You hurt me, bitch, you pissin’ well hurt me…’

‘Well don’t hurt me,’ said Marina, ‘because if you hurt me you’ll hurt the baby. And then I’ll be no good to you, will I?’

He paused, seemingly thinking about what she had said. Then resumed pulling her. ‘I can still have fun with you, though… don’t you worry ’bout that…’

He was breathing heavily, his grip not as strong as she had expected. She felt a small elation. She had hurt him. Good.

But it didn’t make things any better.

Without her realising, tears were running down her face as he dragged her back to the cage.

Phil shone the torch around quickly, trying to find where the scream had come from. He took in his surroundings. A workbench against one wall, an ancient collection of tools above it. Some kind of survivalist’s store room, he thought. Crossing to the workbench, he picked up a heavy claw hammer and moved in the direction he thought the sound had come from.

Marina was kicking her legs out behind her as he dragged her along the passageway. Her hands were on her head, trying to release his grip, or at least make it less painful for herself. He was walking slower, his wound affecting him now, but still strong. Too strong for her to deal with.

As he dragged her, Marina started to be able to see.

At first she thought it was just her eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, but after blinking a couple of times, she realised that there was a light coming towards her.

Her heart began to beat faster; hope rose inside her. This was it, she thought, this was the rescue. But then just as swiftly as it had arrived, that same hope plummeted within her. What if he had an accomplice? What if there was more than one of them?

She didn’t know what to do. But she had to do something.

She took a chance.

‘This way,’ she shouted. ‘I’m here…’

Her assailant grunted, turned. Saw what she was looking at.

Then paused for a few seconds, dropped her and ran.

Phil rounded the corner and stopped dead. At first he thought the light and lack of oxygen was playing tricks on him. He blinked. Again. No tricks. There was Marina. Lying on the ground ahead of him.

His face split into a grin as relief flooded his body. He ran to her, dropping down beside her, laying the hammer down, taking her in his arms.

‘Oh God, oh Marina…’ He held her tightly to him. ‘I told you I wouldn’t leave you…’

But he sensed that Marina didn’t share his relief.

‘He’s here, Phil, he’s around here somewhere…’

Phil sat back, looking at her. About to ask more questions, but they were stopped in his throat. Because Marina’s assailant was on him.

‘Phil!’

He felt hands round his throat, choking him. A feral roar accompanied the action. Phil felt himself go light-headed. He put his hands to his neck, tried to pull the hands away. No good. The grip was too strong.

He dropped the torch, tried to scrabble around for the hammer, couldn’t find it.

The beam of the torch etched the whole thing against the wall in a grotesque shadow play. He saw the man behind him, his shadow making him look seven or eight feet tall. He had to fight back.

He pushed his elbow back as hard and as fast as he could. The man grunted in pain, loosened his grip. Phil pressed the advantage, did it again. The grip round his throat loosened. He grabbed the man’s thumbs, twisted them away from the rest of his fingers as hard as he could.

The man shrieked in pain. Howled like a wild beast. Phil kept pulling until he heard them snap. Then he let go, wriggled away from him. Turned and faced him.

The man was older than Phil had expected, tall, well built and bald. He looked like an older, meaner version of Hester. Phil knew straight away who it was. Laurence Croft. Hester’s father. Hester’s husband.

Sophie had been wrong. Or she had lied to him.

Croft lunged at him. Phil tried to dodge out of the way, but Croft’s right hand came down as a fist, crashing into his face. Phil spun away, lost his footing, the blow was that strong.

He hit the ground on his back and was winded. He spat out blood, felt a tooth amongst it.

Then Croft was on him, aiming another punch at his face. Phil tried to move, but was too slow. He felt his nose break as the knuckles connected. Felt blood spurt out of his battered face.

Croft knelt over him. Phil tried to sit up, fight back, but his head was spinning.

Croft laughed, brought his fist back for a blow that would cause Phil serious, if not fatal, damage.

Then stopped.

His eyes went wide, his head jerked to the side. His arms fell to his sides.

Phil opened his eyes, confused.

Croft’s head jerked again, his eyes once more widening.

Then again.

Then his eyes rolled to the back of their sockets and he fell over sideways, hitting the ground with a huge, echoing thump.

Phil looked up. There, standing over the inert body of Laurence Croft, was Marina. Holding in her hand the hammer he hadn’t been able to find, the head coated with blood and other matter.

It dropped to the floor. Phil stood up, went to her.

Had her in his arms before the tears started.

Both hers and his.

86

November gave way to December, and with it Christmas. But there would be no celebrations for Phil.

He sat in his house, the only seasonal decorations a couple of Christmas cards from colleagues, one from Don and Eileen. And one from Marina. He opened it. There was a letter inside.

Phil sighed, decided not to read it, not just yet. He could-n’t face it without his props. He got up, went to the kitchen, fetched himself a beer, came back to the sofa. Flicked the remote at the stereo. He knew which album was in there.

He closed his eyes, rubbed his hands over his face. His nose was healing. He hoped the rest of him was too. He took a mouthful of beer. Thought back over what had happened since that night in Wrabness.

He had found the key to the door in the pocket of Croft’s overcoat, saving another crawl through the tunnel. But Marina was clearly in pain, clutching her stomach as soon as they made it out. He bundled her straight into an ambulance and off to the hospital.

Then it was a question of mopping up, sorting out.

After having his nose patched up, he had gone back to the station, Anni alongside him, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.

‘So Hester’s husband was real after all,’ said Anni, sinking exhausted into her office chair.

Phil nodded. ‘Sophie played us.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Protecting her father?’

‘After all that?’

‘Who knows? Maybe she still loved him.’

‘Or maybe she just lied.’

‘They all lie to us. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. Something I said to Clayton…’ He sighed, his eyes moist. ‘Christ. What a mess…’

The media spotlight was intense. Phil kept out of the way as much as possible, leaving it to Fenwick to deal with. After that, things moved quickly.

Laurence Croft was pulled out of the cellar. Dead. Phil knew there would be an inquiry, but it was strongly intimated that no charges would be brought against either him or Marina. If anything, he would receive a commendation.

Hester was taken to a secure hospital and placed under psychiatric supervision. Phil believed it was only a matter of time before he – he couldn’t think of him as she – was declared insane. The baby was doing well and would soon be released to her father. Phil hoped that Graeme Eades would be able to cope.

Brotherton was going to stand trial for attempted murder. And Sophie Gale/Croft had been formally charged with murder.

Which led Phil to recall Clayton’s funeral.

That was the toughest part of all. It was held at the Colchester Baptist Church in Eld Lane, right in the middle of town. The Georgian building looked out of place sitting alongside the eighties red-brick shopping arcade that took up most of the town centre.

As Phil stood inside, holding on to the curved wood of the pew in front, he was struck by how small the coffin looked next to the huge organ pipes behind it. How insignificant.

The minister was talking about man having but a short time to live, and Phil knew that everyone in the church was well aware that Clayton’s had been shorter than most. Twenty-nine years. He was also aware of the divide between Clayton’s family and his work colleagues. He had been asked to say something as part of the service but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.Too much pain, too much guilt. Had asked Fenwick to do it instead.

The minister went on to talk of the gift of hope. Phil had looked around the congregation. Clayton’s mother and sisters looked shell-shocked. Even Anni was in tears. He didn’t think there were many there sharing that gift.

Afterwards, walking out, Fenwick had approached him.

‘There’s a reception back at the family home. We’ve been invited.’

Phil nodded. ‘You go,’ he said.

‘I think they’d like it if you were there.’

‘You go, Ben.’

Fenwick nodded. Didn’t move. There was something else he wanted to say. Phil waited.

‘You know, it might all come out. About… Clayton. At Sophie Gale’s trial.’

‘I know.’

‘I mean, I’ll do what I can, but…’

‘I know you will.’ Phil looked across to the other mourners leaving the church, Clayton’s mother having to be helped. ‘Do what you can, Ben.’

He walked away.

He had tried to contact Marina, but couldn’t get through to her. She wasn’t at work and she certainly wasn’t at home. She had been told by her doctor to take some time off. She needed rest if the baby wasn’t to suffer. Their baby, Phil thought. No one knew where she was.

Tony Scott had survived the attack, but his head injuries had left him in a coma. Phil knew, from questioning the nurses, that Marina had been at his bedside.

He kept his regular Sunday dinner dates with Don and Eileen.

The first time was the worst. Eileen made an excellent roast, and the smell of it, the taste of it, was something Phil had always associated with comfort, safety. But not that time. Sitting round the table and dutifully eating, he found he couldn’t smell it, couldn’t taste it. Couldn’t appreciate or savour it.

Don had been a career policeman. He knew what Phil was going through. Or thought he did. They knew about Clayton, Hester, Croft and the rest of the case. But not about Marina. They didn’t ask him about it, but he knew that if he wanted to talk, they were there to listen. And if he didn’t want to say anything, they were there for that too.

He put his knife and fork down, pushed his plate away, murmuring apologetically.

Eileen nodded, said nothing.

Phil didn’t move. Barely realised he was crying.

Eileen placed her hand on his. Don was there.

They sat like that for a long time.

So now Phil sat alone in his house. Drinking beer, listening to music.

He looked again at the letter, took another mouthful of beer, draining the bottle. He put the bottle down, picked up the letter. Began to read.

Dear Phil,

I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I know what you must think of me. But I had no choice. Sorry. I’ve got things to sort out in my head. Big things. It’s not just you. I thought after Martin Fletcher that things would never get that bad again. I was wrong. Though you were there for me this time. Eventually.

You know this baby is ours. I know you do. And maybe we should both be there together for it. For him. Or her. I don’t know. And then there’s Tony. I feel guilty over what happened to him. I feel in some way responsible. Whatever was happening between him and me or you and me. I’ve got to honour him too.

I know this is rambling and my thoughts aren’t articulated very well, but that’s how I feel at the moment. All messed up. I need time to think. Sort things out. I hope you’ll give me that.

And I hope you know that I love you. Whatever happens, I love you.

Marina x

Phil put down the letter, picked up his beer bottle. Empty. He got up, went to the fridge for another one. Marina’s words going through his head all the time. Guy Garvey was singing about it looking like a beautiful day; Phil was a long way from agreeing. The words of the minister at Clayton’s funeral kept coming back to him too. The gift of hope.

He took another beer out, came back to the living room, sat back down. Started drinking.

Thought about how a gift could be a curse.

And then came a ring at the door.

Phil ignored it.

It came again, more insistent this time.

Sighing in irritation, he put his bottle down and went to the door. Opened it.

And there stood Marina.

She looked at him, gave a tentative smile.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey yourself.’

Phil opened the door fully, stepped out of the way. She walked into the hall, went straight to the living room. He followed her.

He entered the room, saw her standing there. He was unsure what to do, how to talk to her. Then he looked into her eyes. Saw what was there. And there was no uncertainty any more.

He crossed the room, put his arms round her. Held her as tightly as he could.

Guy Garvey was still singing about it being a beautiful day.

This time, Phil had to agree.