The Surrogate

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

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

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

‘It’s my fault. I’m sorry . . .’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I know.’

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

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

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

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

A

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

54

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

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

She had a flashback to when she was little and her mother used to wash her hair over the sink, rinsing it through with jug after jug of warm water. The school a

Walking into the house had felt exactly the same. Viewing the photos, going round Claire Fielding’s had just been a dry run. Now she saw first-hand the way an ordered, regular life had been torn apart and destroyed in the most horrific ma

‘You okay?’

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

‘You sure?’

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

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

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

‘Looks like it,’ A

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

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

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

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

‘Highly unlikely,’ said Phil.

‘So why’s he done it like this?’ said A

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

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

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

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

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

‘Throat cut,’ said Phil.

‘Not just cut,’ said A

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

‘Maybe she started to scream,’ said A

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

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

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

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

‘But, but I . . . I know her . . .’

A

‘Oh God . . .’

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

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

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