The Surrogate

‘His alibi.’

‘Have you checked to see if she’s got a record?’

A

‘Prostitution.’

‘I’ll check.’

‘I may be wrong,’ said Marina, thinking how disgusted the woman had looked when she had said the phrase, but wondering if that could have been an act put on for their benefit. ‘I may be doing her a great disservice, but I just get the feeling there might be a co

‘Go with your gut instincts. That’s how it works.’ A

She walked across the office. Marina watched her go.

So did Clayton.

A

‘Urm . . . yeah . . .’ Millhouse was staring at his screen. ‘Here . . . No, er . . . nothing . . .’

Eloquent as ever, thought A

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘what about Graeme Eades?’

‘The victim’s husband?’

‘The very same.’

‘Right . . .’ He started pressing buttons, scrolling through information.

A

‘Uh . . .’ said Millhouse eventually, ‘here. Yeah, here. God . . . wow . . .’

A

‘Graeme Eades, picked up, cautioned,’ she said. ‘Four years ago. Was anyone picked up with him? Either buying or selling?’

‘Uh, yeah, I’ll see . . .’

Millhouse worked away on the screen. A

‘Here . . .’

She smiled. Felt her toes curling. For once, her hope hadn’t been misplaced.

‘Fantastic, Millhouse. I could kiss you.’

‘Erm . . .’

She smiled. She could almost see the phrase ‘does not compute’ ru

Clayton watched her go. He didn’t know what it was she had discovered, but he doubted it was good news. A

Oh God, oh fuck . . . She’s found something. There must have been a record left of his co

He tried to calm down. Think straight. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe they had discovered something that would further the investigation. A breakthrough. That was it. It might not be about him after all.

He forced his heart rate down, his breathing to steady. There was only one way to find out. He stood up from his desk, crossed the office to where Millhouse was sitting.

‘Hi,’ he said, aiming for nonchalance, but missing by several miles.

Millhouse barely grunted in response.

‘What was, er . . . what was A

‘Graeme Eades,’ said Millhouse, clearly upset at being disturbed from whatever he had been doing. Obviously Clayton didn’t hold the same appeal that A

‘Can I have a quick look?’

‘You’re off the case.’

Clayton gave a smile that he hoped said they were all mates together but somehow just died on his face. ‘Come on, Millhouse.You know what it’s like. Please. Just for me.’

Millhouse sighed, went into the system. ‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s what she wanted to see first.’

Clayton swallowed hard. ‘Right. First? What did she look at next?’

Another grunt and a sigh, as if Millhouse was being asked to move a mountain with only a teaspoon. ‘This.’

He put the screen up, sat back. Clayton looked. And felt the shakes returning. Big time.

He stood up. Walked slowly back to his desk, as if in a trance.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Millhouse after him.

But Clayton didn’t hear. He sat down before the screen. Oh God, oh fuck . . .

The door to Phil’s office opened. Phil came out, shrugging into his jacket, A

Clayton sat there, watching them go. He had to do something, but he was too stu

Yes.

But first he had to make a phone call.

62

Graeme Eades opened the door. He looked to Phil like a different man. Like he had aged enough to become his own father in the space of a day. But worse than that, he looked like a ghost that hadn’t realised it was dead yet. Guilt will do that to you, thought Phil.

He was staying in a Travelodge on the outskirts of Colchester. His own house was being treated as a crime scene, examined for potential forensic clues, and would be for some time.

‘Would have thought he’d had enough of cheap hotels by now,’ A

Phil hadn’t answered, just asked for directions to Graeme Eades’ room.

‘Mr Eades?’ he said. ‘Just a few more questions, please. Won’t take long.’

Eades opened the door fully, walked back into the room. He was dressed in a pair of chinos and a sweatshirt. It looked as if he had slept in them too. He needed a shave and his remaining hair had been sculpted into interesting swirls and whorls. He sat on the bed and waited, head down. Like a death-row inmate awaiting execution. But from the look in his eyes, he was already dead.

Phil stood before him, leaning against the built-in set of drawers. A

‘We’ve been looking into your background, Mr Eades, and there are a couple of things we’d like you to clear up.’

No response.

‘Four years ago you were picked up and cautioned for kerb-crawling, is that correct?’

Eades looked up. He frowned. ‘What?’

Phil started the sentence again. Eades cut him off. ‘What’s that got to do with . . . with . . .’

‘So that’s correct? You were kerb-crawling? Looking to buy sex?’

He put his head down, sighed. Humiliation piling on top of guilt. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice a broken thing, ‘yes, I was.’

‘Just the once, or more often?’ said A

Eades looked up, eyes away from A

‘Yes it is, Mr Eades,’ said Phil, keeping his voice steady but authoritative. ‘We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.’ He said nothing more, waiting for an answer.

Eventually, Eades, seeing that they weren’t going away until they got an answer, sighed. ‘I used prostitutes . . . a bit.’

‘A bit?’ said A

‘A fair bit. All right, quite a lot.Yes, I paid for sex. Happy now?’

Phil took a photo out of his jacket pocket, handed it to Eades. ‘Do you recognise this woman?’

Eades looked at the photo. Susie Evans’ face was smiling up at him. He frowned. ‘She looks . . . familiar. A bit.’

‘Have you had sex with her?’ asked A