Marina nodded, her anger ebbing slightly. Not that she would let him see that, though. ‘They say that when you’re under stress your true character is revealed,’ she said.

He offered a weak smile. ‘Then I’m a twat. And an obnoxious one at that.’

She couldn’t return the smile. ‘You’ll hear no argument from me.’

‘True.’ He put his hands on the table, reaching out to her. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is that we need you. This investigation needs you.Your input is invaluable. If we are to catch whoever has done this, then I think we need to drastically alter our approach.’

‘In what way?’

‘My approach hasn’t worked. So I want you and your expertise central to the investigation from now on. I want us to be guided by your experience.’

Marina raised an eyebrow.

‘Yes, I know, I know. You should have been central from the start. I said you would be and didn’t carry it through. I got anxious. What with everything going on . . . I’m sorry.’

‘So you said.’

‘So.’ He rubbed his hands together, gave her another smile. ‘Are you still on board? We need you. Please.’

She looked at him. His smile was thinly stretched, papering over the doubt, anxiety and guilt on his face. Marina’s first response was to tell him where to get off, and walk; her second to make him suffer a while longer for her answer. But her third was the direct one, the honest one. The one that reminded her of the photos of the murdered women on the board in the incident room. The before and after shots. She felt for the child inside her once more, her arm going instinctively, protectively round her stomach.

‘Yes, Ben. I’m still on board. But not for you.’

His smile was genuine this time. Relieved. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I’m—’

‘But you keep your word. I am not here as an optional extra. Got it?’

He held up his hands. ‘Got it.’

He was about to say something further, but the sudden appearance of Phil at the table stopped him. Phil was breathless, wired. His brow furrowed, his body tense. Marina sensed what he was going to say before he said it. She just knew it. She was standing up, grabbing her bag, her coat.

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

Fenwick stood up too.

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

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

Fenwick sat down again. Stayed where he was.

52

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It’s coming . . .’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Have it . . . have it . . .’

The baby wouldn’t take it.

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

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

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

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