Surrogate – a psychological thriller (18 page)

"Who could have done that to Alice?" said Mole. "Why would anybody want to hurt her?" We were walking shakily back from the mortuary to the waiting police car. "I mean, I know that she did a bad thing, but nobody deserves to die that way. It was so–" she searched for the right word "–undignified."

"Maybe you're right," I said. "Maybe there was a boyfriend telling her what to do. Like the police said, perhaps she didn't want to give us our baby girl."

"I still don't understand how Nancy got to the car park." We had decided to call our baby Nancy after my deceased mother-in-law's middle name, which she had always hated, apparently.

"The police still think that we fought over Nancy, and that I hit Alice when she wouldn't hand her over."

"The neighbour didn't see anybody in the house?"

"The police aren’t telling me anything. As far as they’re concerned, I’m their only witness and right now their only suspect." I pulled my hand through my hair distractedly.

"What a fucking mess. Somebody must have seen something. It was a public car park."

"You’re right, CCTV cameras. Somebody must have gotten out of the car."

Mole looked really shaken by what we had just been through. I was worried about her. Hell, we were both upset, but she still stopped and touched my face.

"Poor darling," she said. "It's you I'm worried about. Are you okay?"

"It's all only just beginning to sink in. Alice dead, Christ."

I held the door open for her as we got to the police car. The muscle-bound detective constable from the interview room was behind the wheel. For me the most poignant moment had been when the mortuary attendant pulled the sheet down revealing Alice's Twitter hashtag tattoo. #Dirtygirl. This really was her, and now she was dead. Mole slid across the back seat. "Back home?" the detective constable said. I was about to say yes when I heard my name being shouted. Syal was running out of the mortuary, her raincoat flapping and her chest jiggling as she waved at us to stop.

When Syal caught up with the car, she rapped on the window and said, "I need you to come back inside, Mr Cox. There's something you need to see."

"Both of us?" I asked, reaching for Mole's hand.

"Just you, Mr Cox."

Soon we were once more in the ghastly pink waiting room and, to my surprise, DI Syal pulled out an iPad from her shoulder bag. Were the police now being issued with tablet computers? "You need to see this," she said.

The YouTube page buffered for a moment before showing a couple lying on a bed in a dimly lit room. The sound was muffled, too. The video had obviously been shot on a camera phone, but there was no doubt who it was.

The video showed me alone in the hotel bedroom with Alice.

Syal slid her finger along the time bar a little further on. Now we were going at it like two animals, and the sound was full of lusty cries.

"Turn it off," I said. Cold shame spread over me, combined with the growing apprehension that everything was about to change. This was it, then. Now they had a motive. "How did you get hold of this?"

"Somebody emailed the link. We don't know who."

"I don't understand how–" and then, "Whoever it was is trying to frame me, you do realise that?"

"So you lied. You were having an affair with Alice Adams."

"No, it wasn't like that. It was a one-off. Alice must have planned this from the start, filming me on her phone. Right from the get-go she planned to blackmail me."

My mind was racing, trying to catch up with what had happened. Had she really planned this right from the beginning? Had she set out to ruin me before we had even met and, if so, why? It was too much for me to take in, and I desperately needed somebody to believe I was telling the truth. Mole was the one whose support I most wanted and, of course, she was the last person I could turn to.

"Did she threaten to tell your wife? Was that why you were so quick to pay up?"

I nodded guiltily. Now the detective knew everything, and it was all going to unravel. The ground was opening up beneath me, swallowing me whole. I felt as if I was being buried alive and it was useless struggling against it. But I was also relieved that the truth was coming out, and I felt like an alcoholic who had taken the pledge: no more lies. Except now the police had a motive for my killing Alice, and the noose was tightening around my neck. I thought of my wife, sitting outside in the car, completely oblivious to what had just happened. I felt like a speck of shit for doing this to her.

"The video," I said. "Are you going to show it to my wife? Please. I've told you everything."

Syal looked at me and you could see her thinking, why are men so stupid? Why do they let themselves be led around by their cocks?

"Please. Let my wife go home. I don't want her to see me like this. I'll answer all your questions."

Syal looked dubious. "You wait here. I'll get another car to take us to the police station. We need to interview you again."

"You didn't answer my question. The video. Will you show it to her?"

"She'll find out eventually. It's up to you whether you want to tell her yourself."

My cell consisted of two grey slabs to lie on and a couple of blue vinyl mats. You could smell the fear and the body odour. I sat down and drew my knees to my chest. The duty solicitor had informed me I could be held for twenty-four hours without being charged. Under arrest and being charged were two different things, he explained. I thought about calling Nigel Rosenthal, but what I really needed was a criminal lawyer, not a company secretary. Best not drag the company into this. Whoever had killed Alice had pushed me into this tight corner, although the police had only circumstantial evidence against me: the video footage, the neighbour surprising me as I lurked outside the cottage, and now a motive for wanting Alice dead. Sitting there, listening to doors bang and shouts from other cells, I felt as if I was trapped in some outer rim of hell.

The cell door opened, and I looked up expectantly. A guy younger than me was being led in, held by the blond policewoman. He was in his early twenties, scrawny with a frizz of black hair. "Here you go, you've got company. You two play nice," she said, closing the door. My new companion threw himself at it, banging and kicking for all he was worth.

"What you fucking looking at?" he said, sliding down the wall to sit opposite me. "I'll break your fucking legs. Don't look at me, bruv."

"Nothing," I said, turning back to the white tiles. He hitched up his jeans, showing his underpants, and I wondered which local estate he had come from. Christ, was this what my life had become? Flashback. Another of Mole's impromptu art history lessons, this time at Sir John Soane's Museum in Holborn, where we had met after work.
The Rake's Progress
by Hogarth: Hugo Cox, the rake's progress. Discuss. I tried closing my eyes, but the electric light was never switched off.

"What they got you in for?" my cellmate challenged me.

"They're holding me for questioning." Even as I said it, I realised how pompous I must sound.

"It says murder on the door."

I wanted to talk some more, ask him why he was under arrest, but it was clear our conversation was over. My guts twisted with anxiety: so far there was no hard evidence against me, although the video did not look good, the solicitor admitted. Everything in the cottage was being swabbed and dusted in the hope of finding a match to my fingerprints. Well, there was some comfort in knowing they would come up empty handed.

My cellmate had ugly marks on his arm, and he compulsively scratched his face. Drugs, I guessed. After a while he started shivering, and he wrapped his arms around his chest trying to control himself.

"Are you okay?" I said. "You don't look well."

"I shouldn't fucking be here. This is the third nick they've moved me to. I'm on my way to Belmarsh."

I rubbed my sweaty palms down my jeans and remembered the wad of tissue paper stuffed into my front pocket. I had completely forgotten about the couple of sleeping pills I had pilfered from Dad's medicine cabinet. It was something the police had missed when they had taken away my belongings. Being fingerprinted and photographed and swabbed for DNA had been another humiliation.

"Here," I said, offering my cellmate the wadded-up tissue. "These might help. They're sleeping pills."

The young man looked at me suspiciously before dipping into the tissue and swallowing the pills. "Thanks, bruv," he said, closing his eyes. "I'll be all right once I get to pen."

Eventually the cell was unlocked again, and Miss Perky Pony put her head round the door. We both looked up. "Cox, you're wanted outside," she said.

I got up, feeling stiff from sitting for so long on cold cement. Syal was standing in the corridor, and I noticed how tired she looked. "You're free to go home," she said with a sigh. "For now. A couple walking their dog saw a car parked outside the victim's cottage. A black Range Rover. A couple of hours before yours arrived. We're trying to trace it using CCTV."

"What about the fingerprints?"

"Forensics didn't find anything. Not yours anyway. We're still trying to find a match to others we found."

My heart thickened in gratitude. "So, you're saying you've got the killer's prints already?"

"I'm not saying anything. Forensics is still turning the house upside down. It's a question of whether we find anything on HOLMES. I don't want you going anywhere, though. We might need to call you in for further questioning."

And with that I was free. I collected my possessions from the duty officer and was patting my pockets, making sure I had everything, when he told me my wife was outside.

Mole was sitting behind the wheel in the Tesco car park where we had first reported Alice missing, what, six months ago? A different life. This was the moment I had been dreading: I knew that I had to tell her the truth. I had rehearsed the conversation so many times in my head, but somehow the words died in my mouth. The idea of hurting the woman I loved made me sick to my stomach.

"They told me to come and collect you," she said, stroking my hair.

Our baby girl was sitting in her car seat in the back. "How's she been?" I asked, trying to deflect attention.

"She kept waking up in the night for feeds. I think I fell asleep on the sofa. I don't think I've ever felt so tired."

"Apparently they found another car. A black Range Rover. The police are searching for it. A couple walking their dog saw it parked outside Alice's cottage."

Mole digested what I had just said. "This other car. Do they know who it belongs to?"

"Not yet, no, but there was clearly somebody else in the cottage that night."

"So you're no longer a suspect?"

"Well they told me to go home." Relief was flooding through me. All I wanted to do was have a bath and something decent to eat, but before that, I had to get through this.

"Mole," I began. "Turn the engine off. There's something I need to tell you." I took a deep breath. "You need to know that Alice and I slept together. Just once. The day I gave my sample at the fertility clinic."

Mole sat in silence, gripping the wheel and looking as if I had just slapped her across the face.

"They showed me a YouTube clip. Alice filmed us on a mobile phone," I said, filling in the silence.

Mole turned to me, beginning to cry. "Were you in love with her?"

I shook my head. "Oh God, no, of course not. It was just one night. I don't know what I was thinking."

Suddenly Mole started slapping me around the head. I put my arms up to defend myself but knew I deserved it. "What is
wrong
with you?" she said once she had exhausted herself. She sat shaking behind the wheel, and I wanted to tear myself into a thousand pieces.

"Mole, I am so sorry. I never thought–" I said, reaching for her arm, but shook me off. "I just want to talk."

"Oh, what do you want to talk about?"

"Mole, listen, you know me–"

"No, I don't know you. I knew the Hugo who told me everything. I have no idea who you are now. If the police hadn't seen this video, would you have told me then?"

My beautiful wife turned to look at me, and I felt wretched for causing her so much pain.

I shook my head. "Mole, I was wrong. I should have told you. My dad was unfaithful to my mum, and I swore that I would never do that. I can't believe that I did it so soon. I hate myself for what I did."

"We made a vow on our wedding day that we would tell each other everything, no matter how uncomfortable, don't you remember?"

I folded my hands in my lap as she switched on the ignition.

You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife on our drive home. Mole avoided me when we got back by preparing Nancy's bottle and putting her down for a nap. If only we could talk this out, she would see I was as much a victim as she was.

I found myself cooking an absurdly elaborate dinner that evening. In hindsight, of course, I was trying to hang on to my marriage, but I could feel the balloon drifting off, the tether slipping between my fingers. Neither of us touched the food. Instead we sat there in silence, as if there was a glass wall between us. Finally Mole put her knife and fork down and said, "Hugo, I don't want you sleeping here tonight. I think I need to be alone."

"Mole, please be reasonable."

"Reasonable? How do you expect me to feel? Were you doing it in our bed when I was out? The idea of being around you, touching you, makes me feel sick."

"I told you. It was a one-night stand. It didn't mean anything. You're all that I ever wanted. You're all that I could want. Yes, Alice started coming on to me whenever you weren't around, but I pushed her away, I told her our sleeping together was a mistake never to be repeated. She threatened to tell you, and that's when we had our big argument and she stormed out."

"So it was your fault she kidnapped our baby?"

"I suppose so, yes," I nodded dumbly. Self-pity was edging nearer, and I could feel a big fat tear forming.

"Oh," Mole said, throwing her paper napkin down. "Please don't start feeling sorry for yourself. I couldn't stand that. You brought this on yourself ... you brought this on us."