The Surrogate by Tania Carver Read Free Book Online Page A

start his engine when a taxi arrived. She bent down, spoke to the driver.The driver wasn’t happy with what she said. There was going to be a fight. He sat back, watching. This would be interesting. But before anything could happen, another car pulled up and the driver got out.There was no mistaking who this person was. Even if he didn’t know him, he knew the type. A policeman. He could see that from here.

    The taxi driver drove away, clearly unhappy. The woman got into the unmarked police car and was driven away.

    Interesting. Curious. He would look out for her, watch for her. She wouldn’t be forgotten.

    With nothing else to stay there for, he turned the ignition, drove away.

    She had been marked.

10

    I t was nearly lunchtime when Phil Brennan turned the Audi off the main road. Aware of the constant ticking of the clock, he had made the drive to Braintree as fast as he could. He had pushed the Audi to the legal limit, done everything short of sticking the siren on the roof.

    The satnav pinged, informing them that they had reached their destination. Clayton Thompson reached across the dashboard and turned it off.

    ‘Hate those things,’ he said.

    ‘Thought you’d be all for them. Know how you love a gadget.’

    Clayton shrugged. ‘Yeah, but it’s just their smug little voices. Like the top brass have put them here to spy on us. Like we have to stick to the journey. If we know a short cut or a better route they tell us we can’t use it, that they know best.’

    Phil gave a grim smile. ‘Clayton, I think you’ve just discovered a metaphor for policing in the twenty-first century,’ he said.

    He looked out of the window. They were on an industrial estate in Braintree, a few miles south of Colchester, just off the A12. Low-level metal and brick buildings surrounded them, stretching all the way from the main road to the railway line running from London to East Anglia. Directly ahead of them was a double set of metal mesh gates bearing the name B & F METALS. Behind the gates was another low-level metal and brick building with a forecourt on which stood a pair of huge cranes and several trucks and lorries. Cars were parked at the side. Metal canisters were piled all around: old gas bottles, fire extinguishers. Further on were huge square bays made out of old railway sleepers in which sat various kinds of scrap metal, piping, wire and old electrical appliances. One of the cranes was moving, a grabbing claw on the end of it. As they watched, it lifted a massive handful of metal from a bay, swung it round and deposited it into the back of a waiting high-sided lorry.

    Phil shared a look with Clayton, turned off the engine.

    ‘Come on,’ said Clayton, getting out of the car, ‘let’s do it.’

    ‘Yeah,’ said Phil. ‘Clock’s ticking.’

    Clayton stopped to give him a look. ‘Nothin’ to do with the clock. Just a relief to get away from that awful music you keep playin’. Glasvegas? You listen to some shit.’

    Phil stared at him, said nothing.

    ‘With all due respect, boss,’ mumbled Clayton, his eyes dropping.

    Clayton had an attitude on him. Phil knew that. Most of the time he tolerated it because his junior was a damned good copper, but sometimes he overstepped the mark. Phil often wanted to hit him. But just as often wanted to praise him.

    ‘Well at least it’s better than that stuff you listen to,’ said Phil. ‘Just how many songs do we need by black ex-gang members boasting about their genitals and their bank accounts?’

    Clayton didn’t answer, just looked sullenly at the ground, a naughty schoolboy facing detention.

    ‘Now get your head straight,’ said Phil. ‘We’re going in.’ He started off, Clayton trudging behind him.

    They knew this wasn’t going to be an ordinary death-message delivery. In running a routine check on Claire Fielding’s boyfriend Ryan Brotherton before coming to his place of work, they had found something interesting. He had done time in HMP