The Surrogate by Tania Carver Read Free Book Online Page B

Chelmsford for assault. The reports were over five years old, but from what they could gather it had been a previous girlfriend he had assaulted. This had made them all the more interested in talking to him.

    Phil and Clayton walked into the yard. Men, barrelchested and shaven-headed for the most part, dressed in dirty work clothes, went about their business. Phil knew immediately that they had been clocked. He also guessed that most of the men who worked here had had run-ins with the police before so weren’t inclined to help them or ask what they were doing here. They would assume it was bad news and hope it didn’t concern them.

    They found an office at the corner of the main building, the glass streaked with grease and dirt. They knocked on the door. It was answered by a woman; blonde and middle-aged, but fighting it hard. Petite but pneumatic, her breasts, lips and expressionless forehead screaming surgery, she was dressed like a secretary in an eighties porn film. As the smile she gave them faded once she worked out who they were, Phil reckoned she might have had a run-in with the law too. For something entirely different.

    He held out his warrant card, Clayton doing likewise, and introduced themselves. ‘DI Brennan and DS Thompson. Could we come in?’

    ‘What’s this about?’ Her voice had a hardness that no amount of surgery could soften.

    ‘Better we talk inside, I think.’

    Looking round warily, she reluctantly led them into the office. Inside was bare-walled and functional. Not a place for interior designers or feng shui consultants. Two desks, two computers, two phones. A charity calendar on the wall. Metal filing cabinets.

    ‘What’s this about?’ she said, not offering them a seat.

    ‘We’re looking for Ryan Brotherton,’ said Clayton, trying to move his eyeline away from her breasts and, Phil noticed, not entirely succeeding.

    Knowing she had his DS, she turned to Phil, stuck them out further.

    ‘What’s it concerning?’

    ‘It’s a private matter.’

    No one moved. The phone rang. She ignored it.

    ‘Shouldn’t you get that?’ Phil said. ‘Might be work.’

    She still didn’t move.

    ‘Want me to?’ said Phil, moving towards the desk.

    She beat him to it, grabbing the receiver and saying, ‘B and F Metals,’ then listening. ‘Right, Gary, can I call you back in a minute?’ She put the phone down, turned back to them.

    ‘Ryan Brotherton?’ said Phil, reminding her.

    ‘And I want to know why you need to see him.’

    ‘Look,’ said Phil, trying to keep a lid on his irritation, ‘he’s not in any trouble, he’s not done anything wrong. We just need to have a few words with him.’

    He looked at her, didn’t break eye contact. She wavered, looked away. ‘I’ll go and get him.’

    She left the office, walked across the yard. Clayton watched her go.

    ‘You okay?’ said Phil.

    Clayton shook his head as if coming out of a trance. His face was unreadable. ‘Yeah, uh . . . not your average scrap-metal dealer,’ he said.

    ‘This is Essex, remember,’ said Phil, trying not to look, but unable to stop his eyes tracking her swinging hips like a spectator at Wimbledon. ‘Wonder why she wants to work here? Surrounded by all those men?’

    ‘Maybe that’s your answer,’ said Clayton, not bothering to disguise his leer. ‘Might consider a change of career . . .’

    ‘Focus, sonny. Think with your brain, remember. Look around. See anything that might help us?’

    Clayton scanned the office, giving it close scrutiny. He shook his head.

    ‘Me neither.’ Phil returned his attention to outside the window.

    As they watched, the pneumatic secretary walked to the bottom of the grabber and gestured to the man in the cockpit. He swung the arm over a bin and left it dangling there as he put the brakes on and opened the cab door, leaned out. Phil got a good look at him. He was big, and not unattractive, fine-featured. His hair was close-cropped, his upper torso