by Simon Booker
If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.
Cameron had left the decision to her, but made it clear he felt an abortion would be in her own best interests. Her university friends agreed – all of them. No doubt about it, it was the sensible thing to do. On the appointed day, Morgan made it as far as the clinic’s door before deciding there were more important things in life than being sensible. Never – not for one second – has she blamed any woman for making a different choice, but on that lonely December morning it seemed the right – the only – decision for her.
Twenty years later, Morgan has been bracing herself for ‘empty nest syndrome’ (part dreading, part longing), while Cameron remains a feature of her life, thanks to occasional Skype calls from his Malibu beach house. She wouldn’t dream of telling him that their daughter might be pregnant. This is Lissa’s news. Lissa’s life. Lissa’s decision. Morgan will be supportive, no matter how rocky the road ahead.
But a grandmother? At thirty-nine?
She shakes her head, trying to dismiss the thought from her mind. As Lissa would say, this is so not about her.
Passing a chemist’s, she once again considers buying a pregnancy test. They could pop into a pub loo and discover the truth before they finish their lattes. Or she could let Lissa handle the situation in her own way but be here for her, however things turn out.
Yes.
Better.
The panic attack has subsided, leaving Lissa pale and subdued. Exiting the shopping precinct and crossing the bridge that spans the small river, Morgan accompanies her daughter into a side street lined with timber-framed mock Tudor cottages. Lissa consults a piece of paper, searching for an address. She stops at a door and looks up at the first-floor window. The curtains are closed.
‘He’s expecting us?’
‘Hope so.’
Morgan checks her watch. Exactly 4 p.m., the time the fire scene investigator confirmed by email. A busy man, hard to pin down. She rings the doorbell then steps back, looking up at the window. The curtains remain closed. She rings again. Sounds emanate from inside the house, footsteps clumping down a flight of stairs. The door is opened by a tall, muscular man in his late thirties. He’s GQ handsome and naked except for white boxer shorts. Bed hair. Blinking at the daylight.
‘Yes?’
Morgan does her best to sound casual but it’s not easy. The man is drop-dead gorgeous.
‘Ben Gaminara?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Morgan Vine. This is my daughter, Lissa.’ The man seems none the wiser. ‘We had an appointment? About Anjelica Fry?’
‘Ah. Sorry. Come in.’
The kitchen is in chaos, recalling the aftermath of a teenagers’ all-nighter. Beer cans, glasses, plates, pizza cartons. In the cluttered sitting room, a black cat is half-asleep on the table, blinking at the newcomers, cheerfully unaware that it’s lying on a pink bra.
‘Wow,’ says Morgan. ‘Looks like quite a party.’
The man scratches his stubble and surveys the carnage.
‘I wish,’ he says. ‘I’ve been working flat out. First day off in months.’ He heads for the staircase and gestures towards the kitchen. ‘Put the kettle on. Give me five minutes.’
Morgan does as directed then catches Lissa’s knowing smile.
‘What?’ she says.
The smile widens.
‘Try not to drool, Mum. It’s not a good look.’
Morgan ignores her daughter, moving away to the sitting room to scan the bookshelves. Hardbacks on military history vie for space with scores of DVDs, all romantic comedies. Ben Gaminara seems an unlikely romcom fan; perhaps they belong to the owner of the pink bra.
Three shelves are devoted to a collection of Motown vinyl arranged alphabetically, from The Four Tops and Marvin Gaye to Diana Ross and Stevie Wonder.
By the time Ben returns, smelling of shower gel, barefoot in a polo shirt and jeans, the kettle has boiled. He makes coffee (the real thing, Morgan notes, with freshly ground beans) while avoiding eye contact with his visitors.
‘I googled you,’ he says. ‘Both of you. You’re trouble. I like that.’ He pours coffee from a cafetière, then turns and hands Morgan a mug. ‘Tell me why I should talk to you.’
No trace of a smile, but his eyes are kind. And Morgan notes that he’s not directing his question to Lissa, not focusing his entire attention on the lissom twenty-year-old. Men do. Morgan doesn’t blame them – they’re simple creatures – but she’s always on sleazebag alert. Perhaps she’ll learn to trust again at some point, to drop her guard. But not yet.
Sipping his coffee, Ben listens as she explains her rationale for reinvestigating the case against Anjelica Fry. She hasn’t planned on going over the entire story – the cliff-top attack, the vial she unwittingly smuggled into HMP Dungeness, the baby farm – but there’s something about the quiet intensity of Ben Gaminara’s gaze that makes her open up. When she reaches the part about seeing Karl outside her house, his eyes widen.
‘You’re saying he didn’t die in the fire?’
‘Exactly,’ says Morgan.
He scratches his jaw, a rasp of bristle.
‘How do you account for the fact they identified his body?’
‘I can’t.’
‘But you’ve told the police what you saw?’
‘Of course. I saw DI Tucker.’
‘And?’
‘He thinks I’m crazy,’ says Morgan. ‘Or a bleeding-heart liberal with a grudge against the system. Or both.’
‘Which is it?’
‘Neither.’
Ben nods slowly.
‘Do you know how many cases the Review Commission refers to the appeal court?’
‘Just over two per cent.’
‘Not great odds.’
Morgan smiles.
‘The woman is innocent. That’s all that matters.’
He turns towards Morgan’s daughter.
‘Did you see the guy in the van?’
‘No, but if Mum says she saw him, she saw him.’
‘And you think he’s the man you know as Pablo?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘So he groomed you’
‘I hate that word. I’m not a kid.’
‘What would you call it?’ Ben raises an eyebrow. ‘Seduced? Scammed? Conned?’
Lissa’s jaw tightens.
‘Whatever.’
‘So,’ says Morgan, keen to keep things on an even keel, ‘does all this sound crazy?’
His answer takes her by surprise.
‘Not to me.’
Lissa leans forward in her chair.
‘But you gave evidence against Anjelica.’
Ben shakes his head.
‘That’s not how the system works. My role is to determine how the fire started, not who started it. That’s down to the police. I located the seat of the fire; I established that an accelerant had been used; my colleagues identified the type of petrol and the brand of matches.’
‘How is that even possible?’ says Lissa.
Ben takes a match from a box on the coffee table. Morgan’s gaze strays to his hand. Long, elegant fingers. No sign of a ring.
‘You strike a match. You toss it onto a petrol-soaked towel. What happens?’
‘Whole place goes up in smoke,’ says Lissa.
‘Including the match?’
‘Obviously.’
Ben shakes his head. He points to the match-head.
‘The shell contains single-cell organisms called diatoms. They can survive incredibly high temperatures. They vary from manufacturer to manufacturer. Identify the diatoms and you stand a good chance of identifying the brand.’
‘The Anjelica matches?’ says Morgan.
‘So they said,’ says Ben.
‘You’re not convinced?’
He sips his coffee.
‘They got the right matches. But did they get the right person?’
Morgan feels a flicker of relief. Finally, someone is taking
her seriously.
‘You’re saying they made a mistake?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ben reaches for his laptop. ‘But one thing struck me as odd.’ He clicks on a file of photos showing a blackened, burnt-out room. ‘This is Karl’s flat after the fire.’ He scrolls to another photo: Savage giving a thumbs-up to camera. ‘This is the same room before the fire.’ Another click places both pictures side by side. ‘See the photos on the wall? In metal frames?’
Morgan peers at the ‘before’ picture. Karl is giving a thumbs-up. Behind his head are two photographs. One shows him grinning, standing beside a gold Ferrari parked outside Harrods; in the other he’s at the wheel of a black Bentley coupé, the type driven by Premier League footballers.
‘Where did this come from?’ says Morgan.
‘Anjelica kept the photo after they split,’ says Ben. ‘He never had money for cars like these, he just loved posing with them.’ He leans forward in his chair. ‘Look at the “after” picture.’
Morgan studies the photo: charred remains of furniture, the contents of a room, remnants of a life. Ben points to the wall.
‘See the two tiny specks?’
‘What are they?’
‘Metal picture hooks,’ says Ben. ‘That’s where the photos were hanging.’
‘So?’ says Lissa.
‘The pictures weren’t at the fire scene,’ says Ben. ‘We’d have found remnants of the frames.’
‘Is that a big deal?’ says Morgan.
‘Could be,’ says Ben. ‘Before an arsonist torches a place it’s not uncommon to remove things that have sentimental value. In this case, the hooks are still there but the photos have gone.’
Moran feels a stirring of hope, like a chink of light seeping into a darkened room. She can smell shower gel on the man’s skin.
‘So it’s possible that Karl was the arsonist?’ she says. ‘That he took down his photos then set fire to his own flat?’
‘It’s a big leap,’ says Ben. ‘But possible.’
‘Did you tell the police about the hooks?’
‘Of course. But it didn’t fit their narrative. Right from the start, they were convinced Anjelica was the fire-starter, that she was determined to make sure Savage couldn’t take her baby. They found evidence to support that theory. End of story.’
‘Until now,’ says Morgan.
Ben nods.
‘One thing I don’t get,’ he says. ‘There’s no way Karl is still alive. Dental records don’t lie.’
‘The dentist who made the identification is next on my list.’
‘Forensic odontology is an exact science,’ says Ben. ‘Jatinder Singh is the best.’
‘We’ll see,’ says Morgan. ‘He hasn’t answered my email but I’ll doorstep him if I have to.’
He notes the steel in her voice. Smiles.
‘Want me to chivvy him?’
‘I’d appreciate it.’
The phone in his pocket chirrups. He glances at the text.
‘I need to get going.’
He stands up. Morgan follows suit. She wants to ask about the owner of the pink bra, but there’s no way to do so without sounding like she’s fishing.
‘Thanks for your time.’
‘No problem,’ says Ben. ‘I’m overdue a lot of leave. They’re making me take it but I don’t really do holiday.’
Morgan heads for the door, dawdling, playing for time, trying to think of a subtle way to find out if he’s single. She passes the shelf filled with romcoms.
‘Quite a collection.’
‘Yep.’
Damn. Nothing to suggest to whom the films belong. In the kitchen, the cat is asleep on the table, still lying on the pink bra.
‘What’s the cat’s name?’
‘Good question.’
‘Isn’t he yours?’
‘Long story.’
He clearly has no intention of elaborating. They’ve reached the front door. He’s holding it open. ‘Keep me posted,’ he says. ‘Let me know if I can help.’
‘You bet,’ says Morgan. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
She steps out onto the street. Lissa follows. Ben closes the door. Morgan turns quickly and heads in the direction of the car park. Lissa keeps pace, grinning.
‘You so fancy him,’ she says.
Morgan rolls her eyes.
‘I’m giving up men,’ she says. ‘In fact, I’m joining a convent.’
Her daughter’s smile fades, her mood darkening
‘That makes two of us.’
Approaching a parade of shops, Morgan plucks up courage to voice what’s been on her mind since the conversation with Nancy Sixsmith. She doesn’t want to trigger another panic attack but sooner or later the truth will out. Reality will have to be faced.
‘We could go to a chemist’s. Buy a pregnancy test.’
Lissa shakes her head.
‘Might put you out of your misery,’ says Morgan.
‘Or be the start.’
Yet again, Morgan tries to think of something reassuring to say. She comes up short so remains silent, for now. Linking arms with her daughter, she heads along the street, turning up her collar against the sudden chill in the air.
Fifteen
Temperatures plummet the next day as autumn settles in. Tempted to skip her swim, Morgan forces herself to plunge into the freezing water, enduring just five minutes before the cold drives her back to the inn.
An email is waiting.
Subject: Karl Savage.
Apologies for the delay in replying to your query. I’ve been addressing a conference in Geneva. I’m happy to answer questions about my identification of the late Karl Savage but I leave London tomorrow for a lecture tour. I will be at my office between noon and 4 p.m. today should you wish to speak to me in person.
Jatinder Singh, Dip. F. Od
PS: I am reading your book. Most interesting.
Morgan phones the odontologist secretary to make an appointment then raps on Lissa’s door.
‘Come in.’
The room is in darkness, curtains drawn. Her daughter is sitting up in bed, her face illuminated by the glow from her mobile. Her cheeks are stained with tears.
‘You OK?’ says Morgan.
A shrug.
‘Anything I should know?’
Lissa blows her nose.
‘If you mean, has my period started, then no.’
‘Just asking.’
Lissa scrolls on her phone.
‘What’s the difference between a sociopath and a psychopath?’
Morgan sits on the bed.
‘They’re different labels for antisocial personality disorder. Some people think psychopathy is down to nature whereas sociopathy is more to do with nurture. Sociopaths are reckless, like loose cannons; psychopaths tend to be more cunning. They can also be charming and charismatic.’
‘Like Pablo? Or Karl? Or whatever his fucking name is?’
Morgan sidesteps the question.
‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’
Lissa’s eyes glisten with tears. Her voice is hot with anger and frustration.
‘Apart from the fact I might be pregnant by the fucking Joker?’
Morgan strokes her daughter’s hand.
My bones, my blood.
‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘No matter what.’
Lissa prises her eyes away from the phone. Meets her mother’s gaze.
‘We used a condom, Mum. Always. If I’m pregnant it won’t be my fault.’
‘I know. We’ll get through this.’
Her daughter nods, trying to put on a brave face. Morgan feels a pang of sympathy so sharp it twists her gut. She squeezes her daughter’s hand and remembers the first time she held her in her arms. Those tiny fingers – perfect, like Charlie’s.
As if reading her mind, Lissa says, ‘What do you think happened to Kiki’s baby?’
‘I wish I knew. The police haven’t said anything for days.’
‘Do you think Kiki jumped?’<
br />
‘Anjelica doesn’t think so. What about you? You knew her better than I did.’
‘Definitely possible,’ says Lissa. ‘She seemed pretty unstable. Up one minute, down the next. I’d say she was seriously depressed.’
Morgan frowns.
‘You didn’t mention this before.’
A shrug.
‘I’ve been thinking about it. Going over stuff she said. Depression is definitely a possibility.’
Morgan gets to her feet, feeling in her pocket for her keys.
‘I’m going to London, to see the forensic dentist. Want to come?’
Lissa shakes her head.
‘I need a duvet day.’
‘Want me to stay with you?’
‘No, I’ll be OK.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Sleep. Eat ice cream.’
‘Good plan.’ Morgan pauses at the door. ‘Stay here,’ she says. ‘All day.’
‘Got it.’
‘Promise?’
A sigh.
‘Promise.’
*
Morgan asks Eric Sweet to keep an eye on Lissa then drives to London, listening to a Mozart symphony on Classic FM, a bid to calm her growing anxiety. She lucks into a parking bay a few doors from Jatinder Singh’s Harley Street office. Sitting in the lobby, she declines the receptionist’s offer of green tea then scans the array of framed diplomas and press cuttings on the walls. Singh is a man at the top of his game: lecture tours, a successful private practice, forensic work on the side.
Ushered into his immaculate office on the dot of one o’clock, Morgan is struck by the emphasis on symmetry. Two white leather chairs are positioned at right angles to the white laminated desk on top of which sits a sleek iMac. Nothing else. The high-ceilinged room is dominated by a large oil painting of what Morgan takes to be Singh’s wife and teenage daughters. All three wear white saris. The portrait occupies the entire wall facing the desk.
The man himself sports a neatly trimmed goatee and a charcoal-grey suit with a pristine white shirt. The only flash of colour is his turquoise tie, the sole sign of imperfection his fingernails, bitten to the quick. Rising from his chair, he extends a solid handshake and a dazzling white smile, the kind sported by movie stars. He gestures for his visitor to take a seat.
‘May I call you Morgan?’ A mellifluous voice, soft and soothing.
