by Simon Booker
‘Of course.’
He resumes his seat, shooting his cuffs.
‘Ben Gaminara emailed me,’ he says. ‘Apparently you believe Anjelica Fry is the victim of a miscarriage of justice.’
‘Yes,’ says Morgan.
Singh’s eyes search her face.
‘I finished your book,’ he says, taking her by surprise. ‘Very readable, highly persuasive.’
‘Thanks. I’m flattered.’
The man glances at his Cartier watch, removes it from his wrist and sets it on the desk.
‘Will twenty minutes do?’
Morgan nods and outlines the reasons for her visit. The man behind the desk listens attentively, asking occasional questions then furrowing his brow as she reaches the part about Karl Savage being alive.
‘Do you mind if I speak frankly, Ms Vine?’
‘Of course not.’
He flicks a non-existent piece of fluff from his sleeve and speaks in formal sentences, as if addressing a public enquiry.
‘I’ve reviewed my findings in the case, in preparation for this meeting. I understand why someone might feel a modicum of sympathy for the woman convicted of Savage’s murder. It’s not for me to judge Ms Fry guilty or otherwise. What I can say, without fear of contradiction, and with the benefit of twenty-four years’ experience, is this: the man whose dental records I examined was Karl Savage. Those records were incontrovertibly a perfect match for the man who died in the arson attack on his flat.’
‘No room for doubt?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘But surely teeth aren’t like fingerprints,’ says Morgan. ‘They’re not unique from birth.’
‘True,’ says Singh. ‘But unique nevertheless. And every bit as reliable as fingerprints.’ He leans forward in his chair. ‘Tooth enamel is the hardest substance in the human body. Teeth can withstand temperatures of over 2,000 degrees Fahrenheit, much hotter than a domestic house fire. In this instance, I worked on the cadaver in the morgue, exposing the jaws surgically. I then compared a series of ante-mortem radiographs with their post-mortem counterparts, not just with the naked eye but with 3D computer imaging.’
He turns the iMac screen to face her. A series of clicks brings up the image of a dental X-ray.
‘Teeth grow differently in each individual. Over the years, wear and tear produce unique patterns: crowding of teeth, broken teeth, missing teeth, tooth morphology, rotations, fillings, crowns and so on.’ Producing a Mont Blanc pen, he points to the X-ray. ‘This is a radiograph of Savage’s teeth, ante-mortem, taken by his own dentist.’
A tap of the pen draws Morgan’s eye to a small arch-shaped groove at the base of one of the front teeth.
‘This particular notching of the mandibular and maxillary left central incisors is characteristic of someone regularly using their teeth to strip plastic coating from electrical wire.’
‘And Karl worked as an electrician.’
‘So I understand.’
Another click conjures a second image, splitting the screen in two.
‘This is his post-mortem radiograph, taken by me.’
Morgan scrutinises the images side by side. Even to an untrained eye they are identical.
‘It was helpful that the subject had visited his dentist eleven days before he died,’ says Singh. ‘His X-rays were up to date. As you can see, there can be no doubt that the radiographs are identical.’
Morgan peers closer.
‘Is it possible to do DNA tests from teeth?’
Singh nods. ‘Even when body tissues have been burned, the structure of the enamel and pulp complex persist. We extract DNA from calcified tissues, taking, say, a molar. Then we cryogenically grind it in a mill using liquid nitrogen. The powder can be used for DNA extraction.’
‘Was that done in this case?’
He shakes his head.
‘The enquiry didn’t progress as far as DNA testing. These radiographs told the police all they needed to know.’ He taps the screen with the pen, indicating the first X-ray. ‘This is Karl Savage ante-mortem.’ He taps the second image. ‘This is Karl Savage post-mortem. The man died in that fire, Ms Vine – end of, as my daughters would say.’ He gestures towards the two girls in the portrait on the wall. ‘And this isn’t opinion, it’s scientific fact.’
‘So how do you explain the fact that I saw Karl outside my house?’
‘A doppelganger? A twin?’
‘He didn’t have a twin.’
‘Then forgive me, but is it possible that you were mistaken?’
Not for the first time, Morgan considers the question, casting her mind back to the man in the camper van, his face illuminated by the flame of the Zippo lighter.
Click, rasp.
A fleeting glimpse, three seconds at most, after powerful sleeping pills.
And painkillers.
And wine.
Has she got it wrong?
Jatinder Singh is rising from his desk, refastening his watch on his wrist. The meeting is over.
‘I’m sorry to hurry you but—’
‘Thank you for your time.’
Standing, she turns to go, her eyes scanning the portrait on the wall. The three serious-looking females in white saris.
‘I associate saris with bright colours,’ says Morgan.
‘White symbolises holiness and purity,’ says Singh. ‘A little pompous, perhaps, but my wife insisted. And as she never ceases to remind me, “happy wife, happy life”.’ He ushers her towards the door and into the reception. ‘I’m sorry if you’re disappointed by what I’ve told you.’
‘Not disappointed,’ says Morgan. ‘Just confused.’
The man extends a valedictory handshake, firm but friendly, like his greeting.
‘I have a saying: people lie through their teeth, but the teeth never lie.’
Once again, he flashes that dazzling white smile, then goes back into his office, closing the door behind him. Firmly.
*
The Dungeness Beach Inn is wreathed in late afternoon mist as Morgan guides the Mini to a halt on the shingle. To the west, distant lights from the prison are clearly visible; to the east, she can make out the red glow from the power station. As she slams the car door, a flock of birds takes to the air, circling the hotel before heading out to sea. Morgan goes inside, walking through the deserted reception to the corridor that leads to Lissa’s room.
She raps on the door.
‘Lissa?’
No answer. A second knock is greeted by silence. Heading into the lounge, Morgan finds Eric Sweet balancing on a stepladder, installing another smoke alarm. His sweatshirt slogan is emblazoned with a familiar quote from Gandhi: Be the Change You Wish to See in the World.
‘Have you seen Lissa?’ says Morgan.
‘Not since I brought her back.’
‘From where?’
‘Town. She asked for a lift, said she needed to buy something important.’
‘Did she say what?’
‘No.’
‘When did you get back?’
He checks his watch.
‘About an hour ago.’
Morgan frowns.
‘Can you let me into her room?’
‘Of course.’
Climbing down from the stepladder, Eric leads the way to ‘Dragonfly’ and unlocks the door. The room is empty, the bed unmade.
‘You didn’t see her leave?’
He shakes his head.
‘Maybe she’s gone for a walk.’
‘Maybe,’ says Morgan, trying to recall her parting words to her daughter.
Stay here. All day.
Yup. Got it.
Promise?
Promise.
*
An hour later, as darkness falls, Morgan is roving the beach, dialling Lissa’s mobile for the third time and leaving yet another message.
‘It’s Mum. Again. Call me.’
Back at the inn, she sits on her daughter’s bed, trying to banish from her mind’s eye an
image of Kiki McNeil’s lifeless body at the foot of the cliffs.
Lissa’s room contains no clue to her whereabouts. No note, no text, no email.
A thought strikes: Eric’s trip to town.
She needed to buy something important.
Morgan hurries into the bathroom. She raises the lid of the pedal bin. Inside is packaging from a DIY pregnancy test. No sign of the kit itself. No card. No stick. No digital readout. No way of knowing if her daughter is carrying the child of a sociopath. A man universally believed to be dead.
Sixteen
By midnight Morgan is getting desperate. For hours she’s combed the roads that bisect the beach, first in her car, now on foot. The mist has been rolling in fast, thickening into a swirling fog. Clutching a torch from Eric’s toolbox, she approaches the out-lying expanse of shingle. The tide is receding, allowing the shoreline to reveal its secrets. Slowing her pace, she can feel the blood thudding in her ears as she directs the beam of the torch over the shallow ripples, stones and mud. Out at sea, the lights of a tanker are dimly visible through the fog, but there is no sign of life.
Morgan takes her mobile from the pocket of her leather jacket. She would have heard it ring or chirrup with a text but that doesn’t stop her double-checking, just as she did five minutes earlier, just as she will five minutes from now.
Or two minutes. Or ten seconds.
‘Lissa!’
Her voice echoes far and wide, muffled by the fog, but the only response is the sound of the waves.
‘Lissa!’
The cry is a forlorn hope and she knows it. Time to go back to the inn. Turning, she retraces her steps, passing an abandoned fishing boat beached outside a ramshackle house. Light shines from the window.
A face appears.
A man.
He stares at Morgan for a moment, then steps away from the window, disappearing from view. Seconds later he appears at the front door, silhouetted by soft yellow light spilling from within. He calls across the beach.
‘Are you lost?’
‘I’m looking for my daughter.’
Morgan sees a dog emerge from the shack, standing next to the man, ears cocked. There is something curious about the animal’s gait. Drawing nearer, she can make out the breed – a border terrier – and the fact that it’s missing a front leg. She’s seen the dog before, scavenging in the beach café’s bins, but has assumed it’s a stray.
‘Can I help you?’ says the man. He’s walking towards her, face coming into focus. Tall. Fifties. Jeans and a fisherman’s jumper. Already on edge, Morgan wants to ignore him, to hurry back to the safety of the inn, but the sight of the three-legged dog’s wagging tail is reassuring. Like the glow from the shack.
‘Do you live here?’
‘Yes.’ He extends a handshake. ‘Joe Cassidy.’
‘Morgan Vine.’
‘You’re a local too?’
‘Over there.’ She gestures vaguely in the direction of her house. ‘In the converted railway carriage, by the lighthouse.’
He nods, watching the dog move off, picking up some kind of scent.
‘How old is your daughter?’
‘Twenty. Her name’s Lissa.’
‘How long has she been missing?’
‘A few hours. I’m not sure I can call it missing.’
The man gives a sympathetic nod. ‘But after the other day . . .’ He tails off.
Morgan raises an eyebrow. ‘You mean, the woman on the cliffs? Kiki McNeil?’
He nods. ‘Did you know her?’
‘Yes. Did you?’
‘No. But I was over there the night she died. Went to a pub nearby. Passed her after closing time.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
A smile.
‘Of course. I used to be a copper.’
‘Was she alone?’
He shakes his head. ‘With two other people – a woman and a man. The man wore a hoodie.’
‘You didn’t see their faces?’
He shakes his head.
‘Just Kiki’s. The other woman wore a denim jacket with big red metal buttons. Hard to miss, even after a couple of pints. But her face was in the shadows.’
‘Did Kiki seem OK?’
A shrug.
‘Hard to say. I just remember her face – the port wine stain was very distinctive.’ The dog returns to his side. He gazes around the beach. ‘Would you like some help?’
‘No,’ says Morgan. ‘Thanks all the same.’
He smiles.
‘Want to give me your number?’
She hesitates. Is he hitting on her or being nice?
‘In case I see your daughter,’ he says, as if reading her mind. He fishes a biro from his pocket and raises an expectant eyebrow. She tells him her number. He writes it on the palm of his hand.
‘Any news, I’ll let you know.’
‘Thank you.’
She watches the man return to his shack, the three-legged dog at his side. Heading away, into the fog, she makes a mental note to ask DI Rook about Joe Cassidy. Ex-cop or not, the man in the fisherman’s jumper needs checking out.
*
Nearing the inn, she glances at her watch. Just past twelve thirty, more than seven hours since Lissa was last seen by Eric. Casting a final look around the beach, Morgan walks towards the front door, freezing as she sees a figure slumped in the doorway. Quickening her pace, she can make out a familiar pair of Doc Martens and – thank God! – the outline of her daughter’s face.
‘Lissa?’
No response. She crouches down, reaching out to touch her daughter’s cheek.
‘Lissa?’
No reply, no sign of life. For a heart-stopping moment Morgan is certain her daughter is dead. But she’s flooded with relief as Lissa’s eyes flicker open.
‘Mum . . .?’
Morgan can smell alcohol on her daughter’s breath. Recalling the vodka bottle stashed under the bed, she sees a pool of vomit by the door. Relief gives way to anger.
Binge drinking? Seriously?
The reprimand dies on her lips as Lissa’s next words change everything.
‘I’m pregnant.’
*
As the grey light of dawn seeps through the curtains, Morgan is awake, staring at the ceiling. Lying beside her, Lissa snores softly, the hollows of her cheeks stained with tears.
Morgan dresses, donning a towelling robe over her swimming costume, then slips out to the corridor and pads barefoot into the dining room. Eric is laying tables for breakfast. Today’s sweatshirt slogan is a wearisome reminder that If You’re Not Part of the Solution, You’re Part of the Problem. He pours coffee from a large cafetière and hands Morgan a cup.
‘Is she OK?’
‘Not really.’
The man has the sensitivity not to press the subject.
‘Would a bacon sandwich help?’ he says.
‘With ketchup?’
‘Is there any other kind?’
He smiles and lumbers towards the kitchen, leaving Morgan to sip her coffee while watching the sun rise over the horizon. A radio burbles in the background, the local news broadcasting the latest on the hunt for Kiki McNeil’s baby.
. . . although the search of the Dungeness area has yielded no results, Detective Inspector Neville Rook of Kent Police told a press conference that his team is continuing to follow all lines of enquiry.
The newsreader’s authoritative voice gives way to the familiar tones of the police officer.
We remain hopeful that someone knows the whereabouts of baby Charlie. If that person is listening, in the light of the mother’s tragic death I urge you to come forward as soon as possible, so the baby can be properly cared for.
Morgan eats her bacon sandwich while sitting on the balcony overlooking the sea. Her thoughts turn to that early encounter with Kiki. The way the woman with the birthmark had stared out of the hotel window, scanning the beach for signs of life.
Nervous.
Looking for someone.
The way she’d whispered in her baby’s ear.
‘He can piss off and leave us alone.’
Lissa’s voice: ‘Who can?’
The woman – a single mum who never stood a chance in life – had evaded the question. Now she’s dead.
Morgan feels a surge of anger.
There but for the grace of God . . .
As for Charlie, what chance does he have – assuming he’s still alive? If the police won’t even take his mother’s death seriously, how much effort will they invest in a search for a missing baby? Are they assuming the worst and quietly moving on? Overstretched and under-resourced, it’s no wonder DIs like Neville Rook and Brett Tucker are keen to focus on cases that offer the possibility of resolution. But where does that leave Kiki?
Who will find justice for her?
Who will find her child?
Rising from her chair, Morgan walks to the water’s edge. Gasping at the cold, she relishes the sensation of the mud oozing between her toes. A few more yards and the water is up to her waist. She plunges in, striking out with strong, confident strokes and feeling the pull of the current. Turning to face the beach, swimming backstroke, she sees Eric on the balcony, looking out to sea. She raises an arm to wave but he doesn’t wave back. Perhaps he hasn’t seen her. When she looks again, he has disappeared. Five minutes later, as she emerges from the icy water and makes her way back to the timbered deck, he has cleared away her plate and cup.
Morgan checks on Lissa – still asleep – then dresses quickly and returns to the balcony. She makes a roll-up while drinking her second coffee of the day. At precisely eight o’clock she dials DI Rook’s mobile.
‘Off the record, is there any news on Kiki’s baby?’
‘As soon as there’s news you’ll hear along with everyone else.’
‘Did you talk to Trevor Jukes? About the baby farm?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?
‘You know I can’t comment on an investigation.’
‘But you can tell me if there’s something to investigate.’
‘What part of “no comment” do you not understand?’
Morgan sighs.
‘You need to find out what happened to Kiki, Neville. We can’t have a world where lives are snuffed out and no one cares.’
‘Brilliant. I must write that down.’
He’s right. She’s hectoring him. Time to turn on the charm.
