by Simon Booker
‘Maybe I could buy you a drink sometime?’
‘I don’t think my fiancée would approve.’
‘She’s not invited.’
Morgan hates pulling the oldest trick in the book but there are times when it’s the only way.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he says.
‘Will you be talking to Jukes again?’
A pause is followed by a guarded response in the kind of overblown ‘police speak’ that makes Morgan roll her eyes.
‘We have no plans to ask Mr Jukes for further assistance at this moment in time.’
‘I’m guessing he denied having anything to do with a baby farm or smuggling sperm into prison,’ says Morgan. ‘I’m guessing he told you he doesn’t know Karl Savage, or anyone called Pablo. I’m also guessing you’re happy to let it drop because it looks like a dead end and you’ve got enough on your plate.’
‘The last part is certainly true.’
‘Final question?’
‘If you must.’
‘Do you know Joe Cassidy? Ex-police officer? Lives in a shack on the beach?’
It turns out that everyone knows Joe Cassidy – at least, everyone in the Kent Police. The man in the fisherman’s jumper suffered a breakdown after heading an investigation into a grisly double murder, then took early retirement when his marriage broke down.
Reassured (partly), Morgan relays what Cassidy told her about seeing Kiki in St Mary’s Bay, accompanied by a man and a woman.
‘He mentioned the woman’s jacket,’ says Morgan. ‘Denim. Big red metal buttons. Pretty distinctive.’
‘Joe Cassidy is free to say what he likes,’ sighs Rook. ‘His career is over. Mine’s not.’
Giving up, Morgan ends the call and stares out to sea. She wonders if she should rouse Lissa or allow her to sleep. She remembers only too well the sickening lurch in the stomach her daughter will experience on waking, as the reality of her situation sets in. Morgan’s own pregnancy came as a shock, but unlike Lissa she had no one to blame but herself. Her carelessness was her own fault.
And if she could have her time over, she wouldn’t change a thing.
But what sort of man pricks holes in condoms? What sort of man tricks women into getting pregnant? Anjelica Fry. Nancy Sixsmith. Now Lissa, or so it seems.
Why are you doing this, Karl?
Where are you?
Where is Spike?
The shrill of Morgan’s mobile breaks her reverie. An unknown number.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Ben Gaminara. Wondering how you got on with Jatinder Singh.’
Morgan sits up in her chair, a hand involuntarily – absurdly – straying to tidy her hair. For a moment she’s unsure how to respond to the fire investigator’s query. It takes a second to realise why she is so discombobulated.
Someone is taking her seriously.
‘He was helpful,’ she says.
‘Did he convince you that Karl Savage is dead?’
Morgan considers the question.
‘I think he believes Karl died in the fire.’
‘Like the police,’ says Ben.
‘Yes.’
‘And the rest of the world.’
‘Apparently.’
‘Except you.’
And maybe you?
Wishful thinking, but it’s clear the man is troubled by doubts.
‘I can’t stop wondering about those picture hooks,’ he says.
‘Me neither.’
‘Two specks on a photo. Not much to go on.’
Morgan seizes on the seed of uncertainty.
‘But if you’re right – if Karl did take down the photos before the flat was set on fire – the question is, why?’
‘Could be a dozen explanations.’
‘One might be that he was planning to fake his own death. Falsify evidence against Anjelica. Stop her testifying against his drug dealing.’
‘How could he falsify evidence?’ says Ben. ‘And if he did, whose was the body in the flat? The one with the cracked skull?’
‘No idea,’ says Morgan. ‘But if I’m right, Anjelica should be at home with her baby, not behind bars.’
She breaks off as she hears a voice.
‘Mum?’
She turns. Her daughter is shuffling onto the balcony, wearing a too-big white bathrobe, her hair tousled, her tear-stained face puffy and pale.
‘I need to go,’ says Morgan. Hanging up, she turns to Lissa.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘How do you think?’
Morgan pats her thigh. Still half-asleep, Lissa curls onto her mother’s lap, draping an arm around her neck. She smells of alcohol and vomit.
‘You need to brush your teeth, your breath stinks.’
‘Least of my problems.’
Morgan strokes her daughter’s hair. Her voice is low and soothing.
‘If you disappear like that ever again I will tie you in a sack and drown you.’
‘Sorry.’
Morgan sighs, curling her fingers around strands of Lissa’s silky hair.
‘Don’t be. I get it. You did the pregnancy test, you freaked out, then tried to drown your sorrows.’
Her daughter reaches for the coffee cup and drains the dregs.
‘What am I going to do?’
Morgan squeezes her daughter’s hand.
‘Think. Talk. All day and all night, if necessary. Whatever you decide, your decision will be the right one. And I will hold your hand every step of the way.’
Lissa’s eyes glaze with tears.
‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’ she says.
‘Made you eat spinach?’
‘I’m serious.’
Morgan frowns, her worries returning.
‘You know you can tell me anything, right?’
A nod. Lissa’s voice is a whisper.
‘I’m glad you’re my mum.’
‘That makes two of us. Now go and brush your teeth.’
Seventeen
The talking begins straight away. All day and into the early evening Lissa quizzes her mother about life as a single parent. Morgan is careful not to tell the whole truth (she doesn’t want to terrify her daughter) but neither does she gloss over the never-ending anxiety, exhaustion and financial hardship.
‘People think the child is created by the parents,’ she tells Lissa during a sunset walk along the coastline. ‘It’s the other way round: the child creates the parent.’
‘What about Dad?’
‘What about him?’
‘Does he still feel like part of your life?’
Morgan knows what the question means.
If I keep this baby am I tied to its father for ever?
She chooses her words carefully.
‘I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m sure your dad feels the same way.’
The rest of the outing passes in silence, Lissa lost in thought as she accompanies her mother back to the inn. A hundred yards from the entrance, they see a solitary figure waiting outside. Lissa stops in her tracks.
‘Who’s that?’
Morgan peers at the figure, a solidly built woman with a baby strapped to her back in a papoose. She sports biker boots, blue dungarees, an Arsenal scarf, the vivid red clashing with her pink hair. Frowning, Morgan recalls the first time she saw the woman in the Mother and Baby Unit, about to join forces with Kiki McNeil and launch an attack on Anjelica Fry.
I’ll hold the bitch down, you kick her in the tits.
‘Stacey Brown,’ she tells Lissa. ‘Kiki’s best friend.’
She walks on. Lissa hangs back, rooted to the spot.
‘What’s the matter?’ says Morgan.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about her.’
‘Because she supports Arsenal?’
Lissa doesn’t return her mother’s smile, falling into step as they approach the woman with pink hair.
‘Remember me?’ says Morgan.
Stacey scrutinises her face.
‘No, just a visitor.’
A flicker of recognition.
‘Anjelica Fry’s mate?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ says Morgan.
The woman casts a disdainful glare in her direction then swigs from a can of Red Bull. Morgan looks at the baby in the papoose – a black-haired boy, six months old, fast asleep.
‘When did you get out?’
‘Few days ago,’ says Stacey. ‘Been at a hostel. Right shithole.’ She jerks her head towards the inn’s door. ‘My friend worked here but she snuffed it.’
‘Kiki?’
A nod. ‘Thought the owner might give me her job but he’s out.’ She glances in Lissa’s direction. ‘Who’s this?’
‘My daughter – Lissa.’
‘Hiya,’ says Stacey.
Lissa says nothing, keeping her distance, a wary look on her face. Stacey smiles at Morgan.
‘Don’t suppose you could lend us a fiver? I’d kill for some KFC.’
‘My treat,’ says Morgan, seizing the opportunity to pick the woman’s brains. She nods towards the car park. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
Lissa frowns.
‘Since when do you like fried chicken?’
‘First time for everything. Coming?’
The frown deepens. ‘No way.’
‘Not hungry?’ says Stacey.
‘No,’ says Lissa.
She walks off, entering the hotel. Stacey watches her go.
‘What’s up with her?’
‘Lot on her plate.”
The new arrival sighs.
‘Haven’t we all?’
*
Forty-five minutes later Morgan watches the woman with pink hair scrape the scraps from a bucket of fried chicken, finger them into her mouth then lean back in her chair. The fast food joint’s strip light is flickering, the table littered with smears of ketchup, greasy bones and coleslaw.
Stacey swigs her supersized Coke, wipes her mouth with a napkin then unfastens the straps that hold her dungarees in place. Throughout the meal her baby has barely made a sound. Now, adjusting her T-shirt and tugging down her bra to reveal a blue-veined breast, she guides her son’s mouth to her nipple.
‘Just one thing missing,’ she says as the baby begins to suckle. ‘Got a fag?’
Producing her pouch of tobacco, Morgan makes a roll-up.
‘Can I ask a question?’
Stacey burps then nods.
‘Why were you in prison?’
The woman doesn’t miss a beat.
‘I stabbed the bastard. Section eighteen: inflicting a serious wound with malice aforethought.’
‘Who’s “the bastard”?’
‘Santa Claus.’ Stacey slurps her Coke then smiles. ‘I’m serious. His name’s Mickey but I called him Santa. Know why?’ She leans forward. ‘’Cause he only comes once a year.’ She laughs at her own joke then resettles the baby at her breast.
‘Why did you stab him?’
‘He smacked me about. Every payday, after the pub. One time, he threatened to drill my eye sockets with his Black & Decker. Shall I go on?’
Morgan shakes her head.
‘Is the baby his?’
‘None of your business.’
Morgan smiles, taking the rebuff in her stride.
‘How long do you get for GBH?’
‘Maximum twenty-five years. I got six, served three.’
‘And your baby’s six months old?’
‘Seven. Pisces. His name’s Ryan.’
‘So, if you’ve been in prison for three years . . .’ Morgan tails off, letting the question finish itself.
‘How did I get pregnant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Immaculate conception.’
‘Is that what you told the governor?’
A wink. ‘What happens in prison stays in prison. Bit like Vegas, only with shitty food.’
‘Is “Genghis” involved? In the baby farm?’
Stacey slurps her Coke. Morgan senses she’s playing for time. ‘I appreciate the food but let’s not pretend we’re friends. I don’t owe you an explanation about anything.’
‘Fair enough,’ says Morgan. ‘When did you last see Kiki?’
‘The day she got out. We’d planned to meet up but I didn’t have the bus money and she was working flat out.’
‘Did you talk on the phone?’
A nod.
‘She told me about the inn. The job. I’m hoping Eric will help me, like he helped her.’
Morgan searches Stacey’s eyes.
‘What do you think happened to her?’
The woman’s expression darkens. She looks away, casting a glance towards the door. ‘She jumped off a cliff.’
‘Jumped? You’re sure she wasn’t pushed?’
‘How should I know? I wasn’t there.’
‘But it’s possible?’
‘Guess so.’
‘Was she depressed?’
‘We were in prison,’ says Stacey, enunciating clearly, as if talking to a dim-witted child. ‘Of course she was bloody depressed.’ She strokes the cheek of the baby at her breast. ‘My turn to ask a question?’
‘OK.’
‘Why waste time on a bitch like Anjelica Fry?’
‘I’m not wasting time. She’s innocent.’
A frown.
‘Believe in the tooth fairy too?’
Morgan keeps her tone light.
‘I believe she was set up.’
‘Who by?’
‘That’s what I need to find out,’ says Morgan. She fixes her eyes on the woman’s face, searching for clues as to how much she knows. ‘Heard of Karl Savage?’
‘The bloke Anjelica killed? Of course.’
‘Is that the only context in which you know his name?’
‘What are you on about?’
The puzzlement seems genuine.
‘Never mind,’ says Morgan. Then swiftly changing tack, ‘What do you think happened to Kiki’s baby?’
A scowl.
‘Do I look like I’m psychic?’
Morgan senses she has touched a nerve, but now is not the moment to press the subject or push for more about the baby farm. The conversation turns to Stacey’s life before prison, before the man with the Black & Decker. As with Kiki’s story, it’s a harrowing saga of childhood neglect and horrifying abuse. A series of predatory ‘uncles’ and ‘stepdads’ who persuaded Stacey’s mother that the girl was safe in their hands. Teenage years in care. No wonder she’s hard-boiled.
‘Where’s your hostel?’ says Morgan.
‘Folkestone. And I’m so done with that dump.’
‘Won’t you get in trouble if you don’t go back?’
‘Like I give a shit.’
But the relentless bravado is at odds with the scene being played out in front of Morgan. For all her tough talking, the woman is cradling her baby with tenderness and love. Morgan places the roll-up on the table.
‘Want me to have a word with Eric?’
‘About the job?’
‘Maybe the room too.’
The woman brightens. ‘Seriously?’
‘Worth a go,’ says Morgan.
Stacey nods. Places the roll-up between her lips.
‘This bloke Eric,’ she says, ‘what does he get out of it?’
‘He’s not like that.’
The woman rolls her eyes. ‘And I’m Queen Victoria.’
Eighteen
The possibility that Eric Sweet had something to do with Kiki’s death has occurred to Morgan before (any local is a potential suspect) but Stacey’s cynicism prompts her to double-check that the police are investigating every possibility. The following morning, while the innkeeper is showing his new cleaner how to vacuum to professional standards, Morgan takes her coffee onto the balcony and calls Neville Rook.
‘Did you check out Eric Sweet?’
The DI sighs, choosing his words with care.
�
�We’ve made thorough enquiries among the local community and are continuing to do so.’
‘Do they include determining his alibi for the time of Kiki’s death?’
‘I said, “thorough”. Off the record, there’s nothing to suggest anything other than suicide.’
‘So you’re not considering other possibilities?’
‘Was there anything else, Morgan?’
‘Any news on Charlie?’
‘When there is, you’ll find out along with everyone else.’
No mistaking the man’s irritation.
‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone,’ says Morgan.
‘If you say so.’
*
Stacey and her baby, Ryan, are allocated ‘Badger’, the twin-bedded room once occupied by Kiki and Charlie. With the weather worsening the inn is all but empty, but Morgan still feels safer here than at home. Besides, Lissa seems to have overcome her hostility to Stacey, at least enough to babysit Ryan while his mother performs her duties around the inn.
At lunchtime Morgan volunteers to relieve her daughter, but Lissa shakes her head.
‘He’s cute,’ she says, fumbling with the baby’s nappy. ‘Besides, I’ve got to learn sometime.’
Morgan decides not to ask if this means her daughter has made a final decision about her pregnancy. Lissa will confide in her in her own good time.
Alone in ‘Falcon’, she boots up her laptop and writes a summary of everything she’s learned about Anjelica Fry and Karl Savage. Amid the catalogue of dead ends (Nigel Cundy’s refusal to discuss the baby farm, dismissive police officers, the sleazy solicitor, the oleaginous Harley Street odontologist, the disappearance of ‘Spike’) there shines one glimmer of hope: the seed of doubt in the mind of Ben Gaminara. Morgan is tempted to text the fire scene investigator to request another meeting, but as she taps out a message she stops mid-sentence.
Does she really want help? Or is she looking for an excuse to flirt? Even if he returns the compliment, is she ready to trust again? To risk another soul-crushing disappointment? Another broken heart? Recalling the pet-with-no-name snoozing on the pink bra, she decides to let sleeping cats lie.
*
As a week of late October rain sets in, a pattern emerges. Each day, Morgan closets herself in her room, poring over the cache of online court reports and articles on Anjelica’s trial, scrutinising every detail. She emails DI Tucker, asking if he knows the whereabouts of Karl’s drug-dealing pal, Spike. The police officer’s three-word reply is terse, bordering on rude.
