by Simon Booker
Now, as cars whiz past, heading away from Romney Marsh, Morgan begins to feel less conspicuous. Careful to keep her distance, she follows Jukes along the road that hugs the seafront. After a mile and a half, she sees him indicating a left turn. Pausing at the junction, she steers the Mini into a side street, passing a row of lock-up garages. The Yamaha is now a hundred yards ahead, indicating another turn. For a moment, Morgan wonders if he’s spotted her. Perhaps he saw her outside the prison? Is he doubling back, trying to shake her off? Or luring her to an isolated spot?
Should she have brought a weapon?
A knife?
A baseball bat?
Too late now.
Slowing the Mini, she reaches out to lock both doors, then follows the motorcycle as it makes a right turn. The side street is potholed and lined with bungalows, smaller and shabbier than those with sea views. Up ahead, the Yamaha pulls onto a concrete driveway outside a dilapidated bungalow. A weed-filled front yard. A gate hanging from its hinges. A green wheelie bin crammed with bulging black bags.
Morgan sees a seagull pecking at the garbage, foraging for scraps. She watches Jukes clap his hands to scare the bird away. Then he dismounts from the motorcycle, passing an abandoned sofa on his way to the door of number six. Morgan drives past, taking a right turn and pulling to a halt by a corner shop. She counts to ten before climbing out of the car and walking to the corner, peering at the squat, ugly house.
There’s no sign of Jukes, but light shines through the rippled glass of the front door. Morgan takes a tentative step towards the yard then stops as a familiar piece of music – the theme from The Archers – blares from a downstairs window.
Tum-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum, tum-de-dum-de-dah-dah.
The irrepressibly jaunty music shatters the silence. Next door at number five a curtain twitches, but there’s no other sign of life.
She imagines the scene inside the house: Jukes chucking his keys on the kitchen table and setting the kettle to boil, or maybe opening a beer while listening to his favourite soap opera. She considers her options. Knocking on the door is out of the question. What would she say to the man who knows she tried to alert the police to the existence of the baby farm?
A few doors down, three young men are emerging from another house. They wear hoodies and trainers. As they lope towards Morgan, she averts her gaze, feigning interest in her mobile, but they slow their pace.
‘’S’up?’ says one, casting a glance at Morgan’s phone. She meets his gaze. She was mistaken. They’re not men, but teenagers – seventeen, maybe eighteen. One sports a small gold earring, another has a skull tattoo on his neck. The third – the one checking out her mobile – has a gap between his front teeth.
Pocketing her phone, Morgan smiles. ‘Not much,’ she says.
Gap-tooth narrows his eyes. ‘You think we want your phone?’
‘Of course not.’ Morgan does her best to maintain a friendly tone.
‘So why put it away?’
She refuses to be cowed, answering his question with a question. ‘Why are you interested in my phone?’
‘I ain’t.’
‘That makes two of us.’
‘Leave it, man,’ says Earring. ‘I’m hungry.’
Gap-tooth glares at Morgan.
‘Ain’t no thief, you get me?’
‘I get you,’ says Morgan.
Neck Tattoo tugs at Gap-tooth’s arm.
‘We getting chips or what?’
Gap-tooth doesn’t reply but walks away, keeping his steely gaze on Morgan as he follows his friends, rounding the corner and disappearing from view.
Relieved, Morgan turns to leave, then ducks to avoid the seagull as it swoops low, returning to the wheelie bin. She watches the scavenger peck at Jukes’s bin bag, widening a hole in the plastic. The yard is a mess of potato peelings, eggshells and tea bags the colour of rust. Morgan is about to head back to her car when she sees a fragment of packaging among the rubbish.
Bright colours. A familiar logo. Pampers nappies.
She feels a rush of blood to the head. She has no idea of the man’s circumstances. Perhaps he has a new baby. But this is not a house occupied by a woman – at least not one who takes pride in her surroundings.
Rooted to the spot, Morgan’s eye is drawn by movement outside the shop. An elderly man emerges clutching a can of dog food and a newspaper. Morgan thinks for a moment then crosses the road and enters the shop, jangling the old-fashioned bell above the door. The woman behind the counter is refilling racks of cigarettes. Morgan feigns interest in the meagre display of wine, selecting two bottles of the most expensive red, a Shiraz.
‘That the lot?’ says the woman.
Morgan tries to ingratiate herself by splashing out.
‘Make it six.’
The woman brightens, ringing up the total as Morgan places four more bottles on the counter.
‘I’m new here. What are your opening hours?’
‘Seven till ten, seven days a week.’
Producing her wallet, Morgan is about to hand over her Visa card, but the woman purses her lips, prompting her to fumble for cash.
‘What are the neighbours like?’
A shrug.
‘All sorts.’
‘Who’s the guy at number six? The one with the motorcycle.’
The woman frowns.
‘Who wants to know?’
Morgan gives a coy smile.
‘Always had a thing for baldies.’ She hands over the cash. ‘Does he have a wife? Girlfriend? Kids?’
The woman rings up the sale and shakes her head.
‘Trevor’s a loner.’ She glances out of the window. ‘Anyway, what woman would live in a dump like that?’
Leaving the shop, Morgan casts another look at the nappy packaging in Jukes’s wheelie bin. She scans the bungalow. How can she scope out the house? Breaking in seems a high-risk strategy.
Maybe there’s another way.
*
She spots the gaggle of male police officers the moment she enters the pub. Bad haircuts, crumpled suits, shiny shoes. The Anchor is renowned as the coppers’ watering hole. Many Dungeness locals (eccentrics, recluses, people with something to hide) won’t venture inside for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention.
DI Rook is at the bar, ordering drinks while joking with the barmaid. His smile withers as he catches sight of Morgan.
‘Don’t I get a night off?’
His voice is slurred. Morgan fishes cash from her pocket.
‘What are you drinking, Neville?’
‘Hemlock. Make it a double.’ He waves her money away. ‘My round. You do the next one.’
Morgan smiles, meeting his eye while lowering her head, Princess Diana-style.
‘Red wine, please. Shiraz for preference but Merlot will do.’
Rook doesn’t introduce her to his colleagues. He distributes the round of drinks then follows her outside into the pub garden. She sits at a table, sipping her wine and rolling a cigarette.
‘Make one for me?’
She obliges, making small talk before steering the conversation to the Pampers in Jukes’s bin. The DI rolls his eyes.
‘Are you trying to take advantage of the fact I’ve had a drink?’
‘No, I’m reporting suspicious behaviour. Doing my civic duty.’
He gives a snort of derision then sips his pint.
‘Who says the nappies belong to Jukes?’
‘They’re in his bin.’
‘Maybe he’s got a friend with a baby. Maybe he’s a weirdo who gets a kick out of dressing up as a baby. Maybe the neighbours dump their rubbish in his bin.’
‘Or maybe he’s got Kiki’s baby.’
Morgan hands him the cigarette. She lights her own then holds out the lighter. He cups his hands around the flame. Draws the smoke into his lungs. Meets her gaze.
‘Are you single, Morgan?’
The question comes out of the blue.
‘Yes, I’m single.’
>
‘Happy that way?’
‘Most of the time. There’s a high price to pay for being able to say “we”.’
He sips his pint.
‘So why do people get married?’
‘Being alone is hard.’
He nods, dragging on his cigarette. ‘Way I look at it, marriage was invented when people died at forty. Now it’s eighty or ninety. Fifty years with the same bloody person, maybe more. You’d get less for murder.’
Morgan manages a smile.
‘Speaking of which . . .’
Another roll of the eyes.
‘Not Kiki McNeil again.’
‘I’m not a relationship counsellor, Neville, I’m a journalist trying to right a miscarriage of justice. I’m doing you the courtesy of coming to you first.
‘First?’
‘Before I write something for the papers. About what happened to Kiki. About the lack of progress in the search for Charlie. About an innocent woman banged up for a murder she didn’t commit.’
He frowns.
‘I can’t help what you write.’
‘No, but you can follow up a lead handed to you on a plate.’
He sighs. ‘There’s a word for women like you.’
‘Don’t tell me. Begins with C.’
He shakes his head. ‘R. For relentless.’
She smiles. ‘Charmer.’
*
The following day, on the dot of 7 a.m., Morgan is back in Jukes’s road, parked at a discreet distance and watching as Rook and two uniformed officers work their way along the row of pebble-dash bungalows. ‘Routine house-to-house’ is how the PCs have been told to explain this phase of the search for the missing baby. A brief conversation on Jukes’s doorstep will prove nothing, but it’s an effective opening gambit, a way to get a feel for the situation without revealing suspicions.
Morgan watches Neville ring the bell of number six. Seconds later the door is opened by Jukes. In uniform. Ready for work. He listens to Rook then follows the policeman’s gaze as he points towards the wheelie bin. The Pampers packaging is clearly visible amid the rubbish spilling from the bin bag. Morgan sees Jukes saying something to Rook. To her surprise, the prison officer waves an expansive hand, ushering the DI and one of the PCs into his house, then closing the door.
Wishing she’d brought coffee, Morgan settles down to wait. Across the road, the corner shop is opening for business. The elderly dog owner emerges from his house with an ancient black Labrador hobbling in his wake. They set off for the seafront, passing the Mini without registering Morgan’s presence. She’s tempted to roll a cigarette, but it’s too early, even for her. Lissa was barely awake when she left the inn, complaining of sore breasts and exhausted by yesterday’s vomiting marathon. Another duvet day.
And now Jukes’s front door is opening. The police officers emerge. Rook shakes the householder’s hand, then walks away followed by the PC. How long were they inside? Two minutes? Three? Just long enough to scope out the bungalow. Morgan watches as Jukes locks the front door then dons his helmet and climbs aboard his motorcycle. A couple of revs of the engine and he’s gone, rounding the corner and disappearing from view.
Craning her neck, she sees Rook directing his colleagues to a police car at the end of the street. The officers head for the car. The door-to-door charade is over.
Morgan reaches for her mobile and dials Rook’s number. She watches him fish his phone from his pocket and answer the call.
‘Hi, Neville.’
He scans the street.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the Mini.’
The DI turns, sees the car then heads in her direction, his phone still clamped to his ear. ‘He was helpful,’ he says. ‘Invited us in, showed us round.’
‘And?’
‘No baby, no sign of a baby.’
‘How did he explain the nappies?’
‘His sister had a little girl. Couple of months ago. They came to stay at the weekend.’
‘Do you believe him?’
The man has reached her car. He pockets his phone as she lowers the window. He’s missed a spot shaving, his eyes are bloodshot.
‘He showed us a selfie,’ he says. ‘Him, the sister and the baby.’
‘Which proves nothing. Could have been taken any time.’
‘He said it was taken this weekend.’
‘And you believe him.’
‘No reason not to.’
Morgan sighs.
‘So we’re none the wiser.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
Resisting the urge to press her case, Morgan opens the car door, climbs out and stretches her arms above her head. The DS has done her a good turn, going out on a limb on her behalf.
‘Can I buy you breakfast, Neville?’
The man looks away for a moment. When he turns to her, his response takes her by surprise.
‘Why don’t I buy you dinner instead?’
Morgan arches an eyebrow.
‘Is your fiancée coming?’
A pause. He clears his throat.
‘We had a row. She’s gone to her mum’s.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
His eyes search hers.
‘Are you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Right,’ says Rook. He scratches his neck and clears this throat. ‘I thought you liked me.’
‘I do.’
‘I mean . . .’
‘I know what you mean,’ says Morgan. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.’
The man blows out his cheeks and looks away.
‘Why are we doing this, Morgan?’
She chooses her words carefully.
‘I’m “doing this” because I believe Jukes is involved in a baby farm racket. And possibly the murder of Kiki O’Neil. And the abduction of her baby.’
She doesn’t mention the prison officer’s link to the man who got her daughter pregnant. As far as Rook is concerned, the fact that Pablo and Karl Savage are one and the same – Morgan’s unshakeable belief that Savage is alive – makes her what his pals at the Anchor would doubtless call a ‘nutjob’.
‘This needs to stop,’ he says, sighing. ‘Flirting, playing detective – it all needs to stop.’
‘I’m not “playing” at anything,’ says Morgan, feeling a stir of anger. ‘I’m trying to get to the truth. And justice for Angelica Fry.’
He gives her a sideways look.
‘I spoke to DI Tucker in London,’ he says. ‘About you.’
‘Let me guess, he said I’m a troublemaker, mad as a box of frogs.’
‘Wouldn’t go that far,’ says Rook. ‘But he and I are on the same page.’ He buttons his jacket and holds himself erect. ‘I’m serious. No more “Let me buy you breakfast”. And no more Mr Nice Guy.’
Turning on his heel, he walks towards the police car where the PCs are waiting. Morgan watches them drive away.
Turning her collar against the wind, she casts a final look at the litter-strewn yard of number six. The Pampers packaging protrudes from the tattered bin bag. As she heads for the Mini, the seagull circles overhead, then swoops onto the bungalow’s roof, its cries echoing along the deserted street. Morgan turns towards the corner as she hears the rumble of a lorry.
No, a dustcart.
Brakes squealing, the vehicle shudders to a halt at the end of the road. Two bin men jump down from the cab. They work their way along the road, shifting wheelie bins from front yards to kerb.
Acting on impulse, Morgan darts back to number six. Reaches over the gate. Grabs the bag jutting from Jukes’s bin. Tugging hard, she prises it loose, dropping it onto the pavement at her feet. She leans over to grab the second bag. Hauls it from the bin.
The dustmen draw nearer. One points in her direction, shouting something she can’t make out. She ignores him. The bag is leaking its contents. Cramming sheets of spilled paper into her pocket, she takes off her jacket and wraps it over the hole to prevent further spillage
. Clutching the first bag, she grabs the second with her free hand and heads for the Mini. She shoves the bags onto the back seat.
Trying not to gag at the stench, she gets behind the wheel and drives away with her booty, the mocking jeers of the dustmen ringing in her ears.
Twenty-One
Searching for a place to sift through Jukes’s rubbish, Morgan settles for the deserted car park of the Beach Inn. She empties both bin bags, creating two piles: one of cans, bottles and food, the other of cardboard and paper. Crouched on her haunches, she sees two empty Pampers packages but no soiled nappies. Dozens of lager cans and polystyrene food containers suggest that the prison officer’s diet would not please his doctor. His reading habits seem limited to TV Times. A flick through the pages reveals a selection of programmes circled in red. The man is an ardent sports fan with a subscription to Sky and an interest in Formula One. He also likes nature programmes and Coronation Street. Last Thursday he watched (or intended to watch) Off the Grid, a reality show following a group of survivalists attempting to stay hidden from society. His fondness for The Archers is already a known factor.
Morgan separates the paper from the cardboard: a cornflakes box, Rizla packets and tubes from three toilet rolls. She’s left with a pile of tea bag-stained paper including receipts, pizza flyers and payslips from HMP Dungeness. Not surprisingly, Jukes is poorly paid, topping up his wages with regular overtime. Two brochures suggest the man has aspirations beyond his means. The first showcases top-of-the-range Harley-Davidsons; the second features a two-bedroom villa in Malaga, on the market for €90,000.
On the verge of giving up, it’s the final scrap of paper that raises hairs on the back of Morgan’s neck. An invoice on headed paper.
River Marsh Farm, Romney Marsh, TN99 8QT
For the attention of Mr T. Jukes
Annual houseboat mooring fees for Wandering Star: £200.
‘Mum? What the actual fuck?’
Morgan looks up to see Lissa approaching. She’s wearing her outsize towelling robe and Doc Martens.
