by Simon Booker
‘And?’
‘Not surprisingly, she’s a pyrophobe. I assume you know what that means?’
‘She’s scared of fire.’
‘Not scared. Terrified.’
*
Under normal circumstances it takes at least two days to arrange a visitor’s order, but Nigel Cundy has a word in the right ear and cuts the delay to twenty-four hours. While waiting, Morgan pays two further visits to the Wandering Star – one early in the morning, the other at midnight. There’s no sign of Jukes, or Stacey, or her baby, only trampled reeds and a scattering of litter suggest the houseboat might be occupied.
Now, sitting in the neon-lit side room of the Mother and Baby Unit, Morgan takes stock of the dark circles under the woman’s eyes.
‘Where’s Marlon?’
‘Having a nap,’ says Anjelica, staring dully at her visitor and moistening her lips with her tongue. ‘Any news?’
Morgan shakes her head.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’re scared of fire?’
Anjelica blinks slowly. Medication is still addling her brain.
‘Why would I?’
‘It makes the idea of you being an arsonist absurd.’
‘That’s what I told the lawyers,’ says Anjelica. ‘They said it was “immaterial and inadmissible”. Told me to let it drop.’
Morgan sighs.
‘I don’t think you’ve always had the best advice.’
She glances towards the doorway. The obese prison officer is sitting outside, feigning interest in her nails while eavesdropping on their conversation. The woman sits bolt upright, suddenly on the alert, lifting her gaze towards the door. Someone arriving?
‘Spot check bullshit,’ mutters the officer under her breath. Getting to her feet, she shoots a glare in Anjelica’s direction, then lumbers away. Morgan leans forward in her chair, taking advantage of the woman’s absence to ram her message home.
‘Getting a case to the appeal court is like pushing boulders up a mountain. If we’re to stand a chance I need you to tell me everything you know about the baby farm and Kiki McNeil.’
Anjelica leans back in her chair and cracks her knuckles. Once again, her movements are in slow motion; she seems oblivious to the flurry of activity in the corridor outside.
‘Here we go again,’ she says. ‘You tell me you want to help me and Marlon but you concentrate on everyone else.’
‘Because everything is connected,’ says Morgan. ‘The baby farm, Stacey, Karl, Jukes, Kiki – they’re all part of the same thing.’
Anjelica blinks again, weighing Morgan’s words, but before she can speak, a bearded man enters, followed by Trevor Jukes and a woman clutching a clipboard.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ says the new arrival, addressing Morgan. His suit is ill fitting, his voice thin and reedy. ‘Ian Carne, governor. Just a routine visit.’
His hands are clasped behind his back, reminding Morgan of members of the royal family. He flashes a thin smile at Anjelica.
‘How’s it going?’
Anjelica’s eyes flicker towards Jukes then back to the governor. ‘Like I’ve said a hundred times, the pillows are rock hard, the showers are freezing and I wouldn’t give the food to a pig.’
A muscle twitches in the governor’s cheek.
‘Noted.’
‘I shouldn’t even be here in the first place.’
The governor’s sidekick blows out her cheeks and scribbles on her clipboard. Her boss turns to Morgan.
‘You are?’
‘Morgan Vine. I’m visiting Anjelica. I wrote to you.’
‘About?’
‘The baby farm in this prison.’
A sharp intake of breath from Anjelica. Idly scratching his beard, Carne responds with an indulgent smile. He turns to the woman with the clipboard.
‘Has the letter gone out?’
‘Last week.’
‘I haven’t received it,’ says Morgan.
Carne spreads his hands.
‘I’m responsible for many things, but not the efficiency of the Royal Mail.’
Morgan hasn’t been home in a while. The letter is probably on the doormat.
‘Care to tell me what it said?’
‘I can’t recall the detail,’ says the governor, still smiling. ‘Suffice to say, I’m sure it will put your mind at rest.’ He turns to go. ‘Don’t let me interrupt your visit.’
But Anjelica is getting to her feet, studiously avoiding Morgan’s eye.
‘We’re done,’ she says.
Morgan opens her mouth to protest, then thinks better of it. The woman has good reason for clamming up in front of authority. Best not to interfere. She watches Carne usher Anjelica towards the door.
‘Anjelica?’ she says. The woman turns. ‘Do you know what Karl kept in the biscuit tin? The one with Guy Fawkes on the lid?’
Anjelica blinks twice in quick succession, then looks away.
‘I don’t remember a tin.’
A lie? Or is she being discreet in front of the governor?
‘Never mind,’ says Morgan.
Anjelica turns and exits, followed by the governor and the woman with the clipboard. Morgan is left alone with Jukes. Unsmiling. Poker-faced.
‘I’ll show you out, Miss.’
The walk to the gate seems to take for ever. It passes in silence.
*
The letter from the governor is no more than a series of bland reassurances.
Such allegations are taken very seriously. However, despite an extensive internal enquiry, no evidence of a so-called ‘baby farm’ has come to light, either during my tenure or that of my predecessor. Even so, I am grateful for your interest in HMP Dungeness.
What happens in prison stays in prison.
Morgan flicks through the rest of her mail, then sinks onto the sofa and looks around her home. The place is cold and smells of damp, but she misses the familiarity, the reassurance of being surrounded by her own belongings, the feel of her own bed. Walking into her bedroom, she takes off her shoes and lies down, relishing the comforting creak of the iron bedstead.
She glances at the bedside clock. Just after 3 p.m. Lissa is at the inn, confined to bed, increasingly weepy, and not just because of the plight of refugees. This morning she was reduced to tears by a YouTube video of an elderly dog that had adopted four orphaned kittens, covering them with a protective paw as they slept in his basket. Closing her eyes, Morgan tries to summon memories of her own pregnancy. Had raging hormones played havoc with her emotions? She doesn’t recall crying, but remembers devouring huge quantities of butterscotch Angel Delight and a week during which she ate nothing but anchovies.
Focusing on the sound of the waves crashing onto the shingle beach, she slides under the quilted bedcover. Just a quick nap – half an hour at most. Then she’ll head back to the hotel.
*
The shrill of her mobile wakes her with a start. Peering at the screen, she sees Lissa’s name.
‘Mum? Where are you?’
The room is in darkness apart from the blood-red digits of the bedside clock: 7.04 p.m. Her daughter is crying. Morgan sits up, snapping on the light.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘He phoned.’
‘Who did?’
‘Pablo.’
Throwing the quilt aside, Morgan gets out of bed, instantly alert.
‘What did he say?’ Her daughter is sobbing too hard to speak. ‘Take a breath and tell me what he said.’
‘He asked how I liked his surprise.’
‘Meaning the baby?’
‘Obviously!’
‘What else?’
‘I asked why he was doing this. He said, “It makes life interesting”.’
‘What else?’
‘I told him he was a bastard. He laughed. I asked if this was some kind of vendetta, if he’d deliberately pricked the condoms, like he did with Anjelica and Nancy and God knows who else.’
‘And?’
‘He k
ept laughing.’
Putting her daughter on speakerphone, Morgan sits on the bed, pulling on her shoes.
‘I asked why he hated women,’ says Lissa. ‘Was it because of what his mother did to him when he was a kid? He told me to stop being a psychobabble bitch.’ Getting to her feet, Morgan grabs her phone and heads out of the bedroom. Her daughter is still talking. ‘So I told him what I’d done.’
Morgan freezes.
‘What do you mean?’
Lissa is sobbing again.
‘What did you tell him?’ says Morgan.
‘It was the only way I could think of to get him out of my life. I can’t keep this baby and spend every minute worrying he might show up.’
Morgan is struggling to remain calm. She moves her lips closer to the mouthpiece.
‘Tell me what you said to him, Lissa.’
A pause.
‘I lied. I said I’d had an abortion.’
Morgan closes her eyes. Her heart is pounding.
‘What did he say?’
‘He started yelling. Said I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. I’d killed his baby so he was going to kill me.’
Striding across the room, Morgan tosses sofa cushions onto the floor, searching for her keys.
‘When was this?’
‘Twenty minutes ago. I wanted to call you but I was having a panic attack, I couldn’t speak.
‘I’ll be there in five minutes. Find Eric. Do not move from the hotel.’
‘OK.’
Morgan ends the call. She bends down to snatch her keys from beneath the sofa. As she straightens up, about to dial Neville Rook’s number, she catches sight of the curtain fluttering in the breeze. The window is broken. Shards of glass lie on the floor. She glances outside, her eyes roving the darkness.
Parked yards away is the white camper van.
Behind her, a floorboard creaks.
Then oblivion.
Twenty-Three
It’s not like in the movies. No blinding light, no blur of concerned faces slowly coming into focus. Instead, the sharp pain in her head is accompanied by an all-enveloping darkness and the sound of an engine. There is also the sensation of being in a moving vehicle, and, as she surfaces into consciousness, the realisation that she has been blindfolded. And gagged. Her hands tied behind her back. She’s lying on a mattress. Cheap, thin, barely separating her bones from the floor of the van.
The camper van on the beach.
It’s all coming back.
The fluttering curtain.
The broken window.
The creak of the floorboard.
Now this: the smell of diesel, the shuddering engine. And another sound.
Clink-rasp.
The familiar noise of the Zippo is followed by the smell of cigarette smoke. She raises her head and tries to free her arms, but the rope is too tight. No wriggle room.
‘Hey, Morgan.’ The driver must have glimpsed movement in his rear-view mirror. ‘Sorry about the sore head.’
‘Aside from the “Joker” video, it’s the first time she’s heard his voice. She can’t be totally sure the speaker is Karl (or Pablo) but she’d bet her life on it.
‘I know you’re scared,’ he says. ‘Let me set your mind at rest. Everything’s cool. We’re cool, Lissa’s cool. She’s still at the inn.’
Her mouth is parched, she can barely swallow. But she feels a spark of hope. A flicker of relief.
‘Lissa’s cool’.
Thank God.
Assuming he’s telling the truth.
Now another voice. A woman?
But it’s only a newsreader on the radio warning of heavy rain sweeping the country.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ says the driver, dragging on the cigarette, ‘I’ve been keeping tabs on you. And Lissa. Saw her buy the pregnancy test. I couldn’t resist calling to say congratulations. Crazy, but hey, a baby’s a big deal, right?’
She hears the window being opened and feels the air rush in as he raises his voice to make himself heard above the engine. No sound of other traffic. Morgan guesses they’re on a country road.
‘I tailed you from prison today,’ he says. ‘Had a drink – more than one, to be honest – then I sat outside your place and called Lissa. I knew she’d get on to you so I thought I’d pop in, ask a couple of questions.’
The van slows and makes a sharp turn, jolting Morgan from the mattress. The man drives another few hundred yards, then makes another turn before pulling to a halt. The engine dies. She hears him dragging on his cigarette, then feels a series of jerky movements as he clambers from the driver’s seat into the rear of the van.
‘We’re somewhere nice and quiet,’ he says. She can smell alcohol on his breath. Stale cigarettes on his clothes. ‘Just you and me. Need a little chat.’
Blood thudding in her ears, she winces as his fingers peel the tape from her mouth. She takes a lungful of air, then another, feeling his hands untying the blindfold.
The interior of the van is in darkness but there’s no mistaking his identity. Morgan is looking at the man believed to have died in the fire started by Anjelica Fry.
The man known to Lissa as Pablo.
Real name: Karl Savage.
Handsome. Soulful brown eyes. Full beard. Shaved head. He’s wearing a white boiler suit and paper overshoes, the kind sported by crime scene SOCOs.
‘Did you plan to have Lissa?’ he asks.
The out-of-the-blue question catches her off guard.
‘No.’
‘Ever regretted having her?’
‘No.’
He smiles and spreads his hands.
‘Welcome to my world.’
He drags on his cigarette, then holds the stub to her lips.
‘Smoke?’
She shakes her head. Her voice is a croak.
‘Water.’
A shrug.
‘Can’t help, sorry.’
She makes a decision. She will act like this is normal. She will survive. For Lissa’s sake. A litany of questions forms in her head.
Is Lissa OK? Why am I here? Who killed Kiki? Where’s her baby? What happens to the children from the baby farm? And their mothers? How did you convince Tucker and Singh you were dead?
One question above all.
‘Is Lissa OK?’
‘Don’t make me repeat myself. She’s fine.’ He frowns. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Yes.’ Her head is throbbing. ‘Did you target her to get to me?’
‘Wow,’ he says, ‘and they accuse me of having a big ego.’
‘They?’
‘This isn’t about you,’ he says. ‘We had a thing. She mentioned her mum was visiting someone in prison. Turned out it was someone I knew.’
No mention of the fact that Anjelica is the mother of his child. Or that Morgan is doing all she can to prove the woman’s innocence. Surely he must know about their correspondence? About her visits? A tip-off from Trevor Jukes? Is that what this is about? Is that why she’s here?
‘So it’s just coincidence?’ she says. ‘You “happened” to be having a “thing” with Lissa, I “happened” to be visiting Anjelica and you saw a chance to smuggle stuff into the MBU.’
He smiles at what he takes to be her attempt at delicacy.
‘You mean sperm?’
‘Sperm, spunk, jizz,’ says Morgan, refusing to be cowed. ‘Call it what you like. I want to know if you planned this.’
‘I’m not interested in what you want.’
Morgan lets it go. Her throat is dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.
‘Can I sit up?’
A look of concern crosses his face.
‘Of course.’ He shifts to create space in the rear of the van. ‘You must be very uncomfortable.’
He takes a final drag on his cigarette, pinches it out with his fingers then pockets the stub.
‘How about some fresh air?’ He produces a Swiss Army knife and begins to saw through the rope that binds h
er wrists. ‘Stretch those lovely long legs?’
His hand caresses her knee. She stiffens, determined not to flinch. Her eyes stray over his shoulder. Lying on the floor of the van is an old square biscuit tin. Sealed with duct tape. Larger than she’d imagined.
On its lid is an image of Guy Fawkes burning at the stake.
‘What’s in the tin, Karl?’
His eyes follow her gaze.
‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder.’
Nancy Sixsmith’s observation comes to mind.
He had all these stupid sayings.
‘Is your head OK, Morgan?’
The concern seems genuine. She nods, rubbing her wrists.
‘Fine.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘You’re a clever woman. I know you’re not going to do anything silly.’
She manages a nod.
‘Good girl.’
As he turns away to pocket the knife she sees a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Reaching towards the rear of the van, he releases the catch to open the doors then peers outside, into the darkness. Satisfied no one is around, he raises the hood on his boiler suit. Then he gets out and motions for her to follow. Sliding past the biscuit tin and stepping down from the van, she takes stock of her surroundings.
The van is parked on a track that runs through a cemetery. Gravestones border the path, stretching into the distance on both sides. There are no lights on the horizon, no moon, no sign of life. Rain is falling. In the distance, she hears a faint hum of motorway traffic.
‘Why are we here?’
She knows she sounds stroppy but she doesn’t care. Determined not to show fear. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Karl turns and walks along the path. Morgan falls into step.
‘What is the worst thing a person can do?’ he says, like a teacher posing a rhetorical question.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He sighs.
‘The worst thing is to harm children,’ he says patiently. ‘Am I right or am I right?’
‘Let’s say you’re right.’
They reach the end of the track, arriving at a T-junction. He takes the path to the left. She follows. The motorway is still audible in the distance, the rain falling harder now. The graveyard is bordered by trees swaying in the breeze. Up ahead, a church looms out of the darkness.
