by Simon Booker
Grateful for a respite from her worries, she’s diverted by the tactics of the contestants (one sleeps in a ditch, concealed under piles of roadside litter) but Ben is more interested in Lissa and Cameron.
‘Will she be OK?’
Morgan sips her wine.
‘Hard to say. She’s complicated. And she’s keeping something from me.’
‘Like?’
‘No idea.’
‘Maybe she’ll confide in her father.’
‘I’m not holding my breath.’
‘Did he help when she was a kid? With money, at least?’
Swallowing a mouthful of pasta, Morgan considers her response.
‘Eventually.’
She leaves it there, not wanting to criticise the man who has responded to her SOS and jumped on a plane from the US. Truth is, it was years before Cameron stepped up to his responsibilities, leaving Morgan to juggle the trials of single parenthood with the demands of freelance journalism. No wonder her career nosedived and her friends melted away.
As he said when she broke the news, a baby wasn’t on his ‘to-do list’. If Morgan wanted to proceed with the pregnancy then fine, but if the decision was hers then so was the responsibility.
She’d never taken him to court, hoping there was a decent man in there somewhere, a man who would come to understand that writing romantic comedies didn’t make you a mensch whereas doing your imperfect best as a parent was your one shot at making sense of your time on the planet.
Romcoms . . .
She glances at Ben’s bookshelves. The Motown LPs and books on military history are still there but the DVDs have disappeared.
‘What happened to the romantic comedies?’
‘My sister took them when she moved back in with her girlfriend.’
His sister.
‘Was the cat hers too?’
And the pink bra?
Ben nods. ‘They have a bust-up every few months, she crashes here, cries a lot, then goes back and swears she’s never been so happy.’
‘So you’re close?’
Another nod, eyes firmly on the TV.
‘We’re the only ones left.’
Morgan can smell the soap on his skin. Or is it Nivea? Could she trust a man who moisturises? She puts her plate on the coffee table and picks up her glass of wine. Tempted to ask about his family, about the Boxing Day fire that claimed the lives of his parents and brother, she senses the subject is closed – for now, at least.
Besides, with Lissa in the care of her father, Morgan has a rare opportunity to think about other things.
Like how Ben’s stubble would feel against her skin.
‘Delicious pasta,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
‘I never cook for myself. Makes a change.’
He puts his plate on top of hers, knocking a clamshell to the floor. They reach for it at the same time, hands touching briefly. She picks up the shell, places it on the plate, then licks her fingers while holding his gaze a beat too long.
His face creases into a smile.
‘More wine?’
She nods, watching as he pours a glass. His hands are strong, his fingers long and elegant, his nails immaculate. He reaches for the remote and turns off the TV. When he speaks again, his voice is low.
‘You know that moment when you’re about to kiss someone for the first time? And both of you know it’s going to happen? And it feels so intense?’
She nods.
‘I know that moment.’
‘How would it be to prolong that feeling? To keep prolonging it till you both think you might go mad?’
‘How long?’
His eyes search hers. ‘As long as possible.’
‘Sounds good.’ Her voice is husky. ‘Up to a point.’
She’s holding his gaze, feeling her heart rate quicken.
‘There’s a thing I’d like to do,’ he says.
‘What kind of thing?’
‘It’s a little weird.’
‘Try me.’
‘Good weird, not bad weird.’
‘Try me.’
‘OK.’ He sips his wine, sets his glass on the table, then turns to face her. ‘I want you to touch yourself.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘OK. I can do that.’ She reaches for her belt buckle. ‘Is that it?’ she says. ‘Is that the “thing”?’
‘That’s the beginning.’
‘OK, what else?’
She’s slowly unfastening the button on her jeans. Can’t decide if he’s sexy or sleazy. Maybe both. She’ll think about it later.
‘I want to kiss your neck,’ he says.
‘While I’m touching myself?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought kissing was going to wait.’
‘That was a stupid idea,’ says Ben.
‘Shut up and kiss me.’
He moves closer, raising his hand to her mouth, gently caressing her lower lip with his thumb. She can feel his breath on her cheek. Their lips meet – softly at first – then she feels the tip of his tongue gently teasing her mouth. Her heart is racing. Her hands creep between her legs.
‘Is this what you want, Ben?’
‘Yes.’ His voice is a whisper. ‘Make yourself wet.’
‘Not going to be a problem.’
His eyes flicker towards her mouth.
‘While your fingers are wet I want you to trace them around the rim of my glass, so every time I take a sip of wine I can taste you.’
Breathing hard, heart racing, Morgan closes her eyes and slips her fingers inside her knickers. He leans forward, kissing her neck, tracing feather-light kisses over her skin.
Her phone rings.
Her eyes snap open.
‘Sorry. Might be Lissa.’
He pulls away, leaning against the sofa, smiling his slow, sexy smile.
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘We’ve got all night.’
Morgan reaches for her mobile. A number she doesn’t recognise.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Joe Cassidy.’
Joe Cassidy?
‘We met the other night, on the beach? You were looking for your daughter?’
The guy in the fisherman’s jumper.
‘I found her, thanks.’
‘That’s not why I’m calling.’
‘Oh?’
‘I just drove past your place. I think you’d better get over here.’
She sits up straight.
‘Why?’
‘Your bed’s on the beach. Someone set it on fire.’
*
By the time they reach Dungeness, Eric Sweet has arrived and is standing alongside Joe Cassidy, watching the mattress burn. Flames flicker around the iron bed frame, the intensity of the blaze throwing shadows over the clusters of kale and the abandoned fishing boat a hundred yards from Morgan’s house. Hands in her pockets, she watches Ben shine a torch over the back door. The lock is broken, the wooden panel splintered. Shattered by kicks? An axe?
‘Did either of you see anyone?’ says Morgan.
Eric shakes his head. The man in the fisherman’s jumper follows suit.
‘I’d have put the fire out myself,’ he says, ‘but the SOCOs wouldn’t have thanked me.’
‘No point calling the police,’ says Morgan. ‘They’re sick of hearing my name.’
‘How did he get the bed out of the house?’ says Eric. ‘It’s wider than the door.’
‘Must have dismantled it inside then reassembled it out here,’ says Ben.
‘And risk being seen?’
Morgan scans the deserted beach.
‘Hardly Piccadilly Circus.’ She digs her hands into her pockets. ‘Besides, he loves risks. They make him feel alive.’ She turns to Joe. ‘Thanks for the call.’
‘No problem,’ says Joe. He gestures towards the broken sitting-room window, where Karl broke in the night he took Morgan to the cemetery. The shards of glass have been removed. A large sheet of cardboard pack
aging is taped to the window frame.
‘I patched it up,’ he said. ‘A bodge job, but it’ll hold till you get it fixed properly.’
‘Thanks,’ says Morgan.
Cassidy nods towards Ben and Eric. ‘Mind if I leave you to it? I’m supposed to be meeting my son for a drink.’
‘Of course,’ says Morgan.
‘Let me know if you need anything,’ says Joe, turning and heading for his car. Ben watches him drive away, frowning.
‘Is he kosher?’
‘According to Rook, yes,’ says Morgan. ‘He’s an ex-copper.’
Ben doesn’t look convinced but says nothing. Eric gestures towards the broken door.
‘Sure about not calling the police? It’s a crime scene.’
‘But not much of a crime,’ says Morgan. She recalls Karl’s white boiler suit, and the scrupulously careful manner in which he picked up the cigarette stub in the cemetery. ‘He knows how to run rings around SOCOs.’
Eric raises an eyebrow.
‘You know who did this?’
‘I’ve an idea,’ says Morgan. ‘I pissed him off by taking Lissa out of his clutches, so he’s sending me a message. He’s smart but not as smart as he thinks.’
Her mind flashes back to the man pissing on his mother’s grave. OK, so the rain washed away the urine before the SOCOs could collect it for analysis, but sooner or later he’ll make a slip-up that will prove to be his undoing. In the meantime, she’ll focus on bringing that day closer.
‘I’ll check inside,’ says Ben, heading into the house.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the Range Rover, Morgan tries to roll a cigarette but her hands are trembling. She stuffs her tobacco pouch back in her pocket then stares at the house while listening to the waves on the shoreline. Eric leans against the car, saying nothing. Out at sea, a fishing trawler is crawling across the horizon, its white light a warning to other vessels. After two minutes of companionable silence, the mattress fire has dwindled to ashes and Ben is back, making his way across the shingle.
‘He used white spirit to start the fire.’
Morgan nods. ‘I could use a drink.’
Eric gestures in the direction of the inn.
‘On the house.’
Getting into his car, he leads the way. Ben and Morgan follow close behind.
‘If this is down to Savage,’ says Ben, steering the Range Rover onto the tarmac road, ‘he’s made a fool of the police, the courts and me.’
If . . .
The word suggests he still can’t bring himself to accept the man is alive – not one hundred per cent – there’s still a scintilla of doubt. Morgan is too tired to argue. She falls silent, wondering how it’s possible to feel so alone.
‘You OK?’ Ben steers the car over the shingle and onto the tarmac road.
She doesn’t answer, peering at distant pinpricks of light from HMP Dungeness. She thinks of Anjelica Fry recovering in hospital, her face slashed on the order of Savage or his crony, Jukes.
She thinks of her daughter, pregnant by a man suffering unfathomable childhood wounds.
She thinks of the impotence of the police – no, not impotence – their refusal to help find Karl, to challenge the status quo, to admit the system screwed up. And why? Is it because they can’t keep pace with criminals who are still alive, let alone search for someone they ‘know’ to be dead?
Or because a woman wrote a book suggesting they’re less than perfect?
‘No,’ she says, turning to face Ben. ‘I’m not OK.’
Not long ago she was looking forward to spending the night with a man with strong hands and a sexy smile. Now she wants to drink till she passes out.
*
In the deserted bar, Eric sets glasses on a table and uncorks a bottle of red wine. Ben covers his glass with a hand.
‘Just Coke. I’m driving.’
Eric obliges, then goes into the kitchen. Ben watches him go, waiting until he’s out of earshot.
‘Why would anyone open a hotel here?’
‘What’s wrong with Dungeness?’
‘Nothing, unless you want a business that makes actual money.’ He sips his drink. ‘I presume the police checked his alibi? For the day Kiki died?’
Morgan nods but the question makes her doubt her own certainty. Her stomach gives a lurch.
Had they?
She remembers quizzing Rook about Eric. The DI had reassured her that he was very ‘thorough’ with his enquiries. But had he specifically told her Eric was in the clear? She sips her wine.
‘When it comes to men, I have no idea who to trust any more. Neville, Eric, Joe Cassidy, Cameron, you . . . who knows what you’re all really like, what you all really want?’
He meets her gaze.
‘I googled your old flame,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry he was such a bastard.’
She responds with what she hopes is a nonchalant shrug. Her childhood sweetheart, Danny, had found himself behind bars, victim of a miscarriage of justice. Morgan was a lone voice protesting his innocence. She’d fought to clear his name and her campaign had been a success. On his release, he’d repaid his champion by behaving like a shit. Learning to trust again won’t be easy.
She turns to face Ben. ‘If you’re a bastard, do me a favour and tell me now.’
His voice is serious, his smile sincere.
‘I’m no bastard,’ he says. ‘But I’m far from perfect.’
She searches his eyes.
‘Makes two of us.’
He’s no longer looking at her, his eyes straying towards the ceiling. She follows his gaze. He’s looking at the smoke alarm, frowning.
‘Odd.’
He cranes his neck for a closer look.
‘That’s a not real smoke alarm. It’s a spy cam.’
Morgan frowns.
‘Are you sure?’
He nods.
‘Probably linked to his computer so he can keep tabs on what’s going on.’
Morgan’s heart is racing. An image comes to mind of Eric balancing on a stepladder, installing a smoke alarm in Lissa’s hotel room. Another in the lounge.
‘They’re all over the hotel.’
‘Even the bedrooms?’
Morgan is suddenly queasy. Struck by a thought.
‘Stay here.’
Slipping down from her stool, she heads for the Ladies. Scrutinising the ceiling, she can see a smoke alarm – or what looks like one – directly over the cubicle. It’s identical to the one in the bar, so not an alarm at all, but another spy cam, part of Eric’s private CCTV system.
Suddenly self-conscious in case he’s watching, she washes her hands, then returns to the bar.
Eric is on his feet, topping up her glass. Ben is scrolling through his phone, doing a good job of avoiding the innkeeper’s eye.
‘Hungry?’ says Eric, proffering a menu.
‘No,’ says Morgan. She shoots a look in Ben’s direction. ‘We need to get going.’
Ben reaches for his wallet.
‘On the house,’ says Eric.
But Ben remains stony-faced, saying nothing as he slaps a ten-pound note on the bar. Eric frowns, puzzled by the change in atmosphere.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Long day,’ says Morgan, avoiding the man’s eye. ‘I need to get home.’
Outside, climbing into the Range Rover, she is quivering with anger.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ says Ben.
‘He’d dismantle the spy cams. If he’s a peeping Tom, the police need to catch him red-handed.’
Another thought strikes with the force of a speeding truck: Kiki’s brief stint as a cleaner. Had she stumbled upon Eric’s secret?
Had he silenced her?
Morgan checks her watch. Nearly 11 p.m. Reaching for her mobile, she composes a message.
‘Who are you texting?’
‘Rook. He needs to know about this.’
Ben says nothing, peering out at the road ahead. The journey passes in sile
nce, driver and passenger lost in thought.
By the time they reach Canterbury, her mood has taken a dive. Inside the house the heating is off, the coffee table littered with dirty plates and glasses. She’s grateful to Ben for not trying to pick up where they left off. The moment has gone.
‘Thanks for not being a dick.’
‘Best compliment ever.’ He takes her hand. ‘We’ve got unfinished business. But not tonight.’
She smiles and plants a kiss on his cheek.
‘Always leave ’em wanting more.’
Then she goes up to her room and closes the door.
*
The blazing bed features in her dreams, along with Lissa, her belly swollen as she dances on a burning beach with Anjelica and two babies, Marlon and Charlie. Both wear fisherman’s jumpers.
Waking with a start just before seven, Morgan is slick with sweat, her throat dry, her mouth parched. Going downstairs, she finds the house has been tidied and the dishwasher is humming. No sign of Ben.
Downing a glass of water, she sets the kettle to boil then sees a note on the table.
See you tonight? x
It’s not the message that makes her smile, or the x, it’s the PS.
I believe you’re right. Karl Savage is alive.
Twenty-Nine
Forty-eight hours after the incident with the burning bed, Morgan is back in Dungeness, driving past her house. The iron bedstead is still on the beach, an absurd-looking addition to the piles of scrap littering the landscape. A locksmith has installed new deadbolts and the back door has been repaired, but the sitting-room window is still boarded up with cardboard. Joe Cassidy’s ‘bodge job’ will do for now.
A mile further on, she passes the Beach Inn. No sign of life. A Closed sign on the door. A police car in the car park. Frowning, she pulls to a halt next to a silver Ford she recognises as Neville Rook’s. As she climbs out of the Mini, feeling the late-October chill, her mobile beeps.
A text from Ben.
Sorry to sound like your mum but let me know you’re OK?
She taps out a quick reply. There has been no mention of what nearly happened two nights ago. The arson investigator has been absent most of the time, working with the police team probing the burnt-out lorry.
