by Simon Booker
Brief encounters in the kitchen have been short, almost monosyllabic, but Morgan doesn’t take it personally. They’re both under pressure. There will come a time for conversation, laughter and, she hopes, sex, but not now.
Passing Neville’s car she catches sight of the Kent Courier on the passenger seat. A photo of Eric Sweet alongside a headline.
Police Quiz Hotel ‘Peeping Tom’.
The paper has latched on to the story fast, its front-page splash the work of a reporter with good contacts or a leak by the police, perhaps a combination of the two.
Morgan feels a pang of sympathy for the hotel owner – he was kind and supportive during a difficult time – but the sentiment doesn’t last long. There’s nothing kind about spy cams in bedrooms and toilets, and there can be no innocent explanation. Eric will most likely go out of business. Perhaps to prison. But he has no one but himself to blame.
The question remains: is he simply another sleazebag?
Or something more sinister?
As Morgan approaches the hotel, two uniformed police offi-cers emerge carrying see-through plastic evidence bags containing the dismantled ‘smoke alarms’. Neville follows, face falling as he catches sight of her.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m on my way to the prison.’
‘To see Ian Carne?’
She shakes her head. ‘Anjelica Fry.’
‘How is she?’
‘Traumatised. But out of hospital.’
‘What about you?’ says Rook, buttoning his jacket. ‘Joe Cassidy called me about the burning bed.’
‘Do you think Eric had something to do with it?’
‘No idea. But you should have called us.’
She shrugs. ‘Small fry compared to everything else going on. I’m trying not to waste your time.’
He gives a wan smile. Time to change the subject. She nods towards the hotel.
‘Is Eric inside?’
‘No.’
‘Mind if I ask where he is?’
‘Staying with friends, I believe.’
‘Does he have an alibi for the time of Kiki’s death?’
Rook looks away, avoiding her gaze.
‘I can’t talk about an ongoing enquiry.’
‘But there is an enquiry?’ says Morgan, undeterred. ‘You’re no longer taking the suicide scenario at face value?’
Blowing out his cheeks, the DI ignores the question and heads towards his car. She follows, crunching over the shingle.
‘I assume there’s no news on Charlie?’
‘No comment.’
‘How about Stacey and her baby?’
‘No comment.’
‘At least tell me about Jukes. I drove past his house. He’s disappeared.’
‘Says who?’
‘I looked through his letterbox. Pile of junk mail on the doormat. He’s gone.’
She remembers the journey to Heathrow, the Yamaha motorcycle following Ben’s Range Rover. Was she right to dismiss the possibility of being tailed by Jukes?
‘Have you checked his houseboat?’ says Rook.
‘Not lately. Have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
They’ve reached his car. He zaps the fob. ‘Nothing – nada, zip, zilch.’ He opens the door, watching the uniformed officers drive away. ‘You were right to tell us about the spy cams – but the other stuff? Leave it to us. You’re out of your depth.’
‘Which is why I keep asking for help.’
‘From Fireman Sam?’
‘Who?’
‘Ben Gaminara. You looked pretty cosy the other day.’
Morgan raises an eyebrow.
‘Do I detect the green-eyed monster?’
He gives her a look filled with disdain.
‘This isn’t personal. I’m just trying to do my job.’
He gets into his car and sits behind the wheel. She tries one last question.
‘What happened to the teeth from Karl’s so-called corpse Are they still “missing” from storage?’
A sigh. ‘No. DI Tucker signed them out.’
Morgan frowns. ‘Why?’
A pained smile.
‘My psychic powers don’t extend as far as the Met.’
‘Can’t you ask him?’
‘Maybe. When he gets out of hospital.’ He starts the engine. ‘He’s having a back operation.’
Morgan remembers the Hackney DI adjusting his lumbar support cushion and wincing in pain.
‘Have you got his mobile number?’
‘No.’
‘Which hospital is he in?’
Rook rolls his eyes.
‘Don’t you ever give up?’
Without waiting for an answer he closes the door and drives away. Morgan watches him go then walks back to the Mini, leaning against the bonnet. Rolling a cigarette, she stares out to sea, gazing at a flock of seagulls circling a fishing boat on the horizon. The low sun hurts her eyes. She lights the cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into her lungs. Her phone rings.
Cameron. Not happy. Straight to the point.
‘Why didn’t you tell me she’s pregnant?’
‘It’s her news, not mine.’
‘Jesus, Morgan, she’s practically a kid.’
‘I hope you’re not giving her a hard time. She’s been through a lot.’
A pause. A sigh. He softens his tone.
‘Maybe that’s why she’s always in tears.’
Morgan frowns.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can hear her at night, in the next room. I ask what’s wrong, but she says, “just hormones”. Says she’s happy about the baby. What am I supposed to do?’
‘Don’t do anything. Listen. Be supportive. Tell her you love her.’
He sighs. ‘What kind of man pricks holes in condoms?’
‘He’s deeply messed-up,’ says Morgan. ‘His father died saving him from a speeding lorry, and his mother was sick in the head.’
But Cameron isn’t interested in the roots of Karl’s behaviour, only the consequences. The rest of the conversation is brief, ending with his promise not to give Lissa a lecture.
Ending the call, Morgan takes a walk along the beach, breathing in the briny air, her mind fizzing with questions. How long before she can return home? Will Lissa and the baby live there too? How will they all manage?
In the distance, a plume of smoke rises from the engine that tows the Romney Hythe and Dymchurch Express through the wide-open spaces of Romney Sands. On board the narrow-gauge railway are day-trippers and train buffs, sipping their takeaway coffees and eating sandwiches while enjoying a morning of old-fashioned fun. Over by the black and white lighthouse, two teenage girls are wrestling with a kite, trying to catch the wind and send it soaring into the sky. Normal people, doing ordinary things. Morgan finds it hard to imagine life ever being normal again.
Her phone beeps with a message: a selfie of Lissa in the upmarket spa hotel, grinning from ear to ear. A pillow shoved up her shirt makes her look nine months pregnant. The text reads I’m having a BABY! SO excited!
Morgan frowns. Her daughter’s moods seem more unpredictable than ever. But she’s safe. One less thing to worry about.
So why the feeling of impending doom?
Turning, she retraces her steps to the car. Then she starts the engine and heads for HMP Dungeness.
*
Anjelica’s face is bandaged. Seated across from Morgan in the main visitors’ room, her eyes are glazed, her voice slurred. The strong medication is continuing to take its toll.
‘They moved me out of MBU. Took my baby.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Morgan.
She pushes a Kit Kat across the table, bought from the prison vending machine. Anjelica ignores it, fingering a stray thread on the sleeve of her fleece.
‘Tell me you have good news?’
‘I’m working on it,’ says Morgan, aware of the lameness of her reply. She looks around the room, taki
ng stock of other prisoners’ friends and families before bringing her gaze to rest on Anjelica’s face. She dreads to think what horrors lie beneath the bandages. The woman looks demoralised. Close to defeat.
Until now, Morgan has decided against revealing that Karl is still alive, reluctant to encourage what might prove to be false optimism. What had the woman said?
This is the one place you can die of hope.
But things have changed. Since the encounter in the graveyard there can no longer be the slightest doubt that Karl Savage faked his own death, that he framed Anjelica for his murder. The ‘why’ is clear. She’d exposed his drug-dealing activities to the police. The question now is how?
Morgan has spent two days holed up in Ben’s house, sustained by coffee and cigarettes while poring over trial transcripts and notes of her meetings with Anjelica. According to the woman’s original testimony, the father of her child was selling class A drugs for years, working with a long-time crony, Spike. Morgan vividly recalls the video of ‘Joker’ Karl setting fire to the Porsche. According to Nancy Sixsmith, mother of his twins, the video was shot by Spike.
‘What can you tell me about Karl’s second-in-command?’ says Morgan.
Anjelica frowns.
‘Spike? What about him?’
‘He may be one of the missing pieces of the puzzle. When did you last see him?’
‘Couple of months before Karl died, maybe more.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not really.’
‘Tall? Short? Black? White? Thin? Fat?’
‘White, maybe six feet, medium build.’
Morgan can feel her heart starting to race.
‘So he looked like Karl?’
Anjelica shakes her head.
‘Karl was a looker, not like Spike.’
‘But the same build?’
‘Roughly. Why?’
Morgan ignores the question.
‘Was he Karl’s best friend?’
‘No, they just ran the drug racket together. Karl used to say he couldn’t trust Spike further than he could throw him. But the man had contacts. Clever ideas about how to move the stuff around.’
The woman moistens her cracked lips, frowning as another thought struggles to the surface.
‘I remember him saying he was sure Spike was stealing from him, siphoning cash.’
‘They fell out?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What happened to people Karl fell out with?’
Anjelica raises her gaze.
‘That a serious question? To me, of all people?’
Morgan flashes an apologetic smile.
‘Just trying to get to the bottom of things.’
The woman sniffs, raises her arm and scratches an armpit. Morgan catches a whiff of stale sweat.
‘Why the interest in Spike?’
Morgan looks around, checking she can’t be overheard by the patrolling prison officer. Time to drop the bombshell she’s been avoiding.
‘This will be a shock.’ She leans forward in her chair. ‘I need you to hear me out before you say anything. And it’s best you don’t tell anyone.’
‘Tell them what?’
Morgan lowers her voice.
‘Karl is alive.’ She continues as Anjelica’s eyes widen in disbelief. ‘I’ve seen him. He’s behind the baby farm. He faked his own death. I’m starting to think he killed Spike, burned the body beyond recognition and passed it off as his own. He killed two birds with one stone, Anjelica – making everyone believe he’s dead and silencing you.’
The frown furrowing Anjelica’s brow deepens.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’
Morgan shakes her head. She tells Anjelica about the churchyard encounter with Karl and the burning bed on the beach. She doesn’t mention Lissa’s pregnancy. One revelation at a time. Anjelica listens in silence then leans forward, bringing her face inches from Morgan’s.
‘Do you know how mad you sound?’
‘You’re not the first to say that.’
‘Karl died in that fire. The police have his teeth. They identified the body.’
‘They were wrong,’ says Morgan. ‘I’ve seen him.’
The woman’s eyes search hers. Desperate to believe.
‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Why would I lie?’
Anjelica leans back in her chair, her gaze fixed on Morgan’s face.
‘Who else have you told?’
‘The police,’ says Morgan. ‘The fire investigator. Your solicitor. The forensic ondontologist who identified the body.’
‘And?’
‘They think I’m crazy. Except for Ben Gaminara.’
‘Even my lawyer – Millar?’
‘Especially Millar.’ Morgan recalls the whisky-soaked solicitor’s contempt for his former client. ‘There’s no point in trying to get the system on our side, Anjelica. Not till I prove Karl’s alive.’
The woman is chewing the inside of her lip, trying to process the news that could lead to her release. ‘What did Singh say?’
‘He’s sticking to his story. He even showed me the X-rays he used to make the ID. But I think it was Spike’s body in the flat, not Karl’s.’
‘How did Singh get it wrong?’
‘I don’t know.’
Morgan can see the gamut of emotions behind the woman’s eyes. Bewilderment. Disbelief. Hope. Confusion.
‘If Karl is alive, why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘I needed to be certain,’ says Morgan. She looks at the woman’s bandaged face. ‘And let’s face it, you could use a ray of hope.’
I don’t want you to kill yourself.
I don’t want your death on my conscience.
Anjelica’s eyes glaze with tears and the first signs of anger.
‘How could he?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ says Morgan. ‘But I know what I know.’ She takes Anjelica’s hand. ‘All I have to do is prove it.’
*
Returning to the car park, Morgan sees two familiar figures walking in the opposite direction: psychologist Nigel Cundy and prison governor Ian Carne.
‘Mr Carne?’
The men turn as she approaches. Carne raises a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Yes?
‘Morgan Vine. We met the other day. I was visiting Anjelica Fry.’
‘Yes. I remember.’
‘Thank you for your letter—’
He cuts her off, zapping the fob on a pristine black BMW. ‘I’m afraid we’re late for a meeting.’
‘Prison Officers Association,’ adds Cundy, by way of explanation.
Morgan knows there’s little point in asking about the baby farm. Both men will only stonewall, like before.
‘I won’t keep you. I need to ask about Kiki McNeil.’
‘What about her?’ says Carne.
‘You heard what happened to her?’
‘She jumped off a cliff.’
Cundy nods.
‘Depression. Terrible thing.’
‘Was she clinically depressed?’ asks Morgan. ‘While she was in prison?’
The men exchange a look.
‘We’re not at liberty to discuss prisoners’ medical histories,’ says Cundy. ‘Even when they’re no longer our responsibility.’
‘What if she didn’t jump?’ says Morgan. ‘What if she was pushed?’
A muscle twitches beneath the governor’s eye.
‘The police seem satisfied that’s not the case,’ he says.
‘I’m not the police.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’
‘She served three and a half years in your prison.’
‘Correct,’ says Carne.
He gets behind the wheel of the car. Cundy climbs into the passenger seat. Morgan perseveres.
‘What if someone wanted to keep her quiet?’
‘About what?’ says Carne.
Morgan nods towards the prison gates. ‘Secrets. Things that could ruin careers. Lik
e how women get pregnant in your prison.’
The colour drains from the governor’s face. He starts the engine.
‘Tread carefully, Ms Vine.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘A friendly warning. People get the wrong end of the stick; they can make fools of themselves.’ He scratches his beard. ‘Especially those with an axe to grind against the system.’
Morgan raises an eyebrow.
‘You’ve read my book?’
A chilly smile.
‘I’m too busy for books.’
He closes the door of the car and drives away. Morgan watches the BMW exit the car park and disappear from view. She chides herself for tackling the men on the spur of the moment. What did she expect? A confession? To what?
She recalls DI Rook’s remark about the climate of secrecy at HMP Dungeness.
Think North Korea with Carne as Kim Jong-un.
Returning to her car, she smokes a cigarette while making a list of people who might have wanted to silence Kiki McNeil. She writes the governor’s name next to Cundy’s. Both have a vested interest in ensuring that ‘what happens in prison stays in prison’. What if Kiki had threatened to blow the whistle on the baby farm?
Next on the list are Trevor Jukes and Karl Savage.
That they are partners in crime is beyond doubt.
But what crime? What was Kiki’s involvement?
Then come the names of two men with whom Morgan knows Kiki had contact, albeit fleetingly. Innkeeper Eric Sweet and near neighbour Joe Cassidy, the man who glimpsed the woman on the night she died in St Mary’s Bay.
Last on the list is Karl’s crony, Spike, followed by Kiki’s best friend, Stacey Brown.
Gazing at the names, Morgan’s head is abuzz with questions. None the wiser, she makes a decision. To discover how the puzzle fits together – Kiki’s murder, the baby farm, Anjelica’s conviction – she must settle the question of how Karl faked his own death.
She will start with the man who identified his remains. The man with the bitten fingernails. The family portrait. And the Harley Street smile.
Thirty
KARL
No peeking.
That’s what she told him when she returned the tin to the cellar, sealed with duct tape. For a while he resisted temptation. Sixteen weekends in a row, locked up with his books and his torch.
And the tin.
At 3 a.m. on the seventeenth Saturday he cracked.
Peeled off the tape.
Prised open the lid.
