by Simon Booker
‘Around Bonfire Night I tend to get mega-busy. People think they can torch their home or car or warehouse and blame it on a rocket gone astray.’
‘Not with you on the case?’
That grin again.
‘No chance.’
He watches as she begins to roll a cigarette.
‘What are your plans?’
‘Same as yesterday and the day before,’ says Morgan. ‘Try to find the invisible man.’
He nods, suddenly grave.
‘Can I do anything?’
Morgan briefly considers her promise to Lissa, then sets it aside.
‘You already have,’ she says, spreading tobacco along the cigarette paper. ‘And telling me I’m not insane helps. But I can’t expect you to do the legwork. You’ve already got a job.’
He checks his watch and gets up from the table.
‘Speaking of which . . .’
He slips his laptop into a rucksack and grabs his keys from the table. Pausing at the door, he turns.
‘I did judo when I was a kid,’ he says. ‘The instructor talked about rule number one: use your opponent’s strength to defeat him. What’s his superpower?’
‘That he’s the invisible man?’
‘Be serious.’
She ponders the question.
‘Is being relentless a superpower? Because I don’t think he’ll stop till he gets what he wants – whatever that is. And you could say he takes huge risks, so he’s brave – sort of – in a way that’s borderline crazy.’
Ben smiles.
‘There you go. Be brave. Be relentless. Be borderline crazy.’ He steps towards her, cups her chin in his hand and plants a kiss on her lips. ‘But leave the risks to him.’
Another kiss and he’s gone, leaving Morgan to finish her coffee, smoke a cigarette and wonder if she might have found a man worth her trust.
*
Rain sweeps across Romney Marsh as she tramps through sodden fields, making her way to the decrepit houseboat moored in a remote outpost of River Marsh Farm. She’s not optimistic about finding Trevor Jukes, but there’s no sign of the motorcycle outside his bungalow and the search must continue.
Approaching the Wandering Star, she takes cover behind a cluster of bushes, scanning the area for signs of life. She waits until satisfied there is no one around, then creeps up to the houseboat and peers through the porthole.
She steps back, heart pounding.
Someone is inside.
A dark-haired woman.
Her back to the porthole.
Morgan is sure she hasn’t been seen but is taking no chances. Retracing her steps, she scurries back to the safety of the bushes, crouching low while focusing her gaze on the houseboat and considering her next move.
Is the woman Stacey? Has she changed her hair, removed the pink dye? Is she alone?
And then Morgan hears it.
A baby crying.
The sound is coming from the houseboat.
She feels blood thudding in her ears, her pulse racing. She checks her phone – a reflex action – but there’s no signal. Besides, whom would she call? The police? And say what?
There’s a woman! On a houseboat! Come quick!
Staying low, she emerges from the bushes and creeps back towards the vessel, eyes fixed on the porthole. Reaching the houseboat, she crouches down, out of sight, then straightens up and peers inside.
Stacey is staring at her. She’s holding the baby to her breast. Her voice is barely audible through the grimy glass.
‘Morgan?’
Morgan retreats, stepping back. Seconds later, the door is yanked open. Stacey appears, no longer holding the baby. Her face is pale and wan. She glares down from the deck but her voice is full of surprise, not anger.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you,’ says Morgan.
‘Why?’
‘Long story. Can I come in?’
The woman is wary.
‘I’m not well. And I’m supposed to be feeding the baby. He’s crying his bloody head off.’
Morgan clambers aboard, then follows Stacey inside, closing the door against the rain and descending into the cramped interior. The damp cabin smells of paraffin. She sees an old heater in the corner. A rickety Formica table is littered with jars of baby food, pre-packaged sandwiches and bars of chocolate. Nothing requires cooking, which is just as well because there’s no sign of kitchen equipment, just a single bed and a cardboard box. Inside, a pink blanket and the baby, who continues to cry.
‘What do you mean, “not feeling well”?’
‘Something I ate,’ says Stacey. ‘Been throwing up all morning.’
Which explains the stench emanating from the chemical toilet. The baby’s wailing intensifies.
‘Can I pick him up?’
A shrug.
Morgan lifts the infant from the box, cradling him in her arms.
She feels goosebumps on her arm and her heart races as she sees the baby’s chubby forearm.
A heart-shaped mole.
She stares at Stacey.
‘This is Charlie . . . Kiki’s baby . . .’
No response, just a sullen glare. But Morgan knows she’s right.
‘Talk to me, Stacey.’
‘I . . . don’t know.’
‘Yes, you do.’
The baby stops crying and stares up at Morgan. She softens her tone.
‘Kiki was your best friend. It would make sense for you to look after her baby when she died.’
The woman averts her gaze, studying a stain on the hardboard ceiling. Playing for time. Close to tears.
‘If you’re in trouble, I can help,’ says Morgan. ‘We can go to the police together . . .’
Stacey’s eyes blaze.
‘No police.’
‘Then tell me what’s going on. Otherwise . . .’
She tails off, letting the sentence finish itself.
The woman’s voice is small, almost a whisper.
‘I can’t say.’
‘Is it Jukes?’ says Morgan. ‘Is he making you do this?’
A nod, barely imperceptible, but something to build on.
The baby has fallen asleep. Morgan lowers him into the cardboard box, carefully arranging the pink blanket.
‘Why don’t you start by telling me what was in the cans?’
Stacey looks startled.
‘What cans?’
‘The baby formula you picked up from the luggage office at King’s Cross and took to Istanbul.’
The woman’s eyes widen in disbelief.
‘Who told you?’
‘No one. We followed you.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Lissa. We saw you meet Jukes. We tailed you to Heathrow. Saw you check in. I know Jukes gave you something to take to Istanbul. I’m guessing it was drugs.’ The woman stares but says nothing. ‘Is he using you as a mule? Is that what the baby farm is all about? Getting women pregnant then using their babies as a cover for smuggling drugs?’
Stacey’s voice is hoarse.
‘I can’t say anything.’
‘You need help, Stacey. Whatever’s going on, whatever mess you’re in, this is a chance to get out of it. I’m your chance.’
She sits on the bed. Stacey looks at the stain on the ceiling for a long moment, then sits beside her. She sighs. A decision made.
‘The cans were full of cash,’ she says. ‘They buy baby formula, chuck away the powder then reseal the cans, so they’re airtight. Don’t ask me how – some kind of soldering iron, I guess. I took them to Istanbul – me and Ryan – we went to a flat and I handed them over.’
‘Who to?’
‘We didn’t do names.’
Morgan nods.
‘Then what happened?’
Stacey’s eyes fill with tears.
‘I left Ryan.’
‘In Istanbul?’
A nod. ‘That was the deal, right from the start, when I was in prison. Take my baby to I
stanbul, with the cans, then leave him with . . . the people.’
‘Baby traffickers?’
Stacey looks affronted.
‘Not traffickers, no. Decent people. They sort out adoptions for rich couples who can’t have kids of their own, people who have reasons for avoiding red tape.’
Traffickers by any other name.
‘What reasons?’ says Morgan.
A shrug.
‘Criminal records? Maybe they got rich illegally.’ She sniffs. ‘There was one bloke I heard them talking about – one of these oligarchs? Happily married but he has a mistress. She’s desperate for a baby. Thing is, he doesn’t want her to have his kid, in case he dumps her and has a big paternity hassle which would make his wife leave him and take him to the cleaners. So he bought a baby.’
Morgan’s craving for a cigarette is growing stronger by the second.
‘Is that it? You take the cash to Istanbul, you leave the baby, end of story?’
Stacey shakes her head.
‘Jukes told me I wasn’t finished. Said I had to bring cans back to the UK.’
‘More money?’
The woman shakes her head.
‘Drugs. Sealed inside. The cans are airtight so the sniffer dogs can’t detect a thing.’
‘OK,’ says Morgan. ‘So you use the baby as a cover story, you take the cash out of the country then you bring drugs in?’
A nod.
‘What’s in it for you?’
‘Five grand.’ Stacey sniffs. ‘Not much to you maybe, but a fortune to me. The most important thing is that Ryan goes to people who’ll love him and look after him, give him all the stuff I never could. So everyone’s a winner.’
Morgan wonders if these are Stacey’s true feelings or merely a second-hand rationale designed to assuage consciences and passed along the chain. From Karl Savage to Trevor Jukes. From Jukes to the vulnerable, impoverished women he recruits as mules.
‘What do you say when people ask where Ryan is?’
‘I tell them he’s gone to live with his dad.’
Morgan studies the woman’s face.
‘Was Kiki involved?’
Stacey clears her throat.
‘She was supposed to be,’ says Stacey. ‘Got knocked up while she was in prison but they kept it quiet, like they did with me. Jukes doesn’t use his own sperm, in case they do DNA tests on the babies. He smuggles it in, or gets people to do it for him.’
Morgan nods, recalling the pouch Lissa sewed into her jacket.
‘Whose sperm?’
She knows the answer but she wants Stacey’s version.
A shrug.
‘Does it matter?’
‘No. Go on. What happened to Kiki?’
‘She changed her mind. After Charlie was born. Said she couldn’t give him up. Tried to back out.’
Morgan’s eyes widen.
‘So Jukes killed her? Pushed her off the cliff?’
The woman looks away.
‘I don’t know if it was Jukes.’
‘Who else could it be?’
A shrug. ‘Maybe the other bloke.’
‘What other bloke?’
‘I don’t know his name. I never met him, I just heard Jukes talking on the phone.’
‘Could it have been Karl Savage?’
Stacey frowns.
‘He’s dead.’
Morgan lets it pass. The woman is holding something back – she can feel it – but she doesn’t want to scare her into clamming up.
‘Tell me what happened when you got back from Istanbul.’
‘Jukes said I had to look after Charlie. Keep him hidden.’
‘Where?’
‘His sister’s in Ramsgate. She’d been looking after Charlie since Kiki died. I had to pretend I’d been released from prison and couldn’t cope on the out. Then, when I got back from Istanbul, I had to say I was better and needed a place to stay.’
‘The sister put you up? You and Charlie?’
A nod.
‘But she couldn’t hack it. She’s got her own baby; she couldn’t handle the stress, so she chucked us out. That’s when he dumped me here, with him.’
She gestures to the sleeping baby.
‘What happens next?’ says Morgan.
‘I’m supposed to take him on the ferry. With more cash. Give it to a bloke in Calais. But he hasn’t got a passport so I have to hide him in that.’
She points to a holdall in the corner. The opening is covered by plastic mesh, to allow the baby to breathe.
‘What if he cries?’
‘He’ll give him pills, to make him sleep.’
Pills? A baby?
‘And if you don’t cooperate?’
Stacey turns to face her.
‘Doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘After what happened to Kiki?’
The woman gives a sheepish nod but can’t meet Morgan’s eye.
‘What are you not telling me, Stacey? What did you and Lissa talk about, on your breaks at the inn?’
A shrug.
‘Baby stuff.’
‘Bullshit. I heard you arguing. What about?’
Another shrug.
‘Can’t remember.’
Morgan decides against pushing harder. She leans forward.
‘Is there anything else?’
Stacey sighs.
‘I’m supposed to pick up two other kids and take them to Jukes.’
‘What kids?’
‘Twins. He hasn’t told me names. It’s a custody battle. The dad wants to smuggle them out of the country so his ex can’t get at them. Start a new life with money from the drugs racket.’ The woman has the grace to look ashamed. ‘He’s primed them to expect me to pick them up from school. I just have to give the teacher a note, supposedly from their mum.’
Morgan joins the dots. The ‘kids’ are Karl Junior and Jack. Stacey is ‘the special lady’.
‘When are you picking them up?’
‘Tomorrow.’
Remember, remember the fifth of November . . .
Stacey gets to her feet, clutching her stomach. The colour has drained from her face.
‘Sorry . . .’
She heads for the far end of the houseboat. Morgan watches her disappear into a cubicle. The door closes. Then comes the sound of retching.
Morgan has given no thought to her next step, but the plan seems to arrive in her head almost fully formed. She will never find Karl on her own. Forget needles and haystacks – this is a thousand times harder.
What had Ben said?
Be brave. Be relentless. Be borderline crazy.
The only way to lure Karl out of hiding is to turn the tables, to make him come after her. A strange sense of calm takes hold. She reaches for her wallet. Ninety-five pounds. She places the cash on the table, then scribbles a note.
Run. Hide. Good luck.
The retching sound worsens. Morgan picks up the box containing the sleeping baby. She climbs the steps leading to the door. Opening it, she steps out into the rain. Holding the box, she jumps down from the deck and heads towards the trees that border the field. Careful not to look back.
It’s a full minute before she’s safely on the other side of the tree line and hears Stacey’s angry cry.
‘Morgan? Morgan!’
She quickens her pace. The rain is easing. Hugging the edge of the field, she makes her way towards the gap between the trees. The gate is in sight.
Stacey’s voice in the distance.
‘Morgan!’
Hurrying to the gate, she hoists herself up then lowers the box to the other side. It slips from her grasp, hitting the ground with a jolt. The baby begins to wail.
‘Morgan!’
Stacey’s voice is closer; she’s heading for the trees. Morgan clambers over the fence and drops to the other side, landing in mud. She can see the Mini a hundred yards away, parked alongside the hedgerow bordering the lay-by.
Picking up the box, she stumbles towards the car,
splashing through puddles on the rutted track. The baby’s cries grow louder. She reaches the car. Places the box on the roof. Fumbles for her keys. Zaps the fob. Opens the passenger door. Puts the box on the seat. Runs around to the driver’s door. Clambers behind the wheel.
And then she hears it.
A motorcycle in the distance. Drawing closer.
Jukes?
Starting the ignition, her foot hovers over the accelerator. The motorbike is approaching the bend. It will pass at any second.
Three . . .
Two . . .
She ducks, bending over the box on the passenger seat, bringing her face close to Charlie’s.
One . . .
The motorcycle rounds the corner. The baby’s crying grows louder. His eyes are scrunched up, his tiny hands jerk in the air.
The biker roars past, heading for the lane that leads to the farmhouse and houseboat. Heart thumping, pulse ra-cing, Morgan counts a full ten seconds, holding her breath as the sound of the engine recedes into the distance and silence descends.
Was it Jukes?
Did he recognise her car?
Will he come back?
She peers through the windscreen, scanning the road. No sign of life. She releases the handbrake and presses her foot on the accelerator, easing the car forward. The rain-slicked road is empty. Tyres squealing, she drives away, the car filled with the sound of the wailing baby.
The bait in the trap.
Thirty-Eight
The shopping mall car park is half empty but she is taking no chances. The likelihood that Stacey will alert police to the missing baby is minuscule, but anything is possible.
Especially where Karl Savage is concerned.
Rummaging in the boot, Morgan dons a hooded top left by Lissa. Raising the hood, she walks around to the passenger seat, lifts Charlie from the cardboard box and hoists him under her arm. The crying has stopped. The baby is placid and smiling but a telltale odour is emanating from his nappy; action is required. Cradling him in her arms, Morgan walks briskly towards the mall, keeping her head low, her face hidden from the CCTV cameras.
Entering the shopping centre, her anxiety levels soar. The feeling of low-level panic is similar to the sensation when passing through customs, even with nothing to declare. She shivers, anticipating a tap on the shoulder at any moment.
Her eyes rove the lunchtime crowds. Her heart, already pulsing at twice its normal rate, threatens to burst from her chest as she sees a policeman. Clutching a sandwich, he’s emerging from Marks & Spencer, listening to a voice squawking from the radio strapped to his stab vest. He says something into the radio. Morgan can’t make out the gist but doesn’t want to tempt fate. Feigning interest in a shop window, she waits for the PC to pass, then continues towards the escalator. She glances over her shoulder. The man is making for the exit. She takes a breath to settle her nerves, then consults the mall’s store guide.
