Guilty Innocence

by Maggie James

  ‘Frigging fat bitch.’ His taunt, spoken in a pubescent treble, making her aware her attacker’s about the same age she is, although his size and strength belie his years. Something impossible to admit to Mark when she tells him about the assault; bad enough to be overpowered by an adult, but another pre-teen? Shameful. Now, however, her self-recrimination begins to fade, given her newfound awareness of who hurt her that day. No ordinary boy, but one hiding the makings of a vicious killer within him.

  The attack pre-dates Callie and Stefano Abruzzo’s divorce. At the time, she’s still Natalia Abruzzo. Half Sicilian, brought up bilingual, her diary written solely in Italian. Forbidden by Callie Richards after her parents’ divorce to speak, read or listen to the language. She recalls how, bloodied and shaking in her bedroom after the attack, she thinks she must have left her diary behind. A casualty of her desperate scramble to shove all her belongings back into her bag and get the hell out of the copse. Now she knows the diary became the trophy of a vile killer.

  ‘Frigging fat bitch.’ The memory slaps Natalie in the face as she recalls Adam Campbell’s breath against her ear. She’s possibly his first victim, the one with whom he began honing his craft, leading him from finger rape to the murder of Abby Morgan. Dear God. Not to mention the fact he’s killed two women since his release. Boasted about killing more. The memory of biscuits and Crimewatch with Callie Richards floods back to Natalie. Her mother’s caustic comments about men who use and kill prostitutes. The woman in the grainy CCTV footage of the Southampton red light district, walking to her death in her fake fur jacket.

  Natalie’s legs tremble beneath her, threatening collapse, forcing her to crumple down on her sofa. Prior to opening his letter, she’s wondered what other shocks Mark might be keeping in store for her. He’s certainly hit her with more information than she can handle right now. Thing is, he’s also given her the assurance she’ll be safe from her abuser forever. Along with reiterating his innocence where Abby Morgan’s murder is concerned.

  Natalie no longer doubts Mark Slater. His letter rings true. This man’s no twisted child killer, no Adam Campbell clone. Instead, in her brain he’s morphed, for the final time, into a decent guy who’s had a shit life so far. Undeserving of the crap she’s shovelled his way.

  Oh, fuck. Shaun Morgan may be at Mark’s place right now, beating him up, hurting him, and it’s all her fault. Natalie grabs her mobile, stabbing at the screen, desperate to call off the hellhound of vengeance she’s unleashed.

  ‘Pick up, for fuck’s sake,’ she hisses into the phone, but Shaun Morgan doesn’t respond. Straight to voicemail. She leaves a message, the words almost incomprehensible in her desperation to head off whatever retaliation he’s planning. Natalie tries Mark’s number next. One opportunity is all she needs to warn him, make sure he’s safe. Something’s wrong, though. No ringing tone; for some reason, the call’s not being connected. Mark’s mobile seems as dead as she fears he may be, and it’s all her fault. She should have trusted him; instead, she’s been a total bitch. Sobs of self-recrimination choke her throat.

  The tears stop abruptly as she pulls herself together. Think, Natalie, think. Shaun’s phone being off doesn’t necessarily mean anything. People don’t always keep their mobiles on. Mark, though – he’s a different animal, preferring to leave his switched on all the time. Part of his obsessive nature, she guesses. The fact her call can’t even be connected concerns Natalie. If his mobile’s not working, chances are it’s been a casualty of Shaun beating the shit, or even the life, out of Mark.

  Natalie briefly contemplates calling 999, or Tony Jackson – she has his number, after all – but rejects both ideas. What the hell can she say? That she deliberately leaked Mark’s address to someone keen to wreak vigilante action on him? How she’s sorry, concerned she can’t reach him, but all she has to go on is the fact his mobile’s not working?

  Yep, that’s guaranteed to end badly. And result in a possibly fatal delay for Mark.

  Only one thing for it. Natalie grabs her jacket and keys. If she drives fast, if not much traffic’s clogging the roads, she’ll be at Mark’s flat in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Her hands fumble with everything she touches. Her handbag, her keys, the door latch. Then, once in her car, the ignition, the gearstick. She stalls as she attempts to pull away from the curb. Furious, cursing, she restarts the engine. The voice in her head berates her. Drive, for God’s sake; just get to him before Shaun Morgan does.

  The traffic-free roads she’s praying for don’t materialise. Twenty minutes of slow drivers, red lights and roadworks grind against her nerves before she pulls up outside Mark’s building.

  The light is on in his flat, thank God. Natalie runs from her car, not bothering to switch off the engine. She punches the entry code into the security console, yanking open the door into the communal hallway. Once inside, noises, loud but indefinable ones, reach her from Mark’s flat. Sounds like those of furniture being overturned.

  Oh, dear God. Please let him be all right.

  For the third time in recent weeks, she takes his key from under the potted plant.

  Then she hears another sound, an unmistakable one this time. A fist hitting into flesh, pulverising muscle and bone. Her fingers still shaking, she pounds her hand against Mark’s door, shouting his name, as she pushes his key into the lock.

  30

  NO PROMISES

  Brightness stabs Mark’s eyes as he peels them open, causing the ache in his face to flare into life. He slams his eyelids shut. He becomes aware he’s lying down, in bed, covered by a thin blanket. He prises his eyes open again, slowly this time.

  Fluorescent lights overhead. White walls. Thick swing doors with glass panels. A plastic bag, half-full of a clear liquid, attached to a pole, draining into his arm. Noise, bustle, sounds. A cough to his left. Mark turns his head towards the cougher, wincing as he does so. Another drip bag, another pole. A bed, identical to the one Mark’s in, its occupant an elderly man hacking into his hands.

  Hospital. How he got here, though, he’s unable to fathom. Memories of the attack float back to him, despite the fog in his head. Shaun’s knuckles and boots, exacting revenge. Fists and feet on a mission to kill. Mark’s not dead, though, although his nose feels fairly moribund. Nasal breathing is certainly difficult. He remembers the crunching sound as Shaun Morgan’s fist shatters the bone. His last recollection is of knuckles and feet slamming into him, searching out his vulnerable points, reducing him to a grovelling mass of sheer agony. Unable to scream for help. He recalls Shaun’s boot cracking down on his mobile. No chance of him phoning 999, injured jaw or not. So how the fuck did he get here?

  Right now, he’s incapable of caring. He appears safe from Shaun Morgan’s fists and feet, and as comfortable as it’s possible to be given the beating he’s received. Moreover, he’s getting pain relief via the tube in his arm. Enough reassurance for now. Mark drifts towards a light doze, allowing his battered body to rest. A short while later, something far more urgent than discovering how he got here slams into his brain, jolting him fully awake.

  The murders of the two prostitutes. Shit. He needs to talk to Tony Jackson, and fast. Adam Campbell might be stalking his next prey whilst Mark lies in bed, useless, and his plan for the bastard doesn’t allow for such eventualities. He opens his mouth to yell for someone’s attention and manages about a centimetre’s gap before the ache in his face flares into something much worse. Instead of a shout, what emerges is a strangled gasp of pain. Shit. He’d forgotten his injured jaw. He slumps back, defeated. It’s a hospital, he tells himself. A nurse, a doctor, someone, anyone, will come through those swing doors and he’ll get them to contact Tony Jackson on his behalf. Soon, please God. No time to waste where Adam Campbell’s concerned.

  Five minutes later, a doctor is standing next to Mark’s bed.

  ‘Mr Slater,’ he says, before Mark clutches at his white coat, cutting off whatever the man is about to say. Carefully, slowly, he eases his mouth open.
<
br />   ‘Police,’ he manages, amazed he can speak at all. Perhaps his jaw isn’t broken, then. Still one hell of an effort to talk, however.

  ‘They’ll be back later,’ the doctor says. ‘One of them came by earlier. Got an officer stationed outside the door, too. Totally unnecessary, in my view. You won’t be going anywhere for a while, not the state you’re in.’

  None of this makes sense to Mark; he’s unsure how the police have become involved, unless one of his neighbours heard something and alerted them. Right now, he doesn’t care; he simply wants Adam Campbell arrested for murder. He opens his mouth again to impress on the doctor the importance of getting the officer on the door in here, right now, when the man silences him with a gesture of his hand.

  ‘Best not to talk too much,’ he says. ‘You’ve suffered a dislocated jaw. It’s been reset, but your mouth will be sore for a while yet. As to the rest of you…’

  The doctor takes Mark’s notes from the foot of the bed. A recital of his other injuries follows. Severe bruising over most of his body; a broken nose, along with six cracked ribs. One testicle ruptured, now surgically repaired. Hairline fracture of the skull, mild concussion. He’ll be in the Bristol Royal Infirmary for a good while yet, but it’s all fixable by rest and time, helped by generous quantities of painkillers.

  ‘Police,’ he tries again. ‘Need to speak to…’ The effort is exhausting. ‘Tony Jackson. Number in my phone.’ Then he remembers Shaun’s boot cracking down on his mobile, and slumps into his pillows, defeated.

  ‘That was the name of the guy who was here earlier,’ the doctor says.

  Thank God. If he has to deal with the police, at least let it be A.J. But how did Jackson…?

  The doctor replaces Mark’s notes at the end of the bed. ‘Like I said, he’ll be back later.’

  Mark sleeps.

  When he awakes, Tony Jackson is sitting by his bedside.

  ‘You look like shit,’ he says.

  Mark doesn’t reply. Too wary of his sore jaw, but also because he’s confused. Jackson’s tone is relaxed, despite his words. Not the voice of someone who’s intending to arrest him for parole violation. He’s reminded of Adam Campbell and the need to tell Tony Jackson where the police will find the evidence that’ll jail the bastard for life.

  ‘Didn’t think our monthly meeting would take place in a hospital.’ Jackson leans back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. As usual, sweat patches soak the armpits of his shirt. Mark remembers. Their regular session, scheduled for today. The one in which he’d intended to admit breaking parole, as well as informing Jackson who killed the two prostitutes.

  ‘Adam…’ he manages, before he’s cut off.

  ‘Probably better if I do more of the talking, seeing as how your jaw must be pretty sore right now,’ Jackson says.

  Mark nods. Sore’s an understatement, despite the pain relief he’s getting.

  ‘Not here in an official capacity. Just wanted to give you the heads-up about a few things first. Adam Campbell’s in custody. Been arrested for the murder of two prostitutes. The ones killed in Southampton and Plymouth.’

  Thank fuck for that is the overriding response in Mark’s brain. But how…?

  ‘You’ll be wondering how we nailed the bastard, since Shaun Morgan prevented you from telling us,’ Jackson continues. ‘You wrote a letter to Natalie Richards. Your girlfriend, or rather your ex-girlfriend, although you managed to forget her existence each month when we had our meetings.’ His tone hardens.

  Mark shifts uneasily under Jackson’s scrutiny, causing pain to prickle in his ribs.

  Seems like the man’s prepared to let the issue slide, though. For now.

  ‘She gave us the letter. Told us about the audio recording. Your phone, the one you used to trap Adam Campbell, was smashed to bits, though. Then she admitted how she got Rachel Morgan’s mobile number. Said the police should check your computer. So we did. And found the copy of the sound clip.’

  ‘I always back up my phone.’ If Mark speaks slowly and doesn’t open his jaws too wide, talking is bearable.

  Jackson grins. ‘If only everyone were as conscientious.’

  ‘What I had on it was doubly, triply important to keep safe.’ Yup, he can speak well enough, it seems. ‘Listen, A.J. Rachel’s number. How exactly did Natalie…?’

  ‘She’s a woman, Mark. Likes to snoop.’

  ‘Yeah.’ His grandmother’s letter edges into Mark’s mind. ‘You’re not wrong there.’

  ‘Seems she broke into your computer, found your contacts list. Called Rachel Morgan, told her brother where you live.’

  His misaligned laptop. The biscuit crumb between his sofa cushions. Both make sense now.

  ‘Then she received your letter. Seems what you said caused her to have a change of heart.’

  Hope flickers in Mark, before he quashes it down. Too much water has flowed under Natalie’s bridge – and his as well – for them to have any kind of a future.

  ‘Seems she came over all remorseful about setting Shaun Morgan on you. Went over to your place, interrupted him beating the crap out of you. Called an ambulance. She’s in custody now, along with the Morgan bloke.’

  Mark’s confused and disturbed by this. His brain still isn’t working too well; why the hell has Natalie been arrested?

  Tony Jackson clocks his puzzled expression. ‘Don’t forget she conspired with Shaun Morgan to commit grievous bodily harm towards you.’

  ‘I pissed her off. Told her I’d had lunch with Rachel Morgan. Twice. She didn’t take it too well.’

  ‘Understandably.’

  ‘You shouldn’t blame her.’

  ‘She broke the law, Mark. Almost got you killed. Vigilante action’s precisely the reason you were given a new identity.’

  She called an ambulance, though, Mark thinks. Once she read his letter. His pleading text obviously worked. Natalie now believes his innocence in the murder of Abby Morgan. Along with knowing her sexual abuser will spend the rest of his life in jail. Mark’s no longer in any doubt as to that. Adam’s been arrested. The police will find his little hoard of trophies. They’ll match his presence in both Southampton and Plymouth to the times of the murders, uncover forensic proof, backed up by the evidence Mark’s gathered. At least we don’t have the ‘fruit of the poisonous tree’ rule here in the U.K., he thinks, recalling the crime dramas he watches. In the U.S., trapping Adam the way he’s done might well bar the evidence from being taken into consideration. Whereas over here the recording from his mobile phone should be admissible in court, no matter how he obtained it.

  ‘She’d like to visit you. Once she’s released on bail. Doesn’t think she’ll be welcome, though.’

  Mark turns Jackson’s words over in his head, savouring the effect they have on him. ‘She’s wrong about that,’ he says. ‘Do me a favour, would you, A.J.?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pull some strings. Make sure charges aren’t pressed against her.’

  ‘Doesn’t work that way, mate. Like I said, she committed a serious offence in instigating the attack against you. Christ, she almost cost you your life! Don’t tell me Shaun Morgan didn’t intend to kill you.’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’ Mark harbours no qualms about lying about this. He’ll gain nothing by Shaun Morgan going down for attempted murder, and Rachel will lose heavily. No matter what Shaun said about her getting professional help, she’ll be far better off with her brother around to shore her up emotionally. A lesser charge will mean a lighter sentence for him. ‘He never mentioned wanting to kill me. Hurt me, yes. Rough me up, definitely. But murder? No way.’

  Tony Jackson’s sceptical expression tells Mark his bullshit radar’s not fooled, but what the hell. ‘If you say so. We’ll let the courts decide. Natalie Richards will definitely be charged, though, Mark. Odds are, given it’s her first offence, together with the particular circumstances, she won’t be dealt with harsh
ly.’

  Mark’s relieved, although not totally. The idea of Natalie going to court, being sentenced, doesn’t sit well with him, but there’s fuck all he can do about it. Seems he’s fixed the main thing, which is getting a murdering bastard sent back to prison.

  ‘Let’s talk about Adam Campbell.’ Jackson rests his elbows on the bed, leaning in towards Mark. ‘We’ll be able to match the voice on the audio recording to him. In it he says you weren’t involved in Abby Morgan’s murder.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I had no choice. He made me go along with it.’ Even now, true as they are, the words sound childish, as though he’s making excuses. Tony Jackson nods his understanding, though.

  ‘Never could picture you as a child killer. Didn’t fit somehow.’ A question edges into Jackson’s expression. ‘Can I ask you something? Why confess to Abby Morgan’s murder when you weren’t guilty? OK, so I’ve read what you wrote in your letter to Natalie Richards. I’d prefer to hear it from you, though.’

  ‘Two reasons.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘First one. Scared stiff of the cops. I was eleven years old, remember.’

  ‘The police shouldn’t have been rough on you. I get what you’re saying about how young you were, though.’

  ‘They were sweetness and light in comparison with Adam Campbell. Second reason? He said he’d kill me if I ever blabbed. He’d already demonstrated he’d use his knife on me if I didn’t do what he wanted. I assumed – wrongly – we’d end up being sentenced to the same detention unit. He scared the hell out of me. Still does.’

  ‘Yeah. That bit in the recording when he threatens to stick a blade in between your ribs. He’s one fucking violent bastard.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there. Anyway, I always mistrusted the police after I got put inside. Yeah, I know it’s partly down to me being unable to stand up for myself as an eleven-year-old. When all this kicked off, though, I couldn’t come clean to you, A.J. Didn’t feel able to admit the parole violations and put the cops on to Adam Campbell for the murders of those two women.’