by Simon Booker
‘What’s she like?’
‘Thin. Spiky. Scared.’
‘Of what?’
‘Life.’
Morgan gazes at the baby, taking stock of a tiny, heart-shaped mole on his chubby forearm. A thought strikes.
‘He can’t be more than six months old.’
‘So?’
‘So how did his mother get pregnant while she was in prison?’
Before her daughter can answer, there’s a rat-a-tat on the door. Lissa opens it.
‘Hey, Kiki.’
Morgan masks her surprise. The new arrival is Port Wine Stain, one of the inmates she encountered at HMP Dungeness. Painfully thin, early twenties with cropped black hair, she’s wielding a mop and bucket. Morgan recalls the whispered conversation between her and her fellow prisoner, the inmate with pink hair – their plan to attack Anjelica.
I’ll hold the bitch down, you kick her tits.
‘Kiki, meet Mum.’
‘Hiya,’ says the baby’s mother, flashing a nervous smile.
Morgan can’t bring herself to smile back. ‘I saw you the other day,’ she says. ‘In the Mother and Baby Unit.’
Kiki’s eyes flicker over Morgan’s face. No sign of recognition.
‘I was visiting Anjelica Fry,’ she says.
The woman’s face darkens.
‘Oh. Her.’
‘Mum says she’s innocent,’ says Lissa. ‘She’s trying to get the case reopened, take it to the Criminal Cases Review.’
‘Oh-kay.’
Kiki sounds sceptical, but Morgan is in no mood to try and persuade yet another cynic of the merits of Anjelica’s case, especially one whose own purchase on the moral high ground is far from secure. She focuses on the nappy.
‘Shall I do it?’ says Kiki.
‘It’s no bother,’ says Morgan. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Charlie.’
‘He’s beautiful.’
‘Cheers.’
Morgan resists the temptation to ask about Charlie’s father. Nappy sorted, she picks up the baby.
‘Mind if I hold him?’
‘Be my guest.’
Cradling Charlie in her arms, Morgan feels a rare sense of peace. The baby stares into her eyes, his mouth forming a perfect O. Smiling, Morgan recalls the tsunami of dopamine-fuelled emotion that surged through every fibre of her being as she held Lissa for the first time. She tried Ecstasy once – a boyfriend promised it was guaranteed to recreate the feeling. Not even close. Love is the drug.
Charlie is smiling now, staring up at Morgan, his tiny hand fastening around her little finger.
‘Should I worry about his mole?’ says Kiki.
The question comes out of the blue. Morgan peers at the tiny, heart-shaped blemish.
‘I doubt it. But if you’re concerned, ask the doctor.’
Kiki nods, turning back to the window, eyes roving the beach.
‘Lissa says you were a single mum.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it hard?’
You have no idea.
‘Sometimes.’
‘But you coped?’
‘What choice is there?’
Kiki nods emphatically.
‘Exactly.’ She turns from the window and bends to whisper in her baby’s ear. ‘So he can piss off and leave us alone.’
‘Who can?’ says Lissa.
‘Overshare,’ says Kiki, straightening up and looking Morgan in the eye. ‘Lissa says you write books.’
‘Just one so far.’
‘Well, if you want a good story you know where to find me.’
Footsteps in the corridor. Eric Sweet appears in the doorway, clutching a smoke alarm and an electric screwdriver. His barrel chest swells under a pink T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan This Is What a Feminist Looks Like. He frowns at Kiki.
‘On another break?’
The woman casts another nervous look out of the window. She seems in no rush to kowtow to her benefactor. Perhaps prison has hardened her, or maybe she’s always been like this. Stroppy. Defiant.
‘Just checking on the kid,’ she says. Finally satisfied there is no one on the beach, she smiles for Morgan’s benefit.
‘Thanks, Mummy Bear.’
She picks up the bucket and leaves. The pail has left a wet ring on the carpet.
‘Sorry,’ says Eric, giving a bemused shrug. ‘I told her she could stay a couple of nights, make a few bob, give herself a chance. They chuck these kids out with fifty quid and leave them to fend for themselves.’
Morgan keeps her doubts about Kiki to herself. The man means well. And then there’s Charlie – an innocent, like Anjelica’s baby, Marlon, taking his first steps behind prison walls.
Eric brandishes the smoke alarm.
‘Mind if I put this up? I can come back if it’s inconvenient.’
Lissa shrugs. ‘Fine by me.’ As Eric sets to work, she takes Charlie from Morgan’s arms, cooing in his ear. ‘This little cutie and I will go for a walk on the beach.’
Morgan looks on as her daughter wraps the baby in a blanket. She smiles.
‘What?’ says Lissa.
‘Nothing,’ says Morgan. ‘You’re just full of surprises.’
*
Back in her room, Morgan showers and dresses: T-shirt, skinny-fit jeans, high tops. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, underneath a bad ‘hotel art’ painting of a peregrine falcon, she boots up her MacBook and composes an email to fire scene investigator Ben Gaminara.
I’m a journalist and author keen to discuss the investigation you conducted into the Dalston arson attack that killed Karl Savage. I’d be grateful if you could spare an hour to talk. Anytime, anywhere.
No point in mentioning the fact that Karl is still alive. Morgan doesn’t want to be dismissed as a member of the green ink brigade. She sends a similar email to Jatinder Singh, the forensic dental expert whose testimony was crucial in the identification of Savage’s body. Again, she omits to mention the possibility that he might have made a mistake.
After lunch (goat’s cheese and beetroot salad made by Eric and served in the half-empty restaurant) Lissa declares herself eager to look after Charlie for the rest of the afternoon, much to Morgan’s amusement and Kiki’s obvious relief.
Holed up in ‘Falcon’, Morgan calls DI Rook to ask if there’s any trace of the man in the white camper van. She decides not to divulge her conviction that Pablo and Karl are one and the same. No need to muddy the waters, or make the policeman think she’s losing her grip on reality. Rook has nothing to report but promises to call with any news. He keeps her on the line longer than expected, making a couple of comments clearly intended to be flirtatious. Morgan plays along but wonders if the man might have had a lunchtime pint too many.
A search of newspaper websites reveals more of Karl’s backstory. Morgan knows about the man’s control-freak behaviour, his bullying of Anjelica, and what sounds like borderline personality disorder, but this is the first she’s read of his history of impregnating women then conning them out of their life savings.
One particular tale captures the imagination. Nancy Sixsmith, mother of two of Savage’s children (he seems to have fathered five, at least) gave an interview to the Daily Mail a week after his body was found in the burnt-out Dalston flat.
Red-eyed, the thirty-six-year-old ex-teacher keeps one eye on her six-year-old twins, Jack and Karl Junior, while lighting another cigarette, her third in twenty minutes. ‘I can’t believe I’m still so upset,’ says Nancy, who lives on the sixteenth floor of a Canterbury high-rise. ‘He took me for every penny. I hate how he manipulated me, but part of me still loves him.’
Morgan thinks back to her conversation with Anjelica. Although the woman was candid about the ways in which Savage abused her – the stalking, the bullying, the threat to kidnap her baby – she seems to harbour a residual affection for her tormentor, just as Lissa appears to still feel something for the man who set fire to her hair. The ache in Morgan’s ribs is a reminder of what me
n can do.
Some men, she reminds herself. There are exceptions. Like Eric Sweet.
*
In the days that follow, Lissa takes to spending a lot of time with Kiki and her baby. Morgan has mixed feelings. On the one hand, her daughter has been too withdrawn from the world, spending all her time at home, almost exclusively in her mother’s company. But becoming BFFs with Kiki McNeil? Someone whose idiocy and carelessness cost the life of a teenager?
She checks herself.
If liberal-minded Guardianistas like her dismiss the idea of redemption – of second chances – what hope is there?
One evening, sharing a bottle of wine, Lissa reveals that her new friend is riven with guilt over the boy’s death. His parents visited her in prison – part of an initiative in restorative justice. They told her they would never forget their son but that he would have wanted Kiki to get on with her life and, above all, do something useful. Filled with remorse, grateful for a second chance, she is trying to work out what that ‘something’ might be. Perhaps spearheading a campaign to spread awareness of the dangers of texting while driving, visiting schools and telling her story to kids, so they don’t make the same mistake.
Meanwhile, she has shamefacedly confessed to being barely able to read or write. Lissa is giving her lessons in literacy.
‘She’s had a crap life,’ says Lissa. ‘Her mum was a sex worker, hooked on crack. She started pimping Kiki out when she was thirteen. The kids at school called her ‘Elephant Girl’ because of the birthmark on her face.’
As for the mystery of how the woman managed to get pregnant while in HMP Dungeness, the subject has yet to arise. Lissa is hoping Kiki will confide in her.
Could be a long wait.
*
Morgan’s emails to Ben Gaminara and Jatinder Singh go unanswered. She sends reminders but decides not to hassle the men too much. There’s a fine line between being persistent and being a pest. Sometimes the right thing to do is nothing.
Just after five o’clock on an unseasonably balmy late-October afternoon, Kiki finishes her shift and reclaims Charlie from Lissa’s care, leaving Morgan and her daughter to go for a walk. Strolling on the deserted beach, they talk about Lissa’s recent Skype session with her father, an Oscar-nominated screenwriter living in California with his Ukrainian girlfriend, Kristina, a pianist-actress-model who even twenty-year-old Lissa deems ‘of foetal age’.
Dusk is closing in as they reach an outlying expanse of shingle. Not another soul in sight. This is the glory of Dungeness, thinks Morgan. The landscape is never the same. Weird, eerie, beautiful. Heading for the lighthouse, they pass the converted railway carriage that was home until a week ago.
‘When can we go back?’ says Lissa.
Morgan considers the question.
‘Soon. We’re better off at the inn for now. Safety in numbers.’
*
Early the following morning, Morgan is woken from a Zopiclone sleep by Eric rapping on the door.
‘The police just called. The coastguard found a body down by the cliffs at St Mary’s Bay.’
Morgan blinks. Her mouth is dry, her brain fogged by chemicals.
‘Whose body?’
‘Kiki McNeil.’
Morgan’s eyes widen.
‘Are they sure?’
He nods.
‘She had ID on her, and one of these.’
He fishes a Dungeness Beach Inn card from his shirt pocket.
‘What about Charlie?’
‘No sign of him,’ says Eric. ‘I thought you’d want to tell Lissa.’
Reeling from the news, Morgan goes into the bathroom to splash water on her face. Knocking on her daughter’s door, she finds Lissa already awake, dark circles under her eyes.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Up all night. Bloody food poisoning,’ says Lissa. Her voice is feeble, her face pale. ‘What’s going on?’
Morgan closes the door, leads her daughter to the bed and sits down.
‘Bad news. About Kiki.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead.’
Lissa’s eyes widen in disbelief.
‘Oh my God . . .’
‘Apparently the coastguard found her body at the foot of the cliffs in St Mary’s Bay.’
‘So . . . she jumped?’
Morgan shrugs.
‘That’s all I know.’
‘Is Charlie OK?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going there now. Want to come?’
Tears spring to Lissa’s eyes. She shakes her head.
‘What is happening to us?’
‘Us?’
‘Feels that way,’ says Lissa, reaching for a Kleenex. ‘First Pablo. Now this. What the fuck is going on?’
*
The body has been removed by the time Morgan arrives. Despite the efforts of the police, the scene is compromised by the rising tide before a thorough analysis can be completed. By 10 a.m. the incident tent is rendered useless by seawater. Even at a distance, gazing down from the cliffs, Morgan can see the head-scratching frustration of two boiler-suited SOCOs.
Up on the cliff top, Neville Rook is one of the officers working the case, supervising a fingertip search of the cordoned-off area and taking statements from the coastguard and Morgan. To her relief, the DI behaves with impeccable professionalism – no stolen glances at her cleavage, no flirtatious remarks.
A couple of local hacks are sniffing around, along with a TV news crew, but despite the missing baby at the heart of the tragedy, the death of ‘just another jumper’ doesn’t seem to merit the attention of the national press. Following the reporters to the pub, she overhears one of them mentioning titbits gleaned from a SOCO.
Bruising on her arm. Fresh. Time of death: just after midnight. Her wristwatch was smashed in the fall.
*
It’s midday before Morgan gets back to the inn. Lissa doesn’t answer her knock, still recuperating from her bout of food poisoning and catching up on sleep. Sitting on her bed, Morgan feels desolate, her head brimming with questions.
Did Kiki jump or was she pushed?
How did she get pregnant in prison?
Where is her baby?
And what did she mean by, ‘if you want a good story you know where to find me’?
PART TWO
Ten
Five days after the death of Kiki O’Neil, the Indian summer has returned, ushering in a freak heatwave, and Morgan is back at HMP Dungeness. She and Lissa have assisted the police as far as possible but neither has a clue how Kiki met her lonely end or where her baby might be. Morgan is hoping that Anjelica will be able to fill in some of the blanks but the visit is not going well. The oppressive heat in the Mother and Baby Unit isn’t helping.
‘What was Kiki like?’
‘A total See You Next Tuesday,’ says Anjelica, a sheen of sweat glistening on her upper lip.
‘Sorry?’
Anjelica leans back and rolls her eyes.
‘I’m not a potty mouth like everyone in here but that’s what she was: a See You Next Tuesday.’
Realisation dawns.
‘Ah. OK.’
Morgan recalls the whispered conversation between Kiki and the prisoner with pink hair.
I’ll hold the bitch down, you kick her tits.
No wonder Anjelica has nothing nice to say about her erstwhile tormentor. Morgan cranes her neck, peering out of the side room and into the open-plan unit but her view is obscured by the female officer stationed outside, fanning herself with a clipboard.
‘Who was the big woman with the pink hair?’ says Morgan. ‘I saw her with Kiki.’
Anjelica sucks air through her teeth.
‘Stacey Brown. Kiki’s BFF. Got out the day after Kiki.’
‘Was she also a “See You Next Tuesday”?’
‘The worst.’ Anjelica wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Swear to God they need air conditioning in here or things are going to kick off.’
M
organ looks at the bandage on the woman’s forearm, the only visible sign of her suicide bid. The crucifix is gone from round her neck. She tries a smile.
‘How’s Marlon?’
Anjelica shrugs, nodding towards the cubicles.
‘Sleeping.’
No let-up in the frostiness. Time for a firmer tone.
‘Did Nigel Cundy give you my message last week, Anjelica?’
A frown spreads across the woman’s face. She seems to be struggling to focus, once again fighting her way through a haze of antidepressants.
‘Nigel who?’
‘The prison psychologist. I asked him to let you know that I’m doing all I can to investigate your case, to get it to the Criminal Cases Review Commission.’
‘He mentioned it when he came to see me in the hospital wing.’
‘You don’t sound too happy about it.’
Anjelica sniffs.
‘You’re more interested in Kiki and Stacey than me. One’s dead, one’s out. I’m still here.’
Chastened, Morgan painstakingly takes Anjelica through the progress she has made: her conversations with Detective Inspector Brett Tucker and the whisky-soaked solicitor, Grahame Millar. She doesn’t mention the fact that both men remain convinced of Anjelica’s guilt, nor does she bring up her appointments with the fire scene investigator and forensic odontoloist. Both have finally answered her emails.
Crucially, she omits to mention her own sighting of Karl Savage. Prison can drive a person to despair even if they’re guilty; for an innocent, it’s the ninth circle of hell. Aside from Morgan (and Lissa on a good day) the world believes that Karl is dead: police, press, public, even Anjelica herself. Everyone ‘knows’ he died in the fire. Offering a ray of hope that may prove false is worse than no hope at all. Before Morgan discloses what she knows, she needs incontrovertible proof that Savage is alive. Meanwhile, she needs to find out more about the body found at the base of the cliffs.
‘You heard how Kiki died?’
Anjelica nods, fanning her face with her hand. ‘But I don’t believe it was suicide.’
‘Because?’
‘She was always talking about getting out, how she and Charlie were going to have a fresh start. And she was tougher than me. She had everything to live for. So jump off a cliff? Kiki? Not in a million years.’