Kill Me Twice

by Simon Booker

  ‘Maybe guilt over killing a sixteen-year-old boy was overwhelming,’ says Morgan. ‘Perhaps getting out of prison was too much to handle. Maybe she was scared of what lay ahead.’

  A shrug.

  ‘I heard her talking to Stacey, making plans. Didn’t sound scared to me.’

  ‘What plans?’

  ‘Move to the country, start a new life.’

  Morgan holds the woman’s gaze.

  ‘What are you not telling me?’

  Anjelica shifts in her chair, eyes flickering towards the door. The officer is outside, pretending to study her clipboard.

  ‘Nothing,’ says Anjelica.

  ‘Kiki had bruises on her arm. Know anything about that?’

  A shrug.

  ‘Maybe she got into a fight before she got out.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  A sigh.

  ‘Fine,’ says Anjelica. ‘She got into a fight.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘You seriously expect me to answer that?’

  The heat in the airless room is growing more oppressive by the minute. Morgan can feel the dampness under her arms. She remembers a playground mantra: pigs sweat, men perspire, ladies feel the heat.

  Time for the crucial question.

  ‘How did Kiki get pregnant while she was inside?’

  Anjelica stiffens and shoots another glance at the heavyset woman in the doorway. Morgan sees their eyes meet. The officer draws breath to intervene but a cry goes up from the far side of the MBU.

  ‘Fucking BITCH!’

  A fight is kicking off. The officer shoots a warning glare at Anjelica before lumbering off in the direction of the fracas. Morgan must make the most of the guard’s absence. She leans forward. Keeps her voice low.

  ‘I’m doing all I can to help you but this has to be a two-way street. I need to know you’re being open with me, that you trust me the way I trust you.’

  Anjelica cranes her neck to peer out onto the unit. Morgan follows her gaze and catches a glimpse of a woman with tattoos on her shaved skull. Three officers are kettling her, separating her from another prisoner, trying to calm things down.

  ‘It’s just you and me,’ says Morgan. ‘Tell me how Kiki got pregnant while she was locked up for three and a half years.’

  The woman picks at the frayed edge of her bandage, a nervous tic.

  ‘You never heard this from me.’

  ‘I promise,’ says Morgan.

  Anjelica leans closer, her voice barely a whisper. Morgan can smell her sweat.

  ‘This isn’t a prison,’ she says. ‘It’s a baby farm.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You think Kiki was the first to get knocked up in here?’ says Anjelica. ‘Some of these girls, they’ve got nothing except the clothes they stand up in. Literally. No family, no home, no hope. So when a bloke pays some attention, offers a future, they listen.’

  ‘What kind of future?’

  ‘Get pregnant, get paid. Five grand. Might not sound a lot to someone like you, but for them it’s like winning the lottery.’

  Morgan remembers Kiki’s attempt to sleep in the inn’s wheelie bin.

  ‘Who’s this “bloke”?’

  Anjelica purses her lips. Morgan perseveres.

  ‘Someone in here, on the men’s wing?’

  ‘Let’s just say, he’s the inside man.’

  ‘He has sex with women in prison?’

  Anjelica shakes her head.

  ‘No sex. No physical contact.’

  ‘So he’s a sperm donor?’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘Not his own, in case he gets caught down the line. DNA testing, you get me? This is a man with a plan.’

  ‘Clearly,’ says Morgan. ‘This “baby farm”, how does it work? What happens to the babies?’

  But Anjelica shakes her head. Morgan is pushing too far, too fast.

  ‘All I’m saying is, Kiki was one of two girls getting out this month, all set to collect her five grand and make a fresh start.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Stacey Brown,’ says Anjelica. She casts a nervous glance towards the tattooed woman still scuffling with staff on the far side of the unit. ‘No one will talk to you about this stuff. Everyone knows what’s going on, including the screws. But no one wants to lose their job.’

  ‘How does the inside man work?’ says Morgan. The answer makes the blood thump in her ears.

  ‘He’s got someone outside – the sperm donor. But the inside man can’t bring it in, not since they stepped up searches for staff as well as visitors. So the outside man plants, like, a little test tube on an unsuspecting visitor, then the inside man takes care of things in here and—’

  She stops mid-sentence, sitting bolt upright and staring at the door.

  A man’s voice.

  ‘Time’s up, Miss.’

  Morgan turns to see Trevor Jukes in the doorway, arms folded. She feels a rush of blood to the head as she recalls her last visit: the bull-necked officer’s insistence on placing her jacket in a locker; the ripped lining into which Lissa had sewn the plastic pouch.

  What was in the pouch, Lissa?

  Something hard, like a glass tube. It felt cold. I think it had, like, ice in it?

  How long do sperm live? An hour? Two? Longer packed in ice? Morgan isn’t sure but she knows beyond any doubt that she is looking at the inside man, and that his sperm donor accomplice is ‘Pablo’, otherwise known as Karl Savage.

  Anjelica is saying something to Jukes but Morgan can’t take it in, her head feels as if it might explode.

  Focus.

  ‘We’re talking about my appeal,’ Anjelica tells the bald-headed officer.

  He fakes a half-smile and turns to Morgan.

  ‘I’ll take you back to the gate, Miss.’

  ‘We’re not done,’ says Anjelica.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ says Jukes. He nods towards the fracas. ‘Can’t put visitors at risk.’ He holds the door open. ‘After you, Miss. Wouldn’t want to make visiting orders hard to come by, would we?’

  Cheeks burning, Morgan considers her options, then turns to Anjelica.

  ‘I’ll be in touch. I promise.’

  She follows Jukes along the corridors. There’s no small talk, the silence broken only by the jangle of keys on his belt. How much did he hear of the conversation with Anjelica? If he is the inside man, he’s not to be messed with. Did he have something to do with Kiki McNeil’s death? Or is Morgan’s imagination as overheated as the prison?

  Reaching the main block, Jukes unlocks the final gate, ushering her into the reception area, scrupulously polite.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ he says, holding her gaze a beat too long. ‘And your lovely daughter.’

  Only when he’s walking away, whistling the theme from The Archers, only as she steps through the gates into the cool of the shaded prison yard does Morgan realise how much she is trembling.

  Eleven

  Back at the Beach Inn, mouth dry, heart racing, Morgan goes into her room and boots up her MacBook.

  Google search: penalty for smuggling drugs into prison

  3,760,000 results (0.49 seconds)

  Possession: up to seven years in prison and unlimited fine

  Supply and production: life in prison and unlimited fine

  She’s ninety-five per cent certain the pouch contained sperm, not drugs. Is that enough to risk shopping Jukes to the prison governor? Or to the police? To risk a prison sentence? There are plenty of results for ‘smuggling sperm out of prison’ – accounts of inmates desperate to impregnate wives and girlfriends – but a search for ‘smuggling sperm into prison’ produces nothing. Who would do such a thing?

  And what if she’s wrong? What if it was drugs? She tries to imagine the conversation with the police.

  –A prison officer called Trevor Jukes is involved in a baby farm racket.

  –What makes you so sure?

  –I can’t say (not without incriminating
myself and my daughter) but there may be a link to Kiki McNeil’s murder.

  –Kiki McNeil jumped off a cliff.

  –I don’t believe that. She had everything to live for. I think Karl Savage is involved.

  Pause.

  –Karl Savage?

  –Yes.

  Pause.

  –The Karl Savage who died in an arson attack? The Karl Savage who was murdered by the mother of his baby?

  –He’s alive. Which makes Anjelica innocent. He’s called Pablo now, by the way.

  –You’re saying he’s a ‘dead man walking’? Literally?

  –If you want to put it like that, yes. He had a fling with my daughter and beat us both up but now he’s disappeared. He’s probably living in a stolen camper van with dodgy number plates so he can avoid the ANPR cameras.

  Pause.

  –Are you the Morgan Vine who wrote the book on miscarriages of justice?

  –Yes.

  –The woman who believes we lock up innocent people for the hell of it?

  –That’s not what I believe. That’s not what the book’s about. Hello? Hello?

  A demoralising prospect. But a baby is missing and a woman is dead. A single mother, like Morgan.

  No, not like her.

  A million times worse off. Dubbed ‘Elephant Girl’. Pimped out by her own mother from the age of thirteen. God knows what horrors she endured before ending up behind bars. Prison was probably a welcome relief.

  Then there’s her baby.

  Charlie.

  Morgan remembers holding him. The smell of his skin. His impossibly tiny fingers. His heart-shaped mole.

  She picks up the phone.

  The conversation with Rook goes according to expectations. The DI gives short shrift to any suggestion that Karl Savage is still alive, but after much badgering (and a shameful amount of flirtation on Morgan’s part) he agrees to question Trevor Jukes. He also promises not to identify his source. But Morgan knows the die is cast. Jukes will have little trouble working out her involvement. She recalls the threat implied by his parting shot.

  Take care of yourself. And your lovely daughter.

  Dressing quickly, she goes in search of Lissa. She finds her hunched on an old leather sofa in the inn’s lounge, escaping the stifling heat of her room. Still pale, she’s barefoot, wearing cut-offs that accentuate her long legs and draw the eye to her ankle tattoo: a red devil, complete with horns. She’s scrolling through a newspaper report on the death of Kiki McNeil. When she looks up from her iPad, her eyes shine with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry you lost your friend,’ says Morgan.

  Lissa says nothing. She reaches for a Kleenex.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Lissa blows her nose. ‘When did everything get so fucked up?’

  Morgan tries to strike a nonchalant tone.

  ‘Why don’t you go and see your dad for a few weeks?’

  ‘Er, maybe because I can’t afford the flight to LA?’

  ‘My treat.’

  Lissa stays silent for a moment. When she speaks again her voice is barely audible.

  ‘I don’t deserve a treat.’

  Morgan leans against the door jamb and waits for a couple to pass.

  ‘Go and stay with your dad for a while, figure out what you want to do with your life. I’ll sub you for a month but then you need to find a job.’

  Lissa blows her nose again.

  ‘Where did this come from?’

  ‘Just helping you back on track.’ Morgan hates lying by omission. ‘Still want to be a reality TV star? And get a boob job?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Thank God.

  ‘So what’s Plan B?’

  Lissa screws up her eyes.

  ‘I’m thinking of becoming an expert in, like, body language?’ She fixes her gaze on her mother’s face. ‘You’re chewing your lip, the way you do when you’re trying not to say what you’re really thinking.’

  ‘How did you turn into such a smart-arse?’

  ‘Just lucky, I guess.’

  Morgan appraises her daughter. The bruises are almost gone, the hairstyle is gamine, but the circles under her eyes speak of sleepless nights. Kiki’s death has hit her hard. But that doesn’t mean she’ll do her mother’s bidding.

  Stubbornness is in the genes. Morgan was the same at twenty – is the same today. She has a choice: to persevere with her attempt to convince Lissa she’s simply feeling generous, or bow to the inevitable and tell the truth.

  Truth wins.

  She sits on the sofa and describes her latest visit to HMP Dungeness and the menacing encounter with Jukes.

  Lissa remains quiet for a long moment then gets to her feet and heads for her room. Morgan follows her along the corridor, brushing past the wind chimes.

  ‘No way am I going to LA,’ says Lissa.

  ‘I’d be happier if you went till this is over.’

  ‘And leave you with all the crazies? Not going to happen.’ Morgan draws breath to protest but her daughter is in full flow. ‘I’m not a kid, Mum. I should never have let Pablo bully me into planting stuff in your jacket. It’s my fault you’re mixed up in this. I’m not going anywhere.’ She lets herself into her room, flops on the bed and gives her mother a defiant stare. ‘Unless you come too.’

  ‘Not an option,’ says Morgan, standing in the doorway and folding her arms. ‘I made a promise to Anjelica. I intend to keep it.’

  ‘So we’re agreed,’ says Lissa. ‘We see this through. Together.’ She ticks off a list on her fingers. ‘Figure out who was the body in Karl’s flat; get Anjelica to the appeal court; expose the baby farm. Piece of cake.’

  But her voice lacks conviction. She’s putting on a show, trying to sound more confident than she feels. Morgan opens the window, letting air into the stiflingly hot room while trying – and failing – to figure out how to force her daughter onto a plane.

  ‘OK,’ she says, surrendering to the inevitable. ‘But this isn’t a game. Understood?’

  Lissa nods and chews on a fingernail. Her eyes look watery. Once again, she seems on edge, on the verge of tears. Her voice is hoarse.

  ‘So now what do we do?’

  *

  The call to Nigel Cundy doesn’t go well.

  ‘What do you know about a baby farm in the prison?’

  Clutching her iPhone, Morgan is standing on the porch outside Lissa’s room, smoking a roll-up while looking out to sea.

  ‘What have you heard?’ says the shrink.

  ‘Why are you answering my question with a question?’

  ‘If I knew about a baby farm why would I tell a journalist?’

  ‘Are staff scared they’ll lose their jobs, Nigel?’ Another pause. Morgan perseveres. ‘I read about a new Home Office initiative. Prison disciplinary panels. They can sack people for bringing a prison into disrepute.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Might such a panel have anything to do with the last governor taking early retirement for “personal reasons”? Some kind of cover-up? Before “Genghis” Carne arrived?’

  ‘I’m hanging up now,’ says Nigel.

  ‘One more thing: where did Stacey Brown go after her release?’

  ‘Goodbye, Morgan.’

  ‘Come on Nigel, be a mensch.’

  A sigh.

  ‘Like all prisoners, Stacey Brown has an offender management supervisor. She’s on a mentoring scheme. She’ll have gone to a hostel.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t know or can’t say?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Last question: do you believe Kiki McNeil committed suicide?’

  ‘Again, I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m asking what you believe.’

  ‘What do you believe?’

  Morgan considers the question.

  ‘I think someone pushed her.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Yet.’

  ‘I’m hanging u
p now.’

  ‘Bye, Nigel. Always a pleasure.’

  Ending the call, she hears sobbing coming from Lissa’s room. Entering, she finds her daughter weeping copiously while watching a news report on the search for Charlie and the death of Kiki McNeil. She sits on the bed, gently stroking Lissa’s hair. They hear the official police verdict: a tragic suicide, no suspicious circumstances.

  But fears are growing for baby Charlie, still missing after a week.

  The report into the woman’s conviction and death – the only public recognition of a brief, miserable existence – lasts forty seconds. Morgan is overwhelmed by a sense of outrage on Kiki’s behalf. Cruelly treated as a child, what kind of example had she been set? What chance did she have? True, she was responsible for a boy’s death – accidental, perhaps, but caused by carelessness. She took a life. Destroyed a family. Unforgivable? The boy’s parents didn’t seem to think so, so who is Morgan to judge?

  And is she so different?

  If she hadn’t had a ‘decent upbringing’ (blighted by her mother’s death, but ‘decent’ nonetheless), who was to say she wouldn’t have turned out like Kiki? Both were members of the single mothers’ sisterhood – a club unlike any other. Had Morgan been in Kiki’s shoes, it could have been her mangled body at the base of the cliffs; the missing baby could have been Lissa.

  Innocent. Defenceless.

  The TV news ends with a jaunty sign-off from the presenter.

  Time for the weather.

  Heavy rain is on the way.

  The Indian summer is over.

  Twelve

  KARL

  The cellar is cold. Dark. Smells of damp. She locked him in as soon as he got home from school, just as she does every Friday, releasing him on Sunday night in time for his bath. When he goes to school on Monday no one will guess how he spent the weekend.

  He has no idea of the time. The house has been silent for ages. She’s probably been in the pub. Spending all her benefits.

  But now she’s back. He can hear her upstairs, laughing with someone – a man, as usual. It’s never the same man but there’s always laughing at first, followed by other sounds.

  Kissing.

  Panting.

  Moaning.

  Then shouting.

  Karl doesn’t like the shouting. He’s not used to voices at all, not in the house. It’s three years since Daddy died and she still hasn’t spoken to him – not once – not since those five last words.