by Simon Booker
To her surprise, instead of looking affronted, the DI meets her gaze.
‘I beat you to it. Called my guv on the way here.’
‘And?’
‘Like I said, increased patrols is the best she can do.’
Morgan frowns.
‘Did you tell her what happened?’
He nods. ‘She was very clear. She said, “I’ve fewer staff than three years ago. Smaller budgets. There was a thorough Met investigation into Savage’s murder, followed by a trial. The perpetrator is in prison. But you want me to believe the victim has risen from the dead, like Jesus sodding Christ? To sanction twenty-four-hour protection against a bloody zombie?”’
Morgan’s mood is taking a dive – a combination of delayed shock and rising frustration. Losing her temper will not help. She needs this man on her side.
‘At least send SOCOs to the graveyard, check for traces of his urine, do a DNA search.’
‘After seven hours of rain?’
Morgan says nothing, letting the silence do its work.
‘OK,’ he says, sighing. ‘It’s worth a shot. Assuming his DNA is in the system.’
A thought bubbles to the surface of Morgan’s weary brain.
‘What about the baby farm? If you find babies conceived after he’s supposed to have died, and if they match his DNA, surely that proves he’s alive.’
‘Not if they used frozen sperm.’
‘But what if it wasn’t frozen?’
The policeman chews the inside of his lip, thinking.
‘OK, I’ll talk to the prison, ask about mums who’ve been released recently.’
‘Like Kiki McNeil?’ Morgan’s voice is full of reproach.
His jaw tightens. ‘We’re doing all we can to find Charlie.’
Another thought struggles to fight its way through the fog in her brain. She tells the DI about Stacey Brown and her baby. The flight to Istanbul. The woman’s return. The houseboat registered in Jukes’s name. He listens, jotting in his notebook.
‘I’ll check the houseboat. I’ll talk to Jukes again – and the governor. But you need to understand the reality of this situation. Prisons are a world apart: normal rules don’t apply.’
‘They keep records, don’t they? Names, dates, a log of where prisoners go after release.’
‘Don’t hold your breath. If they want to drag things out, hide behind “prison protocol”, they can take for ever.’
Morgan stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray and glances towards the Mini. Lissa is blowing her nose, talking on her mobile.
The idea strikes with the force of a fist.
‘What about a prenatal DNA test?’
Neville follows her gaze, arching an eyebrow.
‘On Lissa’s baby?’
‘Why not?’
He thinks for a moment, scratching the side of his nose.
‘The law stipulates that prenatal DNA tests can only be done with the consent of the man presumed to be the father.’
‘Assuming he’s alive,’ says Morgan.
‘Obviously.’
Morgan allows a pause before playing her trump card.
‘But if Karl’s dead – at least from a legal perspective – then the law can “stipulate” till it’s blue in the face. If the father’s dead then the problem of consent can’t exist.’
He nods, weighing her words.
‘I’ll talk to Tucker at the Met,’ he says, sighing. ‘Check they’ve got Karl’s DNA on the database.’
No mistaking the defeatism in his voice. Morgan sighs.
‘Work with me, Neville. The baby farm, Stacey, Kiki, Jukes, Karl – they’re all connected. Meanwhile a woman is banged up for a murder she didn’t commit, my daughter’s pregnant by a sociopath and I’m terrified.’
An exaggeration. She’s scared, God knows, but mostly angry.
No, furious.
‘OK,’ says Rook, pocketing his notebook. ‘Looks like I’ve got my work cut out.’
He looks up. She follows his gaze. Lissa is approaching, crunching across the shingle.
‘We’re sorted,’ she says, her voice thick with cold. ‘I called Ben. We can stay in his spare room.’
‘Who’s Ben?’ says Neville, quickly adding, ‘Sorry, none of my business.’
‘Ben Gaminara.’ says Lissa, cocking a knowing smile at her mother. But Morgan frowns.
‘We barely know the guy.’
‘Got a better idea?’
Morgan does have a better idea – a Plan B that came to her at 5 a.m. while she was nursing her head and soothing her worried daughter back to sleep. But now is not the time to broach it. She steps out of the car, watching as Rook walks towards the house. One of the SOCOs is waiting for him.
Morgan puts her arm around her daughter.
‘We’re not damsels in distress, Lissa. We can look after ourselves.’
Lissa pulls away, eyes flashing with anger.
‘Why do you make everything so fucking difficult?’
Morgan counts to three, takes her daughter’s hand and leads her towards the Mini.
‘Where are we going?’ Lissa’s voice is sulky, like a petulant teenager.
‘To check out of the inn.’
A pleading tone enters her daughter’s voice.
‘And then we go to Ben’s?’
‘All right.’ Morgan keeps her tone gentle. ‘If it makes you feel better.’
Lissa blows her nose.
‘When are you going to tell me what really happened last night?’
‘I already have,’ says Morgan.
‘You seriously expect me to believe he just took you for a ride in the country?’
Morgan forces a smile. The temptation to tell the unvarnished truth is trumped by maternal instinct, the overwhelming need to protect her daughter.
One day Lissa will understand. But not today.
‘Trust me, I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Let’s go and pack.’
Twenty-Six
Ben is out most of the time, confirming his reputation as a workaholic, returning merely to sleep and shower. The spare room of the Canterbury house is small but cosy. Twin beds. Crisp, clean sheets. The black cat is still in residence, but there’s no sign of the pink bra or its owner.
On the second morning of her stay, Morgan is woken by the distant sound of the cathedral bells, followed by an 8 a.m. call from DI Rook.
‘Want the good news or the bad news?’
Morgan yawns and stretches. She can hear Lissa snoring softly in the next bed.
‘Too early for games, Neville. I haven’t had coffee.’
‘Karl Savage was never arrested. His DNA isn’t on the database.’
The cat with no name jumps on the bed.
‘And the good news?’
‘Tucker says the Met kept Karl’s teeth. They’re in storage.’
Morgan sighs, reaching out to stroke the cat.
‘That’s no use. They’re not his teeth; they belong to whoever died in the fire.’
‘So you say. But if so, they may match someone else on the database. Which would prove the body wasn’t Karl’s. Which would be a start.’
Brightening, Morgan sits up in bed.
‘Any luck with Jatinder Singh?’ Like the DI, she’s been trying to reach the elusive odontologist, but with no success.
‘He’s still in the US,’ says Rook. ‘I keep leaving voicemails, but he hasn’t called back.’
‘Do you think he’s giving you the runaround?’
‘His secretary says he’s just busy. Big lecture tour. Seven cities in five days.’
‘Do you believe her?’
‘No reason not to.’
Morgan recalls her meeting in the all-white Harley Street office.
Is it possible to do DNA tests from teeth?
Yes.
Was that done in this case?
No. The police enquiry didn’t need to go as far as DNA testing. The radiographs told them all they needed to know.
The cat is p
urring.
‘What’s the next step?’
‘I’ll liaise with the Met, apply to log the teeth out of the storage facility.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘How long is a piece of string?’
‘Not helpful.’
‘They’re busy, Morgan. We’re all bloody busy.’
*
She continues to refine Plan B, discussing the details with Lissa’s father in California, but only when their daughter is out of earshot. Although still unaware of Lissa’s pregnancy, it’s a relief that Cameron is willing to cooperate with Morgan’s scheme, quickly grasping the urgency of the situation. The absence of Karl’s DNA on the police database means there is no need for Lissa to undergo an amniocentesis, which is probably just as well, for the sake of the baby.
Lissa has confined herself to bed, emerging to sip an occasional bowl of Heinz tomato soup or eat half a Weetabix. She spends her waking hours in bed, trying to reassure herself by compulsively reading about sociopaths on her iPad. If this goes on much longer Morgan will force her daughter to go to the doctor, to find out which anti-depressants are compatible with pregnancy.
Seventy-two hours into their stay in Canterbury, DI Rook calls again: another update. As promised, he’s checked out the Wandering Star houseboat. No sign of life, no trace of Stacey or her baby. A check with the UK Border Agency has confirmed she flew to Istanbul, returning three days later, since when she seems to have gone off the radar.
Rook has also interviewed Trevor Jukes for a second time, but the prison officer continues to deny knowing the whereabouts of the former inmate or her baby. Turns out he bought the Wandering Star eighteen months ago and plans to use it for holidays as soon as he carries out the necessary renovations. Meanwhile the vessel is legally berthed at the bottom of a farmer’s field and remains empty, or so Jukes insists.
‘He’s lying,’ says Morgan. ‘I’m positive Stacey stayed there with the baby.’
‘Your word against his,’ says Rook. ‘You need to do better.’
‘Makes two of us,’ says Morgan. ‘What about the prison governor?’
A sigh.
‘Carne’s hard to pin down. I’m working on him.’
‘Work harder.’
*
On the fourth morning – the day when all hell breaks loose – Morgan is woken by a noise from downstairs. It’s shortly after eight o’clock. Since the encounter with Karl Savage she has slept with a knife under her pillow. Now, barefoot and clad in knickers and T-shirt, she creeps downstairs and finds herself brandishing the blade at her startled host. Hollow-eyed and gaunt, Ben is returning from an all-night job investigating a suspicious lorry fire on the M20 outside Dover. Exhausted, his voice is barely a whisper.
‘Sixteen adults. Four kids. Locked inside a refrigerated lorry. Someone set fire to it.’
Following him into the kitchen, Morgan remains silent for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is low.
‘Refugees? Migrants?’
‘I don’t know. Either way, they were desperate.’
He places a Sainsbury’s bag on the table then stares out of the window.
‘My guess: they died of carbon monoxide poisoning and the driver panicked. He torched the lorry, trying to hide the evidence, and now he’s disappeared.’
Blowing out her cheeks, Morgan stands at the sink, gazing at the grey light of morning. Taking a breath, she sets the kettle to boil. Ben clears his throat, making an effort to leave the night’s harrowing events at the door.
‘It’s weird coming home to someone,’ he says softly, watching her set mugs on the table. ‘Good weird,’ he adds.
Morgan smiles.
‘We won’t stay long, I promise. You know what they say about fish and guests.’
‘No?’
‘After three days they both start to stink.’
His smile is weak, but there is warmth in his tired eyes.
‘Is Lissa asleep?’
Morgan nods, busying herself with the cafetière. He notes a tremor in her hand.
‘You’re shivering.’
‘Heating hasn’t come on yet.’
‘Hang on a sec’.’
He goes upstairs, returning moments later with a red and black lumberjack shirt. She slips it on like a dressing gown, rolling up the sleeves. It dwarfs her body.
‘Suits you.’
They take their coffee into the sitting room. He sits in the armchair; she perches on the leather sofa. During their brief encounters over the last few days she has updated him on the events that prompted Lissa to ask for help from a virtual stranger. The man is a good listener. Time to return the compliment.
‘Want to talk about it?’ says Morgan. ‘The people in the lorry?’
His expression darkens. He shakes his head.
‘Not much of a talker.’ He sips his coffee, staring into the middle distance before offering half a smile.
‘Can I ask a question?’ says Morgan.
A nod.
‘How would you go about finding an arsonist?’
‘Are we talking generally or someone specific?’
‘Generally.’
She watches his Adam’s apple move as he swallows another sip of coffee.
‘A first step could be to check out the scene of the crime. Some pyromaniacs get a kick out of gawking at their “work”. They can’t resist watching people trying to work out how they set the fire. It makes them feel superior because most of them are inadequate.’ He stretches out his long legs. ‘Can we change the subject? Tell me how you and Lissa are getting on.’
‘As well as can be expected – isn’t that the phrase?’ Morgan nods towards her laptop. ‘I’ve been digging into Karl’s background.’
‘And?’
‘He grew up in the East End of London. The local paper ran a story about his mum’s death. She sounds like a nasty piece of work. Locked him in the cellar every weekend. God knows what else.’
Ben warms his hands on the mug.
‘What’s that Jesuit saying? Give me the child until he is seven and I will give you the man.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I’m living proof. My parents died when I was nine, along with my kid brother. A Boxing Day fire. My Christmas present was a spaceship. There was no battery so Dad took the one from the smoke alarm. I remember him scribbling a Post-it note to replace it as soon as the shops reopened, but our Christmas tree lights were cheap crap, from a stall in the market . . .’
He tails off, letting the sentence finish itself.
Lost for words, Morgan says nothing. Puts a hand on his shoulder.
He doesn’t react, sitting in silence for a moment. Getting to his feet, he heads for the staircase, avoiding her eye while calling over his shoulder.
‘I need a shower,’ he says, nodding towards the Sainsbury’s bag. ‘If you feel like rustling up bacon and eggs I’ll be fifteen minutes.’
Watching him go, she boots up her laptop and scans the news websites for any mention of the search for Kiki’s baby, but the story has slipped off the agenda. The official version – just another depressed woman ending her own life – has become an accepted truth. The waters have closed over Kiki’s head.
In the kitchen, Morgan grills the bacon and poaches the eggs. There’s no point in cooking for Lissa. Left undisturbed she’ll sleep till lunchtime. Her cold has cleared up but her mood is changeable, to say the least. Morgan has caught her crying on more than one occasion but the girl insists she’s just tired and emotional, a mass of raging hormones. Morgan knows there’s something else, something preying on her daughter’s mind, but Lissa is in no mood to be challenged.
As Morgan sets a fresh pot of coffee on the table, the doorbell rings. She calls upstairs.
‘Ben?’
No reply. She slips the chain on the door, then opens it a crack. Neville Rook is outside.
‘Your mobile’s off.’
Unhooking the chain, she ushers him inside. She ca
n see him taking stock of the lumberjack shirt, but he makes no mention of it.
‘The SOCOs checked out the churchyard,’ he says. ‘No trace of the man’s urine. Not surprising after that rain.’
‘Did they find anything at my place?’
He shakes his head.
‘So why are you here?’
She turns at the sound of Ben coming down the stairs, naked except for the bath towel around his waist.
‘Do you two know each other?’ says Morgan.
Ben extends a handshake.
‘Ben Gaminara.’
‘DI Rook.’
The police officer glances at his watch, then gives Ben a quick smile.
‘Mind giving us a moment?’
‘No problem,’ says Ben. He grabs a plate of bacon and eggs, along with a knife and fork, then heads into the sitting room and closes the door.
Rook can’t resist a dig.
‘Very cosy.’
Morgan fights the temptation to roll her eyes.
Men . . .
Sitting at the table, she gestures for the DI to follow suit.
‘Coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’
He’s trying not to look at her legs.
‘So?’ she says.
‘I had a call last night. From the prison governor. Turns out he has been investigating the baby farm.’
Morgan frowns.
‘Why did he tell me there was nothing to investigate?’
A shrug. ‘Prison’s a closed world. Think North Korea with “Genghis” Carne as Kim Jong-un. They don’t tell us anything unless they have to.’
‘But there is a baby farm?’
‘There’s an investigation. Big difference.’ He straightens his tie, then gets to the nub of the matter. ‘He called to tell me his main informant was attacked last night. Slashed across the face with a razor blade melted into a toothbrush.’
Suddenly, Morgan’s heart is racing. ‘Anjelica Fry?’
Rook nods.
‘She needs specialist care. They’ve taken her to Ashford hospital. Which means the prison can’t guarantee to keep a lid on what happened and there’s likely to be a leak. Which is why Carne called. To keep me “in the loop”.’
‘Why are you telling me?’
‘He asked me to.’
‘Because?’
‘He knows you have a special interest in her case. He’s trying to put his finger in the dyke, to stop any leaks spiralling out of control. He thinks the attack on Anjelica is tied to the baby farm investigation. But he doesn’t want you splashing it all over the papers while it’s ongoing. He’d rather have you inside the tent than outside pissing in.’