Kill Me Twice

by Simon Booker

  Morgan nods, sipping her coffee.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’ll recover, but the wounds sound severe.’

  ‘Does Carne know who did it?’

  Rook shakes his head.

  ‘Usual prison crap – no one saw a thing. They’re looking for the weapon but he’s not holding out much hope.’

  ‘It was Jukes,’ says Morgan. ‘Either he did it, or he made it happen.’

  ‘There’s no proof,’ says Carne. ‘But Carne has suspended him, “pending further enquiries”.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘His name was mentioned in connection with the baby farm.’

  ‘Mentioned by Anjelica?’

  A nod.

  ‘Which is why Jukes wanted to shut her up,’ says Morgan. ‘At best it’s a warning, at worst attempted murder.’

  ‘Either way, it’s an internal matter,’ says Rook. ‘That’s how it’s going to stay.’

  ‘What happens when she goes back inside?’

  ‘Under normal circumstances, she’d be moved to the vulnerable prisoners’ unit, but she has a baby, so things are . . . complicated.’

  He looks away. Morgan doesn’t like how this is shaping up.

  ‘You mean they’re going to take her son?’

  The policeman doesn’t meet her eye.

  ‘The governor’s first responsibility is safety. If he believes Anjelica can be best protected on VPU, without her baby, then that’s how it’ll have to be.’

  Morgan feels a wave of anger and despair.

  ‘What will happen to Marlon?’

  ‘He’ll be placed in care.’

  ‘You mean, tossed on the scrapheap.’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘It’s worse.’ Morgan puts down her mug. ‘Anjelica tried to kill herself once already, Neville. Taking Marlon will be the final straw.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  His mobile rings. Morgan gets to her feet and leaves him to take the call. Walking into the sitting room, she finds Ben watching the news. A report on the people who died in the lorry. Twenty lost souls in the back of a refrigerated HGV filled with imported fish. His plate sits on the coffee table, the food untouched. His eyes are red.

  ‘You OK?’

  A nod. He holds up a hand, blocking more questions.

  Morgan closes the door softly, walking back to the kitchen as Rook ends his call and pockets his phone.

  ‘That was the Met’s storage facility, calling about my request for Karl Savage’s teeth.’ He clears his throat, embarrassed. ‘They’re missing.’

  Morgan’s eyes widen in disbelief.

  ‘Lost?’

  A shrug. ‘Things get moved around, reorganised, misplaced. Bottom line: they’re not there. The computer’s crashed so they can’t be sure who signed them out. They’ve referred me to the SIO.’

  ‘DI Tucker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Morgan sighs. She can hear Lissa’s phone ringing upstairs. Glancing at his watch, Rook heads into the hall. Morgan follows. He turns, eyes filled with concern.

  ‘Are you OK, Morgan?’

  She manages a smile. She seems to be back in favour. Perhaps her graveyard ordeal has earned some sympathy.

  ‘Never better.’

  She manages to keep the smile in place until he’s gone. Upstairs, Lissa’s phone is ringing again, the sound vibrating through the floor. Morgan goes back into the kitchen to clear the table and stack the dishwasher. Mission accomplished, she heads upstairs and goes into the room she shares with her daughter.

  Lissa is lying on the floor.

  Gasping for air.

  Eyes rolling back in her head.

  Another panic attack.

  Morgan falls to her knees.

  ‘Lissa? Can you hear me?’

  No response. The breathing becomes increasingly laboured.

  ‘I’m here, Lissa . . . Mum’s here . . . Try and breathe slowly . . .’ The gasping continues. Lissa is staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide open. ‘You’re not in any danger. I’m here. I will stay with you.’

  Her daughter’s breathing is starting to calm down, just a little, but enough to give hope that the worst is over. Morgan takes Lissa’s hand, gently stroking her wrist, speaking softly, repeating comforting words designed to soothe, over and over, until finally her daughter is able to stop gasping for breath.

  ‘It’s OK,’ says Morgan. ‘Take your time. I’m here.’

  Lissa shakes her head, pointing at something on the bed. Her mobile. Morgan picks it up.

  ‘Was it the phone call? Is that what triggered the attack?’

  A nod.

  ‘Who was it? Who called?’

  Another gasp, then two words uttered in between gulps of air.

  ‘He. Did.’

  ‘Karl?’

  A nod.

  ‘What did he say?’

  Lissa shakes her head.

  ‘Did he threaten you?’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘He didn’t. Say. Anything.’

  ‘How do you know it was him? Did you recognise his number?’

  A shake of the head. Another gulp of air.

  ‘Voicemail.’

  Morgan wakes Lissa’s phone then taps the voicemail icon and holds the phone to her ear. For a moment there is silence on the line. Then the sound of someone breathing.

  ‘How can you be sure it was him?’

  Lissa holds a finger to her lips, urging her mother to hold the phone closer to her ear.

  ‘Listen,’ she whispers.

  Morgan strains to hear but there is only silence on the line.

  Then she catches it. The sound that haunts her dreams, turning them into nightmares.

  Clink-rasp.

  She lowers the phone.

  Makes a decision.

  It’s time for Plan B.

  Twenty-Seven

  The following morning, Morgan accepts Ben’s offer of a lift to Heathrow. The rush-hour drive from Kent passes in bleary-eyed silence apart from Lissa’s occasional sulky questions.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I told you. It’s a surprise.’

  ‘Since when do I like surprises?’

  ‘Everyone likes surprises.’

  ‘Why are you treating me like a five-year-old?’

  ‘You’ll understand when we get there.’

  If the police can’t protect us, we need to protect ourselves.

  Morgan hasn’t bothered asking Rook to trace the call that triggered her daughter’s latest panic attack. What would be the point? Karl is ‘off the grid’, most likely in the company of Spike. His phone will doubtless turn out to be a pay-as-you-go mobile – totally untraceable – and as far as the DI is concerned Morgan is already overdrawn at the bank of goodwill.

  Clink-rasp.

  The menacing sound has been playing inside her head throughout the last twenty-four hours, while she was making the arrangements that will set Plan B in motion. She has secretly packed a suitcase for her daughter, concealing it in the boot of Ben’s Range Rover. Under normal circumstances, she would have explained her thinking to Lissa, but these are not normal circumstances. What matters is getting her daughter out of harm’s way. If that involves subterfuge, then so be it.

  Morgan has confided in Ben but sworn him to secrecy. She’s hoping he will prove a calming influence if things get tense.

  Her phone beeps with a text.

  ‘Who’s that?’ says Lissa, briefly raising her eyes from her own mobile.

  ‘Neville Rook,’ says Morgan. ‘He’s trying to find out what happened to the teeth from the body in Karl’s flat.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No luck so far. But at least he’s on the case and keeping me posted.’

  ‘Only because he fancies you,’ says Lissa.

  Morgan says nothing. Ben clears his throat. Silence falls.

  Glancing in the wing mirror, Morgan’s at
tention is drawn to a Yamaha motorcycle swerving into the fast lane, then ducking back into the line of rush-hour traffic and disappearing behind a van. She wonders briefly if the biker might be Jukes. The thought doesn’t last long but keeps resurfacing as the miles flash by, niggling at her weary brain. An old joke bubbles to the surface.

  Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

  Ben steers the Range Rover into the airport’s multi-storey car park. Lissa frowns.

  ‘Why are we going to arrivals not departures?’

  ‘All part of the surprise,’ says Morgan.

  Her daughter mutters something under her breath.

  Inside the car park, Morgan opens the boot and takes out the suitcase.

  ‘Why the luggage?’ says Lissa.

  ‘Can you stop asking questions?’

  ‘Can you stop being so annoying?’

  In the arrivals hall Ben leads the way as the two women follow. Checking her watch, Morgan is relieved to discover they’re bang on schedule. She feels a surge of gratitude towards Ben.

  Punctual Ben. Dependable Ben. Straightforward Ben.

  All the things she used to find dull and unsexy.

  Not any more.

  Scanning the monitors, she sees the flight has landed ten minutes ahead of schedule.

  Baggage in hall.

  A cluster of minicab drivers and chauffeurs are grouped by the doors leading from the customs hall. And suddenly, there he is – a familiar, lanky figure loping through the doors with a group of trolley-wheeling passengers.

  ‘Surprise,’ says Morgan quietly. Lissa follows her gaze. Her eyes widen in disbelief.

  ‘Dad?’

  It’s years since Morgan last saw her ex in the flesh. Discussions about their daughter are generally conducted via email or Skype. Cameron is not as tall as she remembers, but he’s still in good shape – lean and sporting a tan, an expensive haircut and what Californians insist on calling ‘leisure wear’.

  London born and bred, he’s now a denizen of Malibu, an award-winning Hollywood screenwriter whose lifestyle couldn’t be more at odds with Morgan’s. They’ve had many differences (not least over whether or not she should go ahead with the pregnancy) but right now she’s flooded with relief that he has dropped everything to fly in from Los Angeles.

  Of course I’ll come. I’m glad you asked.

  She watches as he spreads his arms, embracing his bewildered daughter. Lissa wriggles free of the hug, bestowing a wary look on her parents.

  ‘Is this some crappy romcom where you tell me you’re getting back together?’

  ‘Let’s find somewhere to talk and get coffee,’ says Cameron, scanning the departures hall.

  ‘Fuck coffee,’ says Lissa. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  Morgan does her best to keep her smile in place. Time to come clean.

  ‘I asked your dad to come. I need to know you’re safe.’

  Lissa scowls.

  ‘What does that even mean?’

  Cameron smiles.

  ‘It means you and me get some father–daughter time together, in the countryside.’

  The scowl shows no sign of fading. ‘Are you serious?’

  Cameron blinks, taken back by the ferocity of the response. ‘You love the countryside.’

  Lissa looks at her parents, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘When will you get it? I’m NOT A FUCKING CHILD!’

  Her voice echoes throughout the arrivals hall. Heads turn. Ben clears his throat.

  ‘Can I say something?’ He extends a handshake to Cameron, who appears to notice him for the first time.

  ‘Ben. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  For the second time in forty-eight hours Morgan looks on as two men size each other up. Ben turns to Lissa. His face is grave.

  ‘Your mum needs to put an end to the Karl Savage situation and get Anjelica out of prison. But you’re her first priority. She needs to know you’re safe so she called your dad.’ He pauses. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way – I know you’re going through a crappy time – but you really need to give her a break and stop behaving like a brat.’ He smiles. ‘I mean that in the nicest possible way.’

  Lissa stares at him. Her father blinks again, then turns to Morgan. His expression says Who the fuck is this guy? Morgan smiles at her daughter, determined to see this through

  ‘I need to know you’re somewhere Karl can’t get at you.’

  ‘What about getting at you? I thought we were a team.’

  Morgan nods. ‘But I’m the captain.’ Lissa rolls her eyes as her mother continues. ‘Don’t make me go through all the “every crisis is an opportunity” crap. Have some time with your dad and let me do what I need to do.’ She pauses. ‘Besides, you’ve got stuff to talk about.’

  Cameron raises an eyebrow. ‘Stuff?’

  Morgan and Lissa exchange a look. Cameron doesn’t know his daughter is pregnant, let alone the identity of the father. Lissa will break the news in her own time. A series of long walks in the countryside will provide the perfect opportunity.

  Lissa scowls. ‘I’ll tell you later.’ She puts her hands on her hips and turns to Ben. ‘You knew about this?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  She falls silent for a moment, shaking her head from side to side, taking a moment to absorb this latest turn of events.

  ‘I’ve booked a five-star hotel,’ says Cameron, his tone switching to emollient. ‘Saunas, massage, facials.’

  Lissa remains unimpressed. ‘Jesus . . . you sound like Elton John.’ Despite the bravado, her eyes brim with tears. She turns to Morgan. ‘Who’ll look after you?’

  ‘I’m a big girl,’ says Morgan, sounding braver than she feels. ‘I don’t need looking after.’

  Ben clears his throat.

  ‘I’ll be around. Your mum can stay with me as long as she likes.’

  Morgan feels a mixture of gratitude and irritation but says nothing. The man doesn’t mean to be patronising, and anything to persuade Lissa to go with her father. Her daughter chews on the inside of her lip.

  ‘OK,’ she says, resignation entering her voice. She grabs the handle of her suitcase, glaring at Ben as she takes revenge on her mother. ‘Mum fancies you. Look after her or I’ll kill you.’

  Morgan rolls her eyes but says nothing. Ben swallows a smile then raises an eyebrow in Lissa’s direction.

  ‘Shall we give your mum and dad a couple of minutes?’

  Lissa nods, then hugs her mother and whispers in her ear.

  ‘How did you get to be so devious?’

  Morgan whispers back, echoing one of her daughter’s favourite phrases.

  ‘Just lucky, I guess.’

  They break the clinch. Lissa turns and wheels the suitcase towards the coffee shop, Ben following in her wake. Morgan turns to Cameron. Only now does she notice flecks of grey in his hair, the lines on his forehead and the circles under his eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘It was a big ask.’

  He shrugs. ‘My new movie fell through. The timing was perfect.’

  So not such a selfless gesture after all.

  She keeps her smile in place. He came when asked. That’s what counts.

  ‘How’s Hollywood?’

  ‘Same old same old. They screw you around, mess up your script, crush your spirit and what do you get for it? Millions of dollars.’ He has the grace to smile. ‘And now Kristina wants a baby.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’d rather have a Lamborghini.’ He scratches his stubble and gestures towards Ben. ‘Seems a nice guy.’

  Morgan nods.

  ‘Just a friend.’

  Cameron gives her a knowing look. His face grows serious. ‘This Karl guy sounds crazy. Sure you know what you’re doing?’

  Morgan considers the question.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Absolutely positive.’

  A barefaced lie, but it’s the best sh
e can do.

  Twenty-Eight

  ‘Sorry I’m such a slob,’ says Morgan.

  Sprawled on Ben’s sofa, she takes stock of the mess she and Lissa have made of his house. Clothes are strewn on the floor, mugs and plates litter every surface and the dining table has disappeared beneath transcripts of Anjelica’s trial.

  He answers from the kitchen, raising his voice above the sound of clam shells clattering into a pan.

  ‘You’ve a lot on your plate. Besides, I’m never here.’

  She gets to her feet, crosses the room and leans against the kitchen doorpost.

  ‘You work like crazy. Do you ever sleep?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Not my strong suit.’

  Taking a bottle of Shiraz from the wine rack, he inserts the corkscrew and tugs hard. The wooden handle breaks in his hands, rendering the device useless.

  ‘Shit.’

  Morgan suppresses a smile.

  ‘Do you know the shoe trick?’

  He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Show me.’

  She takes the bottle from his hand.

  ‘Take off one of your shoes.’

  He obliges. Inserting the base of the bottle into the heel, Morgan places the shoe flat against the wall. She thumps the bottle against the inside of the leather sole, several times in quick succession. By the sixth thump, the cork is protruding halfway from the bottle. Relieved the trick worked (it doesn’t always) she twists the cork, tugs it out, then pours two glasses of wine, raising hers in a toast.

  ‘Cheers.’

  They clink glasses. He smiles.

  ‘What do you do for an encore?’

  Enjoying her small triumph, she returns the smile, watching as he splashes vermouth onto the garlic, olive oil and chilli frying in the pan. Adding the pasta, he puts the lid on the pan, swirls the clamshells around then adds a handful of chopped parsley. ‘If this is edible, I’ll take the credit,’ he says, dividing the spaghetti alle vongole onto two plates. ‘If not, blame Nigella.’

  They eat side by side on the sofa, watching Off the Grid, the reality show in which survivalists in the wilderness try to avoid being caught by experts based in the studio. It’s Jukes’s favourite, the programme he’d ringed in the TV listings guide. Morgan wonders if Karl and Spike are watching too, skulking in their hideout and gathering tips on how to evade capture.