Kill Me Twice

by Simon Booker

  ‘What happened in Paris?’

  ‘It seems they had a stalker. There was another firebomb, at their apartment block.’

  Morgan’s eyes widen in surprise.

  ‘You think the arsonist followed them to Paris?’

  A shrug. ‘I’ve no idea,’ says Eileen. ‘But it does seem quite a coincidence.’

  Watching the woman take another bite of éclair, Morgan’s mind is racing.

  If the arsonist was Karl it seems unlikely that he managed to leave the country without attracting the attention of the authorities. But he could easily have commissioned one of his cronies – Jukes or Spike – to follow the Singhs. To ensure they didn’t feel safe anywhere. To make the patriarch feel his family may as well come home, where he could at least keep them close.

  What father wouldn’t do the same?

  And who would believe him if he tried to blow the whistle on his tormentor? To shop Karl Savage – a man known to be dead.

  It had been simple enough for Morgan to discover that Singh was working to identify the corpse in the burnt-out Dalston flat. Karl could have found out just as easily.

  And mounted a campaign of terror to ram the message home.

  Wherever you go, I will find your family.

  There is no safe place.

  Unless you do as I say.

  Thirty-Two

  Parked outside the Harley Street consulting rooms, Morgan sits in the Mini and lights another cigarette, her fourth in less than an hour. Darkness fell a while ago. Singh’s office lights are ablaze but Morgan has no idea if he’s inside. There seems little point in trying to make contact via the smarmy receptionist; Morgan has been given the runaround too many times. Never at ease with doorstepping, there are occasions when it’s the only option.

  Her phone beeps. A text from Ben. Back by 9. Thai takeaway? x

  Morgan taps out a reply. Back late. Thanks anyway.

  She hesitates, deliberating over whether or not to add an x, then sends the text with no form of endearment. Kisses can wait.

  The Six O’Clock News burbles on the radio, making her drowsy despite the chill in the air. The rush hour is well underway. People hurry past, heading for the Tube at Oxford Circus. During the last hour, three women and two men – patients, presumably, or fellow medical professionals – have emerged from the elegant Georgian building that houses Singh’s consulting rooms, but there has been no sign of the man himself.

  Stubbing out her cigarette, Morgan stretches her aching arms as far as the roof of the car will allow, then turns off the radio.

  And now she sees him. Emerging from the front door, buttoning an elegant grey overcoat with a black velvet collar, a look she associates with smug Tory MPs. He hurries along Harley Street towards Regent’s Park. She climbs out of the Mini, shoving her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and setting off in pursuit of her second quarry of the day.

  Reaching the top of Harley Street the man turns onto Marylebone Road. The traffic is bumper-to-bumper, exhaust fumes and rush-hour tension filling the air. Increasing her pace, Morgan closes the gap between herself and Singh, following as he takes advantage of a red light to cross the road. He turns onto a wide street leading into the park. She falls into step.

  ‘Mr Singh?’

  Without slowing, he turns to scrutinise her face. No trace of recognition.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Morgan Vine? We met the other day?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He carries on walking. ‘Do you live locally?’

  ‘No. I wanted a quick word.’

  ‘I’m in rather a hurry.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’ll walk with you.’

  He does nothing to alter his pace. ‘If you insist.’

  The tree-lined road runs alongside the park and is bordered by white stucco terraces. The street lighting is a soft pink, the traffic sparse. Once again she notices the man’s fingernails: bitten to the nub.

  ‘I need to ask about the arson attack on your house.’

  A wary tone enters Singh’s voice.

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I’m a journalist. It’s my job to know things.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can help you, so—’

  Morgan interrupts. ‘Do you think the attack on your home had anything to do with the Karl Savage investigation?’ No response. ‘The charred corpse you identified as his? The Anjelica Fry case?’

  ‘I fail to see a connection.’

  ‘The thing is, Mr Singh, Anjelica is a pyrophobe, while Karl Savage is a pyromaniac.’

  ‘Was,’ says Singh.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Savage was a pyromaniac. He’s dead.’

  ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’

  The man stops and turns to face her. ‘Remind me who you work for.’

  ‘No one,’ says Morgan. ‘I’m a freelance journalist investigating a miscarriage of justice.’

  ‘And barking up the wrong tree.’

  Morgan waits for a bickering couple to pass, then lowers her voice.

  ‘Did Karl threaten your family? Did he try to burn down your house? Did he have someone follow your wife and daughters to Paris? Is that why you faked the X-rays? Is that why you identified the body as his? Is that why you helped him escape justice?’

  A thin smile creases the man’s face

  ‘You sound like a tramp I sometimes see in the park. Always ranting about conspiracy theories and shouting at pigeons.’

  Morgan swallows a small smile of satisfaction. Given the circumstances, the response is as much as she could have hoped for – what spin doctors call a non-denial denial.

  ‘The coroner would never have questioned your professional opinion, not with your track record. Nor would the police. It must have been a simple matter to duplicate Savage’s ante-mortem X-rays then pass them off as the ones you made, post-mortem.’

  The man gives a slight shake of his head.

  ‘I don’t have time for this nonsense.’

  He walks on. Morgan follows.

  ‘Do you know who does have time, Mr Singh? Anjelica Fry. Did you know she tried to kill herself? She was attacked in prison – her face slashed – and that’s not the worst part.’ Morgan draws breath, pausing for effect. ‘They’ve taken her son. An innocent baby will be flung into care and messed up for life.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Not giving an inch. Time to try another tack.

  ‘I know you’re not a bad man. I know you do pro bono work in developing countries, fixing cleft palates for children. But good people sometimes do bad things. Maybe they have no choice. Maybe they’re in an impossible position. Either way, my question is: how do they sleep at night?’

  The man quickens his pace. His tone is clipped, his anger simmering beneath the civilised veneer.

  ‘Karl Savage is dead,’ he says. ‘The police, the coroner, the CPS, judge, jury, the press – everyone agrees. Except you.’

  ‘Not everyone,’ says Morgan thinking of Ben, her sole supporter. She switches gear. ‘Do you know about the Met’s storage facility? The one that has Karl’s teeth.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Why would DI Tucker sign them out?’

  ‘Because I asked him to.’

  Morgan raises an eyebrow.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. I needed them for a presentation at NYU College of Dentistry.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘To demonstrate a crucial part of my lecture. The notching of the mandibular and maxillary left central incisors was exceptional. I asked Tucker if I could borrow the teeth. He was kind enough to oblige.’

  ‘With a crucial piece of police evidence?’

  ‘From an old case – a closed case – on which he was SIO.’

  ‘Even so, isn’t that unorthodox?’

  ‘I’m Home Office-accredited, Ms Vine. He was happy to help.’

  ‘When was this presentation?’

  ‘Last week.’
/>
  ‘Where are the teeth now?’

  ‘I mislaid them.’

  Morgan can’t help smiling at the man’s chutzpah.

  ‘In New York?’

  A nod. ‘I left my briefcase in a taxi. I doubt it will turn up, but hope springs eternal.’

  ‘You can see how this looks.’

  ‘No doubt you’ll enlighten me.’

  ‘A journalist asks awkward questions about Savage. A short while later the only hard evidence confirming he’s dead goes missing. That’s one hell of a coincidence.’

  ‘Life is full of coincidences. We’re conditioned to seek patterns in everything, but that doesn’t make everything a conspiracy, despite what your silly little book would have us believe.’

  Morgan is determined not to be sidetracked by the jibe, the first crack in the man’s composure. Following him across the road, she makes one final appeal to his better nature.

  ‘I can see your problem, Mr Singh. You fabricated evidence, lied to the police, lied in court and breached professional ethics. If this came out you’d be ruined, maybe go to prison. So I understand there’s no going back. But when you’re trying to sleep tonight – in your lovely house, with your lovely wife – think about an innocent woman in a cell, miles from home, miles from her baby.’

  They’ve reached the gates leading to Camden Town and the tree-lined road that contains Singh’s house. He doesn’t break his stride.

  ‘I’ve nothing more to say, Ms Vine. Don’t contact me again. Unless you want to hear from my lawyers.’

  Morgan feels a fresh surge of fury but knows argument is futile. She watches him walk round the corner and disappear from view. Turning to retrace her steps, she strides towards her car.

  Heart hammering.

  Mind racing.

  Resolve stiffening.

  Thirty-Three

  By the time Morgan gets back to Canterbury the remains of Ben’s takeaway are congealing on the kitchen table. She picks at cold noodles while listening as he unburdens himself about his day. The lorry fire that claimed the lives of twenty migrants – victims of smoke inhalation – appears to have been a tragic accident. The driver fled but has been traced by police. Ben’s part of the investigation is complete, but the memory of the corpses, especially the children, is seared into his memory. He sits at the table smoking a joint and drinking beer. The smell of dope reminds Morgan of her brief stint at university: barely a term before the surprise pregnancy forced a change of plan.

  She watches Ben suck smoke into his lungs.

  ‘You can’t do this job without a crutch,’ he says. ‘For most people it’s alcohol or screwing around, for me it’s weed.’

  He proffers the spliff. She shakes her head, wondering if ‘screwing around’ is also part of his coping mechanism, then chastising herself for assuming the worst. Nothing in her recent history has given her much reason to trust men, or the police, but she must at least try not to spend the rest of her life in a state of permanent suspicion.

  They sit in silence listening to the rain, then he rises from the table and stacks the dishwasher, padding around the kitchen barefoot.

  ‘How did you get on in London?’

  Morgan pours herself a glass of wine and tells him about her encounters with Jatinder Singh, Eileen and Edward, the Primrose Hill dog walker.

  ‘So Singh did Karl’s bidding, to protect his family?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Ben removes the cap from a second bottle of Corona.

  ‘Wouldn’t you do the same? If Lissa were at risk?’

  Morgan considers the question.

  ‘I hope I’d have found another way. But anyone who messes with my child messes with me.’

  Ben smiles

  ‘Never get between Mama Grizzly and her cub?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He takes a final drag on the joint, then stubs it out and fishes in the pocket of his jeans.

  ‘I got you a present.’

  He hands her a key ring attached to a small red plastic square with a silver button. She frowns.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’

  He nods.

  ‘A rape alarm. Not that I think you’re at particular risk, but Karl is clearly a maniac.’

  Is he expecting her to be unnerved or grateful? Nonplussed, she pockets the key ring.

  ‘Just what I always wanted.’ She raises her glass. A toast. ‘To a better day tomorrow.’

  His face grows grave as he clinks the bottle.

  ‘Amen.’

  As he drinks, she watches his Adam’s apple moving and takes stock of the stubble on his face.

  ‘Been a long day,’ he says. ‘I need to go to bed.’

  Morgan nods, suddenly aware of the beating of her heart.

  ‘Alone?’

  For a second, she thinks she’s misjudged the moment, but his smile broadens and his eyes crinkle at the edges. He reaches out to cup her chin in his hand. Then he leans forward and kisses her cheek, his lips grazing her skin, planting a series of soft kisses as he brings his mouth to hers. She can feel his breath on her face. Their lips touch, gently at first, then with increasing urgency. His tongue finds hers. She closes her eyes, savouring the taste of him, the touch of his hands on her hair, her face, her neck. She opens her eyes. He’s smiling.

  He kisses her, long and slow. Then she gets to her feet as he takes her hand, and leads her out of the kitchen.

  ‘Aren’t you going to carry me to bed?’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  She leans closer and whispers in his ear.

  ‘That’s what I want.’

  *

  It’s ‘first time’ sex. Tentative, occasionally clumsy (her elbow in his eye triggers laughter), self-conscious opening moves giving way to a burgeoning passion that takes its time reaching a crescendo, then subsides into stroking, caressing and sleepy murmurs. For a while, into the small hours, they whisper about their first impressions of each other and their respective pasts. Drowsy murmurs give way to more kissing and then another bout of lovemaking, slower and more assured. More intense than anything Morgan can remember experiencing for a long time.

  *

  In the morning, she finds him emerging from the shower. Grinning, he pulls her into the glass cubicle, sinks to his knees and slowly kisses his way up her body, from her feet to her legs and thighs. Closing her eyes, she savours the feeling of his tongue between her legs, the water cascading over her body. He seems in no hurry, relishing the taste of her. She takes her time coming, grinding herself against his face while clutching the shower pipes for support. After a moment, Ben gets to his feet, plants a series of soft, slow kisses on her neck, then grabs a towel and disappears into the bedroom.

  *

  By the time she comes downstairs he’s dressed and has made coffee and toast. Outside the rain is falling, the skies are gravestone grey.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ says Ben, handing her a cup of coffee.

  ‘Trying to find Stacey. And her baby.’

  ‘Why not leave it to the police?’

  ‘She’s not on their priority list. But finding her could bring me closer to tracking down Karl. It might also help me find out how Kiki died. And what happened to her baby.’

  He sips his coffee. ‘Why is Rook so helpful to you?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  A shrug. ‘No reason.’

  ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit early to be talking about jealousy?’

  ‘Touché,’ says Morgan, still smiling while swallowing a pang of disappointment. He’s right. This is a one-night stand, nothing more.

  Yet.

  ‘You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of the police,’ says Ben.

  ‘You read the papers. Do you blame me?’

  ‘I think they do a tough job under difficult circumstances.’

  ‘So do I. But they’re human, which means they mess up, yet they never admit getting it wrong until forced to. T
ake your pal Tucker.’

  ‘Colleague, not pal.’

  ‘Either way, he won’t admit the possibility that Anjelica is innocent, yet Rook can’t get him to explain why he’s in cahoots with the dentist who misidentified Karl’s body.’

  She’s bending the truth, hoping Ben is jealous of Neville, that he’ll be keen to get one over on his rival.

  ‘What do you mean by “in cahoots”?’

  ‘Tucker signed out Karl’s teeth from evidence storage,’ says Morgan. She tells him what she learned from Singh. ‘But now Rook can’t contact him. Can you?’

  Ben chews on his lower lip for a moment, thinking, then picks up his mobile. Scrolling through his contacts, he taps Tucker’s name and puts the call on speakerphone. Morgan hears the Hackney DI’s voice. A weary croak.

  ‘’Morning, Ben.’

  ‘You sound terrible.’

  ‘Painkillers. I had a back operation. First day home, convalescing.’

  ‘I’ll keep it short,’ says Ben. ‘I’m calling on behalf of Morgan Vine.’

  Tucker sighs. ‘The one who wrote that bloody book?’

  Ben ignores the question. ‘She’s keen to know about Jatinder Singh.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘His family was threatened by Karl Savage. Morgan thinks that’s why he misidentified the body, so Karl could fake his own death and disappear.’

  ‘Why would Karl do that?’

  ‘To kibosh Anjelica’s accusation that he was dealing drugs. Make a fresh start. Maybe abroad.’

  A sigh. ‘This is all bollocks. Singh didn’t misidentify anyone. Savage is dead.’

  Ben leans closer to the phone. ‘Is it true you signed his teeth out of evidence storage?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Tucker evenly. ‘Singh wanted them for a lecture in New York.’

  ‘Has he told you he lost them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Shit happens. The case is closed, the right person is behind bars. But if you’re suggesting that Jatinder Singh lost the evidence deliberately . . .’

  He tails off. Ben backtracks, striking an emollient note. ‘I’m not suggesting anything. Just asking a question.’