by Simon Booker
A pause.
‘Are you screwing Morgan Vine, Ben?’
‘No, I’m having breakfast.’
A knowing laugh. ‘Tell her from me that Jatinder is a decent man and Karl Savage is dead.’
‘Thanks for your time.’
‘Have a good day.’
Hanging up, Ben takes a sip of coffee.
‘Do you believe him?’ says Morgan.
‘I think he believes everything he said.’
‘Which doesn’t make it true.’
‘No.’
‘So another dead end?’
He shrugs.
‘Like I said, maybe you should leave the complicated stuff to the police.’
‘Either they’re too busy or they’ve given up.’
‘Even so, sometimes it pays to stick to the rules.’
The man has a habit of playing it safe. Smiling, Morgan reaches for the buckle on his belt while quoting from the gospel according to Karl Savage.
‘Keep all the rules, miss all the fun.’
Thirty-Four
The downpour stops by lunchtime. Morgan is back on the narrow river in Romney Marsh, checking out the houseboat belonging to Trevor Jukes. Still no sign of Stacey and her baby, or Jukes himself. Tramping through the sodden fields, Morgan returns to her car and takes the meandering drive through miles of wetlands to the prison officer’s pebbledash bungalow. His motorcycle is nowhere to be seen. She peers through the letterbox. The pile of junk mail has doubled.
Sitting in her Mini, trying to decide her next move, she ducks low in her seat as three familiar figures emerge from the corner shop. The local hoodies – Earring, Neck Tattoo and Gap-tooth – lope past on the other side of the road, tussling over a bottle of cider and failing to register Morgan’s presence. She watches them enter one of the bungalows and close the door.
Driving off, she pulls to a halt several streets away and smokes a cigarette while making another list of all the people she’s encountered during her quest to find Karl Savage. As she writes Nancy Sixsmith, her pen runs out of ink. She stares at the woman’s name, recalling her visit to the mother of Karl’s twins.
If her pen were working she’d add another name to the list.
Spike.
Karl’s drug-dealing crony hasn’t surfaced since the Dalston blaze. Has he, too, gone off the grid? Is he doing Karl’s bidding, like Trevor Jukes?
Or, despite’s Singh’s protestations, is there another possibility?
Did the corpse in the burnt-out flat belong to Spike?
Deciding her next port of call, Morgan restarts her car and makes her way through the deserted flatlands, heading towards a bleak high-rise block on the outskirts of Canterbury.
*
‘I told you all I know last time,’ says Nancy, stubbing out her cigarette.
The flat still smells like an ashtray. Once again, Morgan makes a silent vow to quit smoking, but not today, not until she gets her life back. She leans forward in her armchair, facing the woman on the sofa.
‘What can you tell me about Spike?’
A shrug.
‘We knocked about a bit.’
‘But you don’t know where he might be?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Were he and Karl close?’
‘They were business partners.’
‘Never a cross word?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Could they have fallen out?’
A pause. Then a nod.
‘Big time. And it never paid to get on the wrong side of Karl.’
‘What did they fall out about?’
‘Money. Karl thought Spike was stealing from him.’
‘Was he?’
‘What do you think?’ Nancy lights her cigarette. ‘They were drug dealers.’
Rummaging in her pocket, Morgan takes out her pouch of tobacco and begins to make a roll-up while glancing at two framed photos on the wall: a picture of Nancy’s twins, Jack and Karl Junior, wearing school uniform, and Nancy herself with a man sporting a toothsome smile and a topknot.
‘What time do your kids get home?’
Nancy sighs.
‘Gotta pick ’em up soon. Doing it myself today. Bloody neighbour’s ill.’
Morgan remembers the woman’s agoraphobia, her reluctance to leave the flat. She gestures to the photo of the man with the topknot.
‘Is that Spike?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Were you close?’
The woman blinks.
‘Meaning?’
Morgan gives what she hopes is a friendly smile.
‘I’m not trying to catch you out, Nancy.’ She reaches into her bag for the wine she bought at the corner shop. ‘I’m just trying to find out more about Karl.’
She places the offering on the coffee table, next to the teetering pile of celebrity magazines. Nancy stares at the bottle.
‘Trying to loosen my tongue?’
Morgan ignores the question. ‘I don’t believe Anjelica Fry started the fire in Karl’s flat.’
Nancy frowns.
‘So who did?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
The woman considers this for a moment, then gets to her feet and walks into the kitchen. She returns with two glasses. Outside, the rain is starting again, spattering the windows.
‘I need to know everything I can about Karl,’ says Morgan, lighting her cigarette. ‘And the people who knew him, including Spike.’
Nancy unscrews the cap on the bottle, pours two glasses, then picks up her mobile and scrolls through its contents.
‘This is Spike,’ she says, tapping a video and holding up the phone.
Morgan peers at the clip. Nancy and Spike in the courtyard outside Canterbury Cathedral, larking around for the camera.
‘Who took the video?’
‘Karl,’ says Nancy. She drags on her cigarette and stares at the screen. Spike is waving at the camera, pulling a face. Nancy pokes out her tongue.
A voice off-camera.
‘Give her a kiss.’
‘Typical Karl,’ says Nancy. ‘Always mucking about.’
Morgan watches as Spike plants a mock-coy kiss on Nancy’s cheek.
Karl’s voice again. ‘Come on, Spikey, you can do better than that.’
Spike shakes his head. ‘Camera shy.’
Nancy turns to peck him on the cheek. Then she does something that makes Morgan hold her breath. She reaches out to pluck something from the sleeve of his fleece. The clip shows a few more seconds of horseplay then cuts out.
‘Nice-looking guy,’ says Morgan, trying to sound casual.
‘Not as nice-looking as Karl’ says Nancy. ‘But he’s OK, if you like that sort of thing.’
A smile.
‘And did you?’
The woman reaches for her wine.
‘Spike and I were friends.’
‘Friends with benefits?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know what it means.’
Nancy says nothing. She takes a drag on her cigarette.
‘Do you remember Princess Margaret, Nancy?’
‘What about her?’
‘When she was young she had a secret love affair. With a man called Captain Peter Townsend. But he was divorced, so they couldn’t get married. It was another era, the world was a different place.’
‘And you’re giving me a history lesson because . . .?’
‘They managed to keep their relationship under wraps until a Daily Mirror journalist noticed Margaret brushing something from his lapel – a piece of lint. The editor refused to run the story but the American press printed it and it became a huge scandal.’ Morgan flicks her cigarette into the overflowing ashtray. ‘The British public were still reeling from the abdication and Margaret was under huge pressure to “do the right thing”. So she ended the relationship with the man she loved.’ She pauses for effect. ‘But without that tiny, intimate gesture, the journalist would never have cottoned
on and the world might never have known. Just a woman plucking fluff from a man’s lapel, that’s all it took.’
Nancy says nothing, taking another drag on her cigarette. Morgan presses the point home.
‘Did Karl know? About you and Spike?’
The woman exhales slowly.
‘You’re relentless.’
‘So I’m told.’
Morgan allows the silence to do its work.
‘OK,’ sighs Nancy. ‘Spike was on his uppers. No friends, no family. He crashed on our sofa for a while. Karl came home early one day, caught us at it. Not a happy bunny.’ She gulps her wine. ‘He kicked the crap out of Spike. But he never laid a finger on me. Said he was good at playing the long game.’
‘Meaning?’
‘He had something else in mind.’
‘Something worse?’
Nancy nods, gesturing towards the photo of her twins.
‘Said he’d take the kids off me. I said, “Good luck, pal. A drug dealer? The courts are going to love you.”’ Another drag on the cigarette. ‘Know what he said?’
‘Tell me.’
‘“You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” He said he’d wait. For ever, if necessary. But he’d get what he wanted.’
‘He told Anjelica the exact same thing,’ says Morgan. ‘He threatened to take her baby away.’
The woman leans forward. ‘Which gives her a solid motive to want him dead. And you still think she’s Little Bo Peep?’
Morgan refrains from mentioning the glaringly obvious – that Nancy herself had an identical motive. She considers telling the woman that the father of her twins faked his own death, but the thought is interrupted by what sounds like distant gunfire.
‘Kids chucking fireworks,’ says Nancy. ‘Same every year. Makes me think of Karl.’
‘Why?’
‘His birthday: fifth of November. His dad told him they were in his honour, to celebrate his birthday.’ She sucks on her cigarette. ‘One way to create a bloody pyromaniac.’
Morgan tops up both glasses, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘What was in the biscuit tin, Nancy?’
The woman arches an eyebrow, thrown by a question that seems to come out of the blue.
‘What do you know about the tin?’
I saw it in his van. The night he took me to the graveyard.
‘You mentioned it before. What was in it?’
She’s careful to speak in the past tense. Like everyone else, Nancy believes Karl is dead. Nothing Morgan can say will change her mind.
‘There was no mention of it after he died,’ says Nancy. ‘The papers never wrote about it.’
Morgan keeps still. A poacher waiting to pounce.
‘Why would they mention a tin?’
Nancy falls silent, flicking ash from her cigarette, considering her response. Then she leans back against the sofa cushions. Something seems to settle inside her. A decision made.
‘Did you know his mother was clinically obese? The size of a house. She trained as a midwife. The irony was, when she got knocked up, no one knew. Her clothes hid it.’ She takes a last drag on the cigarette and stubs it out. ‘Karl never said who the father was but I know he hated the man’s guts.’ A cough. ‘And I’ve no idea if it was accidental or deliberate.’
The ash on Morgan’s cigarette is about to drop. She doesn’t stir.
‘If what was accidental or deliberate?’
Nancy raises her gaze, looking Morgan in the eye.
‘The baby died.’
‘But you don’t know how?’
The woman shakes her head.
‘Karl never said. Either Pearl or the dad put the body in the tin. Hid it in the cellar. No one ever found out. Except Karl.’
The ash drops. Morgan ignores it. ‘He opened the tin?’
Nancy nods.
‘But he never told Pearl he knew. She kept locking him up, every Friday night for years. No company. Just the tin.’ She takes another gulp of wine. ‘I told him it was no wonder he hated women. Tried to get him to see a shrink.’
‘And?’
‘He said knowing why we do stuff doesn’t stop us doing it, so what was the point? Hurt people hurt people.’
Morgan looks at the photo of the twins. ‘Do the kids miss him?’
‘Junior does. He told me he saw Karl not long ago, driving past. I explained it was something called wishful thinking. Jack doesn’t seem bothered. He’s an old soul, more mature.’
Morgan can feel her pulse racing.
‘Where did Junior think he’d seen his dad?’
‘Outside school, in a van.’ The woman glances at her watch. ‘I need to get going. Bloody neighbour. Says she’s ill but she’s probably pissed. And just when the Asda man’s due.’
‘Can I help?’ says Morgan, trying not to sound too eager. ‘You could call ahead, tell the school I’m picking up the boys.’ She gestures to the photo. ‘I know what they look like.’
The woman hesitates, then looks out at the driving rain.
‘You wouldn’t mind?’
Morgan dons her most trustworthy smile.
‘Not in the least.’
*
The parents assembled outside the school are huddled under a forest of umbrellas. There are one or two dads sporting tracksuits but the crowd is mostly comprised of mums and grandparents. Leaning against her car, Morgan immediately spots Karl Junior and Jack, hoods raised against the rain and early-November chill. The six-year-old twins are the image of their father, and are being ushered through the gates by a red-haired teacher, her eyes roving the parked cars. Morgan waves and dons her friendliest smile.
‘Morgan Vine?’ says the teacher.
‘That’s me.’ She proffers her driving licence.
The woman scrutinises the card, then bends down to address Jack.
‘This is the lady your mum sent to collect you. OK, Jack?’
The boy nods and takes his brother’s hand, leading him towards the Mini.
‘He’s Junior,’ he tells Morgan. ‘My little brother.’
‘I thought you were twins.’
‘I’m nine minutes older. That’s why he’s Junior.
Morgan nods gravely, then exchanges a smile with the teacher. She watches the woman scurry back inside, escaping the rain.
‘I’m in front,’ Jack tells his brother. ‘You’re in the back.’
Morgan watches as the boy does his brother’s bidding and clambers into the back seat.
‘Seat belt,’ says Jack.
Karl Junior obeys without protest. Morgan sits behind the wheel, watching Jack settle in the passenger seat and buckle his own belt.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘We can go.’
His face is serious, an earnest little boy. Morgan stifles a smile and starts the engine.
‘Did Asda come?’ says Jack.
‘Not yet. That’s why your mum sent me.’
A voice from the back. Karl Junior.
‘Are you the special lady?’
‘Shut up,’ says Jack.
The vehemence in his voice is startling.
‘But he told us—’
‘Shut up, Karl!’
‘No, you shut up!’ The boy’s face is contorted with anger. ‘He said she’s coming before his birthday!’
Jack turns to face him in the rear seat.
‘It’s a secret!’
‘Not if this is the special lady!’
Jack turns to Morgan, glowering.
‘Are you?’
Morgan chooses her words with care.
‘Is that what Daddy says?’
‘See?’ says Junior. ‘She knows him.’
His brother isn’t convinced.
‘Stop it or I’ll bite you!’
Morgan glances in the rear-view mirror. The little boy looks close to tears.
‘Did Daddy tell you what the special lady is going to do?’
‘Don’t say!’ says Jack.
His brother refuses to be cowed. ‘She’s taking u
s to the house in the sunshine.’
‘That’s right,’ says Morgan.
Junior’s face lights up. ‘Are we going now?’
‘No. Not today.’
‘Told you!’ says Jack. ‘She’s not the special lady.’ He turns to glare at Morgan. ‘Are you?’
‘No,’ admits Morgan. ‘I’m not the special lady.’
The rest of the journey passes in subdued silence, the flare-up seemingly forgotten by the time she delivers the twins to their mother.
‘Thank you,’ says Nancy, greeting her boys at the front door. Once again, Morgan considers revealing the truth about Karl, but knows she won’t be believed.
‘Keep an eye on the twins,’ she says. ‘Lot of dodgy people out there.’ It’s the best she can do without sounding crazy.
Nancy frowns. She seems on the verge of asking a question, but the doors to the second lift open. The Asda man emerges, laden with bags. He nods to Morgan as she heads for the lift. Turning, she sees Nancy usher him into the flat. Jack stands in the doorway, fixing Morgan with a look. He places a finger to his lips.
‘Shhhh.’
He turns and goes inside.
Morgan hesitates, searching for a way to convince the woman to heed her warning. She returns to the door and raps on the flimsy plywood. Nancy reappears, eyebrows arched.
‘Thought you’d gone.’
‘What would you say if I told you Karl is alive? Still playing the long game’? Still coming after your kids?’
Nancy stares at Morgan as if she’s lost her mind.
‘Any idea who killed JFK? Got any pictures of the Loch Ness Monster?’
Morgan manages half a smile.
‘Fair enough.’ Turning away, she calls over her shoulder. ‘Enjoy the rest of the wine.’
Nancy goes back into the flat. From the courtyard below comes the rat-a-tat-tat of exploding fireworks. As Morgan heads for the lift, her mobile rings.
Cameron.
She answers the call.
‘How’s the countryside?’
His voice is shaky.
‘There’s been an accident.’
Morgan’s stomach lurches.
‘Is Lissa OK?’
‘It’s complicated . . .’
‘Fuck’s sake, Cameron. Is she OK?’
He takes a breath.
‘Someone ran us off the road. Lissa lost the baby.’
Thirty-Five
An hour since darkness fell. The temperature has plummeted. Slewing to a halt in the car park, Morgan climbs out of the Mini and hurries into the cottage hospital on the outskirts of town. Cameron is in the deserted reception. He looks up from his mobile. Haggard. In shock.