by Simon Booker
Forty-Three
The oven clock shows 1.17 a.m. Morgan stubs out her cigarette. She eyes the bottle on her kitchen table. She’d kill for a glass of wine, but not now. She needs to stay focused.
About to roll another cigarette, she freezes. A noise outside. She remains still. Listening to the waves. Feeling her heart race. She hears the noise again. Faint but unmistakable. Shingle crunching underfoot. She darts to the window. Peers outside. No sign of life. A single knock on the back door. She gives a start. Hears a familiar voice speaking softly.
Neville Rook.
‘Morgan?’
She opens the door. He slips inside.
‘Is he coming?’
‘Christ, I hope so,’ says Morgan.
‘Where’s the baby?’
‘Safe.’
‘What does that mean?’
She ignores the question. Peers out of the window.
‘Are you alone?’
Rook shakes his head. ‘You can’t see them. But they’re there.’
She frowns.
‘Where are the cars?’
‘For God’s sake, Morgan. You said be discreet.’ He casts a look around the kitchen, into the sitting room. ‘Don’t make things worse for yourself. If you’ve got Charlie, hand him over.’
‘That’s not how this is going to work.’
Her tone brooks no opposition. He sighs.
‘So now what?’
She nods towards Lissa’s bedroom.
‘You go in there.’
‘And?’
‘Wait.’
*
2.13 a.m.
Morgan’s hands are trembling. She’s trying to roll a cigarette but the tobacco spills onto the table.
What if he doesn’t come?
What if he decides to leave Charlie behind? To save his own skin. To start his new life tonight. She has no idea how he plans to get out of the country, but a man like Karl Savage has ways. And money. Enough to buy the right sort of help. He could hide in the boot of a car and sneak aboard a ferry. Or in a lorry or van. Or on a boat. He could cross the Channel, land in a remote spot – France, maybe, or Belgium – and disappear into the night.
Risky?
The man loves risk. Thrives on it.
2.14 a.m.
No sound from Lissa’s room, not since she told Rook to keep quiet. The DI’s patience won’t last for ever. And how much longer can Charlie stay safe and warm? He’s fine now. The hot water bottle will see to that. Morgan has taken every precaution.
But what if he doesn’t come . . .?
2.15 a.m.
And then she hears it. An engine in the distance. She peers outside. No sign of movement. But she hears it drawing closer. Sees a glint of moonlight on something metallic. The bumper of a car?
No, not a car. A van.
A white camper van.
No lights.
It slows, engine idling. She can’t see the driver but she imagines him behind the wheel, scanning the darkness, searching for signs of life. Cars. People. A trap.
She whispers.
‘He’s here.’
Rook’s voice from the bedroom.
‘OK.’
Retreating from the window, she moves to the sitting room. She hears the van drawing closer. The engine dies. The clunk of the door.
She can hear him now – his footsteps on the pebbles outside. Creeping closer. Circling the house.
He stops. She visualises him staring at the broken window. The sheet of cardboard taped to the frame. She holds her breath and watches as the cardboard begins to move. Hears the screech of the duct tape being peeled back. Sees his gloved hand reaching inside. Watches his fingers grasp the frame. He levers himself through the window, into the room, and straightens up.
She turns on the light. He freezes. Eyes widening in surprise. Something in his hand. Yellow. Oblong. A small, yellow can with a red spout?
‘Where’s Charlie?’
Before she can reply, she hears Rook yelling into his radio.
‘Go, go, go!’
Karl’s eyes bulge. ‘You bitch!’
He springs forward. Rook bursts into the room but Karl’s forearm is already around Morgan’s neck, holding her in an armlock. He flicks the spout on the can. Sprays liquid over her. The smell is unmistakable.
Lighter fuel.
‘Stay back!’
Karl reaches into his pocket. Brandishes his Zippo.
‘Where’s the baby?’
Morgan struggles, but his grip is too tight. The lighter fuel is seeping into her clothes, dripping down her arms, her legs. He raises the container above her head, squeezing. She feels the li-quid on her hair, her head, running down her neck, her face.
Karl is dragging her towards the bedroom.
‘Where’s the baby?’
She says nothing.
‘WHERE IS HE?’
She gasps for breath.
‘My car.’
His eyes jerk to the window.
‘Keys!’
She grabs them. He drags her towards the door. Looks out of the window. Morgan glimpses movement outside. Three men? Four? Some plainclothes, some uniform. Karl sees them too.
‘Tell them to stay back.’
The DI hesitates.
‘Do it!’
Rook reaches for his radio.
‘Stand down. Repeat: stand down.’
Karl pushes Morgan towards the door.
‘Open it.’
His arm is pressing on her windpipe.
‘I . . . can’t breathe.’
He relaxes his grip, just a fraction.
‘Open it!’
She obeys. Outside, she sees the four figures rooted to the spot. Karl brandishes the Zippo and calls to Rook.
‘Tell them what to do!’
Rook raises his voice, calling out.
‘He’ll set her on fire. Stand down.’
The figures remain still.
Rook’s voice again. ‘Don’t do this, Karl.’
But the man is dragging Morgan towards the Mini.
‘Open it!’
She zaps the fob. The lights flash, the doors unlock. His grip tightens around her neck. He peers inside the car. Sees Charlie strapped into the baby seat, swathed in the blanket. Asleep. He releases her from the armlock. Grabs her shoulder. His grip is like iron.
‘Take him out.’
Morgan opens the door and reaches into the back seat, fumbling with the straps.
‘I know it was Spike,’ she says. ‘The body in the flat. You cracked his skull, just like you cracked your mother’s.’
Karl’s eyes burn.
‘Fuck ’em. They deserved all they got.’
The baby wakes as Morgan lifts him from the car. She can feel the hot water bottle through the blanket, still warm. Karl still has her shoulder in his grip. The baby starts to cry.
‘Hold him up!’
Morgan holds the baby at arm’s length. Karl raises the lighter fuel.
‘No!’ says Morgan.
He squirts the liquid over the blanket. The baby’s cries grow louder.
Rook’s voice.
‘Karl . . .!’
‘Shut up!’
Karl raises the yellow container in the air, squirting fuel over his own clothes. Holding the Zippo aloft, he shouts to Morgan.
‘Give me the kid.’
Morgan hesitates.
‘Now! Or we all fucking burn!’
She hands over the baby. Karl takes him in his arms. The hot water bottle falls to the ground. He releases Morgan from his grasp.
‘Everyone stay back!’
He pockets the lighter fuel and walks towards the van.
‘Karl . . . Please . . .!’
He ignores her. She hears Rook’s voice.’
‘Not the baby, Karl . . . For the love of God, not the baby . . .’
‘Shut up!’
He reaches the van. Morgan steps forward. She can smell fuel on his clothes, on the baby’s blanket.
He calls out.
‘Stay back!’
But she takes another step. And another. He wrenches open the door of the van. Clasping the baby, he gets behind the wheel.
‘Don’t do this, Karl.’ Morgan keeps her voice steady. She gestures to the police officers, standing at a distance, frozen. ‘Not to Charlie.’
He meets her gaze. His eyes glaze with tears. He opens his mouth to speak but the words won’t come. He tries again. But his voice is hoarse, inaudible, little more than a croak.
‘Can’t hear you, Karl.’
Clasping his son to his chest, the man climbs out of the van. He plants a kiss on the baby’s forehead.
‘Up like a rocket . . . Down like a stick . . .’
Without warning, he flings the baby towards Morgan, high in the air. The blanket falls away. She runs forward, arms outstretched, straining every muscle, every sinew. Catches the baby. Clutches him to her chest.
She hears Rook. ‘Go, go, go!’ The police officers break into a run.
Karl jumps into the van and locks the door. Staring at Morgan, he flicks open the Zippo.
Perhaps it’s her imagination, but even above the baby’s cries she swears she can hear it: the sound that has haunted her dreams since the attack on the cliffs.
Clink-rasp.
PART THREE
Forty-Four
The MBU visitors’ room is almost deserted. Just the two women in a corner. Anjelica cradles her sleeping baby in her arms. Her voice is barely audible.
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
Morgan manages half a smile. She has barely slept in three days. Traumatised by the sight of a man setting himself on fire.
‘Cook me supper when you get out. Bring Marlon.’
Anjelica nods. The mention of her impending freedom seems to help her voice gain strength.
‘They say it’ll take a while. Lots of legal stuff: confirming Karl’s DNA; matching it with his kids’.’ She shoots a worried look in Morgan’s direction. ‘It will happen, won’t it?’
‘Yes,’ says Morgan. ‘It will happen.’
She sips from a plastic cup of water and takes stock of Anjelica’s face. The transformation is not yet complete – the woman is still gaunt – but the dark circles under her eyes are fading, her speech is no longer slurred, her mind no longer addled by the chemical cocktail that has helped to numb the pain throughout her ordeal.
‘How are you feeling?’
Anjelica considers the question.
‘Relieved. Scared they’ll say I’m not going home.’
Morgan takes her hand.
‘You’re going home. I promise.’
The woman gives a tentative smile. But it fades quickly.
‘So who died in the fire?’
‘Spike.’
Anjelica’s eyes widen.
‘For real?’
Morgan nods, recalling Karl’s dismissal of his erstwhile crony, and his own mother.
Fuck ’em. They deserved all they got.
Anjelica is still trying to piece things together, taking an educated guess.
‘So Karl took the matches from my flat? And he emptied the petrol from the can in my car?’
Morgan nods.
‘To frame you and shut you up. To pave the way for a new life abroad.’
Anjelica shakes her head slowly, digesting the enormity of the events that have wreaked havoc in so many lives.
‘Thank God it’s over.’
‘It’s not,’ says Morgan. ‘Not until I find out who pushed Kiki off the cliff. There has to be some justice in this shitty world.’
Anjelica frowns.
‘Surely Jukes killed her? Doing Karl’s dirty work?’
Morgan shakes her head.
‘He swears not.’
‘You believe him?’
‘I don’t know. But I intend to find out.’
She takes another sip of water and studies the woman’s face.
‘Have you thought about what you’ll do when you get out?’
A shrug.
‘Get a job. Take care of Marlon. That’s as far as I’ve got.’
‘Let me know if I can help.’
A nod. Then a frown. Something is preying on Anjelica’s mind.
‘What will happen to Jukes?’
Morgan stares out of the barred window. Three days after Karl died from his burns, the story continues to make headlines.
Dead Again!
Murder Conviction to be Quashed.
Police under Pressure.
‘Genghis’ Carne has been suspended pending an enquiry, but the Dungeness rumour mill suggests he played no active part in the baby farm. At worst, he’s guilty of keeping the situation under wraps.
What happens in prison stays in prison.
Jatinder Singh has been charged with perverting the course of justice, as has Jukes’s sister. Meanwhile, along with Stacey Brown, Jukes has admitted to playing a key role in Karl’s baby-farm-and-drug-mule operation and the abduction of Charlie. The prison officer denies murdering Kiki McNeil.
Morgan looks out at the rain falling in the exercise yard.
‘Jukes might end up here. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.’
Anjelica takes a tissue from her pocket. Clears her throat.
‘The papers say there was a skeleton in Karl’s tin. A baby.’
‘Yes,’ says Morgan. ‘He’ll have a proper burial.’
Anjelica blows her nose and falls silent for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet.
‘What about Charlie? Is he with Social Services?’
‘For now.’
The woman leans back in her chair. Something seems to settle inside her. A decision made.
‘Do you think they’d let me adopt him? He’s Marlon’s half brother. They should be together.’
Morgan smiles.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘They should.’
*
Half an hour later, parking outside her house, Morgan sees Joe Cassidy installing a new pane of glass in her broken window. The three-legged dog sits beside him. The man in the fisherman’s jumper scrapes a layer of putty from the window frame, then steps back to admire his handiwork. He casts a look around the windswept landscape. Out at sea, a fishing boat chugs across the water, surrounded by seagulls.
‘How do you find the winters here?’
‘Rough,’ says Morgan. ‘But beautiful.’
He nods.
‘You’re not thinking of moving?’
She considers the question.
‘No.’
He smiles, holding her gaze a beat too long.
‘Good.’
Feeling a blush steal across her face, Morgan watches him gather his tools and load them into his car. Instinct tells her that this is a man she could learn to trust. Not now, perhaps, but given time.
As for Ben, her feelings have cooled. The sex was good, a welcome release. But was there real intimacy? Is she capable of truly letting go? Of placing her faith in another human being?
Or is she only thinking this way because the man let her down, putting his interests first in her hour of need? His reaction to the arrival in his house of baby Charlie is fresh in her mind.
‘You understand the ramifications for me? My career? My life?’
Her train of thought is interrupted by the sound of an engine. A car is approaching, Neville Rook at the wheel. He pulls to a halt, tyres crunching over the pebbles. Morgan sees a woman in the passenger seat.
Stacey Brown.
Joe frowns.
‘What’s she doing here?’
‘I’m putting her up while she’s on bail.’
‘After everything she did?’
‘She acted under duress,’ says Morgan. ‘She’s a victim too.’
Joe takes a moment to absorb this. The narrowing of his eyes suggests he’s not so forgiving.
‘Have they charged her?’
Morgan nods, counting off the charges on her fingers.
; ‘People trafficking. Money laundering. Drug smuggling. Child abduction. Should keep the lawyers busy.’
‘She’ll plead coercion,’ says Joe. ‘Like Singh.’
‘Will it work?’
‘In his case, perhaps. In hers, I doubt it.’
They watch as Neville gets out of the car followed by Stacey. She drapes her red and white Arsenal scarf around her neck and hoists her rucksack over her shoulder.
‘Any news on Ryan?’ says Morgan.
The woman shakes her head, gesturing towards Rook.
‘He’s passed everything to the Turkish police: the address in Istanbul, descriptions of the middle-men.’
The DI nods in agreement.
‘Our best hope is getting info out of Jukes,’ he says. ‘We’ll get there in the end.’
Morgan can tell he’s trying to sound more confident than he feels. Stacey casts an eye over the ramshackle house.
‘Do I get my own room?’
‘You can have Lissa’s,’ says Morgan. ‘She’s still in LA.’
She watches her not-very-welcome houseguest go inside and close the door.
‘Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days,’ says Rook, reading Morgan’s mind. He nods a greeting to Joe.
‘I take it you two know each other,’ says Morgan.
‘’Fraid so,’ says Joe, smiling. ‘I’m an usher at Nev’s wedding.’
Morgan raises an eyebrow.
‘Am I invited?’
The DI rolls his eyes.
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
He walks to his car without a backward glance. Morgan watches him drive away, then turns to Joe.
‘Can I buy you a drink sometime? To thank you for fixing the window?’
‘Single malt?’
‘A large one.’
He smiles.
‘Is there any other kind?’
Followed by the dog, he makes his way across the shingle and climbs into his car. And then he’s gone.
*
Later, as darkness descends over Dungeness, Morgan is too tired to cook. She’s relieved when Stacey suggests phoning out for pizza. They eat while watching the local news – a report on Eric Sweet. The man has pleaded guilty to charges of voyeurism. He’s been sentenced to nine months in prison.
‘Sleazebag,’ says Stacey, taking a slurp of beer.
Morgan says nothing. She’s regretting her decision to offer the woman a place to stay. She yawns.
‘Early night for me.’
‘What are you, ninety?’ says Stacey. ‘Can I have a bath?’