by Simon Booker
Her situation.
Her trauma.
Her decision.
‘Mind if I change Marlon’s nappy?’ says Anjelica.
‘’Course not.’
Morgan leaves the woman to it, crossing to the bathroom and tapping on the door.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Yup.’
Morgan enters the bathroom and closes the door. Her daughter is sitting on the edge of the bath, twisting a tissue in her hands.
‘Give them my room,’ she says. ‘I’ll take the sofa.’
Morgan raises an eyebrow.
‘Is that a good idea?’
Her daughter sighs, her eyes bright with tears.
‘Don’t give me a hard time. This might be my last night.’
*
As Marlon sleeps on the sofa, the reason for Lissa’s change of heart becomes clear over a meagre supper of beans on toast. She wants to pick Anjelica’s brains. They have discussed Karl and Jukes, and the baby in the tin, but one topic is uppermost in Lissa’s mind.
‘What’s prison like? I’ve seen it on TV but what’s it really like?’
Morgan pours another glass of wine, listening to the wind howl outside and watching as the visitor blows out her cheeks.
‘At first, it’s surreal. Like it’s happening to someone else. Then reality bites.’ Anjelica pauses, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and nodding towards the front door. ‘Tell me what you see.’
Lissa follows her gaze.
‘The door.’
‘Describe it.’
‘White. A lock halfway up. And a latch.’
‘That’s it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is there a handle?’
‘Of course.’
‘Exactly,’ says Anjelica. ‘The moment prison hits home is when you walk into your cell and hear that door being locked behind you. For the first time in your life you’re looking at a door with no handle.’ She sips her water. ‘I stared at that door all night, listening to women yelling, crying out for their mums.’ She pushes a crust of toast around her plate. ‘The first few weeks were like the worst nightmare. Violence. Bullying.’
‘Jesus,’ whispers Lissa. ‘Sounds awful.’
A thin smile.
‘I could have handled “awful”.’ Another sip of water. ‘The tea tasted terrible. Kiki worked in the canteen. She used to make me tea in a special mug. Said I’d get used to it. She was right. After a few weeks, it started to taste normal. Which is when she showed her true colours. She hadn’t made mine with water, she’d used her own urine.’ She pauses, looking down at the beans on her plate. ‘And don’t get me started on the sausages.’
Lissa drops her fork with a clatter, muttering under her breath.
‘Jesus Christ . . .’
Unable to take any more, she gets to her feet, chair scraping the floor.
‘I need to go to bed. Jet lag. Mind if I have my own room after all?’
She avoids her mother’s eye.
This might be my last night . . .
Anjelica nods towards her sleeping baby.
‘’Course not. We’ll be fine.’
Lissa heads for her room.
‘Goodnight,’ says Morgan.
No answer.
She watches as her daughter opens the door to her bedroom.
Her hand lingering on the handle.
*
Later, on her way back from the bathroom, Morgan knocks on Lissa’s door. No reply. Entering the sitting room, she hears a whisper from the sofa.
‘Thanks for this.’
She sees Anjelica wrapped in a blanket, cradling her sleeping baby in her arms.
‘You’re welcome.’
The woman nods towards a pile of Jiffy bags stacked in the corner of the room.
‘Fan mail?’
Morgan shakes her head.
‘Letters from prisoners, forwarded by my publisher. They all swear they’re innocent and seem to think I’m Wonder Woman.’
‘You are to me.’
Morgan manages half a smile. Any triumph in securing Anjelica’s release has been cast into the deepest shadow.
‘Any news on what happened to Kiki?’
‘Nope,’ says Morgan, appalled by the ease with which the lie slips from her lips.
Anjelica sighs.
‘She was a nasty piece of work. But no one deserves to die that way.’
Morgan says nothing, heading for her room.
‘I’ll cook you that meal another time,’ says Anjelica. ‘Sweet dreams.’
*
It’s 2 a.m. before Morgan manages to snatch some sleep. But she’s awake by four, mouth dry, head thumping. She lies quietly, listening to the rain on the roof and wishing there was someone she could call. Being a single mother has never been easy, but there are times when the lack of a partner feels overwhelming. Cameron has never been ‘hands on’ – quite the opposite – but he might share legal bills. On the other hand, Morgan wonders how seriously he’d take this latest turn of events. He views the world through the prism of a Hollywood screenwriter. She could imagine him describing Lissa’s responsibility for Kiki’s death as an ‘interesting plot twist’.
Picking up her phone, Morgan scrolls to Ben’s name.
She hesitates, then deletes his number.
Her thoughts turn to Stacey Brown, presumably asleep in her bail hostel, facing another lengthy sentence. Will the woman stay silent?
Should she?
How do people live with a secret this toxic, a burden this heavy?
Maybe it’s the loneliness of the night, but Morgan feels an urgent need to confide in someone, preferably someone who knows the criminal justice system. Scrolling through her contacts, she comes to Joe Cassidy’s name. She hesitates, struggling to imagine a conversation in which she picks the ex-copper’s brains without giving anything away.
Not possible.
Her headache worsening, she gets out of bed and pads into the bathroom, passing Anjelica and Marlon asleep on the sofa. She rummages in the medicine cabinet, searching for the paracetamol.
No sign of the jar.
But she bought some not long ago . . .
Her mind races. She recalls her daughter’s words.
This might be my last night.
Emerging from the bathroom, she hurries along the corridor and sees a light shining under Lissa’s door. She knocks. No reply. She opens the door.
The bed is rumpled. The room is empty.
Grabbing her daughter’s bathrobe, she dons a pair of flip-flops. Then she steps out into the night.
The rain is still falling. To the east, the beam from the old lighthouse cuts through the darkness. To the west, the lights of HMP Dungeness are visible, along with the glow of lights from the power station. But there is no sign of life.
‘Lissa?’
Morgan steps onto the shingle, drawing the bathrobe around her.
‘Lissa?’
Her feet crunch over the stones as she walks towards the lighthouse, eyes roving the darkness. Passing the Mini, she glances inside but there is no sign of her daughter.
‘Lissa!’
The rain teems down. The bathrobe is sodden. Her feet are freezing. She hurries on, slipping and sliding on the shingle, passing the wreckage of the abandoned fishing boat. She calls her daughter’s name, again and again.
No response.
Gripped by a growing panic, she turns and glimpses movement by the shoreline. A figure in white.
No, a woman.
A naked woman.
Lissa.
Morgan stumbles over the pebbles, hurrying towards her daughter, calling her name. Lissa is facing out to sea, ankle-deep in water. Lost in a world of her own, she doesn’t respond to her mother’s cries. Drawing closer, Morgan can hear her railing against the world.
‘Why me? . . . Why? . . . Why?’
Sobbing, Lissa’s arms are outstretched, her slim, pale body framed by the night sky. Her feet a
re bleeding, cut by the flint. Morgan splashes through the ice-cold water, reaching her daughter, enveloping her in her arms.
‘Did you take the pills?’
Lissa continues to cry but says nothing.
‘Lissa! Talk to me!’
A guttural roar emerges from her daughter’s mouth. She turns. Eyes bulging. Rain cascading down her face. But she doesn’t answer.
Over her shoulder, Morgan sees the plastic jar of paracetamol lying on the shingle. She darts forward and grabs the container, flipping open the cap with shaking hands. The cotton wool is still in place. The jar is full.
Flooded with relief, she turns back to her daughter, whose cries echo far and wide.
‘Let’s go home.’
She puts an arm around Lissa, leading her towards the house.
‘I can’t do it, Mum . . . I can’t go to prison . . . I’d rather die.’
‘Don’t say that . . .’
‘I’m not just saying it . . . I mean it . . . I can’t go to prison. I swear to God, I’ll kill myself.’
Morgan steers her distraught daughter towards the front door. In her heart, she knows Lissa means every word. The girl always speaks her mind.
Like mother, like daughter.
Forty-Seven
Morgan spends what’s left of the night in Lissa’s bed, holding her daughter close, stroking her hair. Slowly, the sobs subside, replaced by soft snores. Then comes the rhythmic breathing that accompanies deep slumber. Morgan’s last two Zopiclone have done their job.
Her mind racing, she doesn’t sleep until the first glimmers of dawn, then she dozes for what feels like minutes, waking to find her daughter still out for the count.
Merciful oblivion.
Emerging from the bedroom, Morgan discovers that Anjelica and Marlon have gone. A note on the kitchen table.
Thank you. For everything.
PS: I’ll let you know how I get on with adopting Charlie.
She takes a long shower, then carries a pot of coffee outside, onto the deck, and rolls her first cigarette of the day. A long-ago exchange with Lissa flashes through her mind.
I thought you were going to quit smoking.
So did I.
The rain has died away, the sun is filtering through wisps of white cloud. Morgan scans the deserted shoreline, the only sign of life a flock of gulls circling a lone fishing trawler out at sea. There is a hint of warmth in the air and, in spite of everything, solace in the wild beauty that surrounds her house: every bird, every scrap of shingle, every clump of sea kale.
Hearing barking, she looks up to see the three-legged dog heading in her direction. Joe Cassidy follows in its wake. The ex-DI is wearing his fisherman’s jumper. He raises an arm in greeting. Morgan manages a brief wave. Nothing too friendly. She needs him at arm’s length for now.
Perhaps for ever.
Reaching the deck that surrounds the house, his greeting is cheery.
‘’Morning.’
Her response is curt.
‘Hi.’
Taking a seat at the table, she focuses on finishing her roll-up. The dog scampers away, nose to the shingle, following a trail of smells.
‘Did you hear from Neville Rook?’ says Joe.
‘About what?’
He smiles, pleased to be the bearer of news.
‘Probably shouldn’t shoot my mouth off, but the baby in the biscuit tin? The father was Jukes.’
Morgan raises an eyebrow.
‘Definitely?’
A nod.
‘Their DNA matches.’
Morgan lights her cigarette. She can see Joe eyeing the coffee pot. Senses him angling for an invitation.
‘They found a letter in the tin too,’ he says. ‘It was singed by the heat from the fire, but still legible. It’s Jukes’s confession to killing the baby. In his own handwriting. Open and shut case.’
Morgan’s eyes widen. She says nothing, dragging on her cigarette.
‘They think he killed Kiki too,’ says Joe.
Her heart rate quickens.
‘Rook said that?’
A nod.
‘Jukes denies it.’ Joe scratches his nose and frowns. ‘And I’m not convinced Neville’s right.’
Morgan tries to keep her voice casual.
‘Why not?’
‘Those people I saw the night Kiki died? The woman in the denim jacket? The man in the hoodie?’
‘What about them?’
He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. ‘The dog was sniffing around over there.’ He nods towards the lighthouse. ‘Found these.’
He opens his palm.
Suddenly, Morgan’s heart is hammering. In Joe’s hand are the remains of two buttons from Stacey’s denim jacket. Charred by fire, the red paint is mostly gone, but one or two specks remain on the fragments of metal.
Joe pokes the buttons with a forefinger.
‘Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but something doesn’t smell right.’ He tucks the buttons back in his pocket. ‘Once a copper, always a copper.’
Morgan says nothing. Blood thuds in her ears. Is he going to follow his instincts?
Joe studies her face. Raises an eyebrow.
‘You OK, Morgan?’
‘Fine.’
She daren’t pick up her mug for fear her hands will tremble. She nods towards the front door. Tries to strike a cheerful note. ‘My daughter came home.’
‘For good?’
She considers the question.
‘Looks like it.’
Joe gazes out to sea and clears his throat. He nods in the direction of the lighthouse. ‘I hear the Beach Inn is under new management.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Would you like to try the restaurant? Dinner? Bring your daughter?’
Morgan looks into the man’s grey-green eyes.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
His smile fades.
‘Oh?’
Still shaking, she daren’t drag on her cigarette. Joe says nothing for a moment. The silence swells, becoming uncomfortable.
‘Have I done something wrong?’
No. You’re kind. Clever.
Too clever.
‘Not at all,’ she says. ‘It’s just . . .’ She tails off, hoping the sentence will somehow finish itself.
‘Just . . . one of those days?’ he offers.
She manages half a smile.
‘One of those lives.’
After the man has left, trailed by the three-legged dog, Morgan smokes two more cigarettes while watching the sun rise high in the sky. The clouds have drifted away and there is more warmth in the air, perhaps the last of the year. She finishes her coffee, staring at the prison in the distance, her mind still racing.
Back inside the house, she finds Lissa asleep, curled in a foetal ball. Gazing at her daughter’s tear-stained face, she sits by the bedside for several minutes.
What now, Lissa? Your life is in two halves: before and after.
Mine too.
Her daughter gives a small cough and turns her face towards the wall, but sleeps on. Morgan can sit still no longer. She rises from the chair and walks into the kitchen.
For a moment, she considers opening a bottle of wine.
The impulse dies as quickly as it is born.
It’s 9 a.m. Get a grip.
But Joe’s words are still playing inside her head.
Something doesn’t smell right.
Will he act on his suspicions? Does Lissa’s determination to remain silent mark the end of the story? Or just the beginning?
Morgan paces the room. Anxious. Restless. Looking for something to do.
She sits at the table, rolls another cigarette and turns her attention to the mail from prisoners. She opens the first Jiffy bag and lets a pile of letters cascade onto the table. One falls to the floor. She picks it up. It’s addressed to Morgan Vine, author of Trial and Error.
Lighting the roll-up, she slits open the envelope and begins t
o read.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Joel, Claire, Bec, Emily, Kate, Mark and the rest of the team at Bonnier Zaffre and to Caroline Michel at PFD.
Thanks also to Mark Billingham and all the other readers, bloggers, and reviewers who were kind enough to say nice things about the first Morgan Vine thriller, Without Trace.
A special mention to Graham Minett, Ayisha Malik, David Young, Alex Caan, Lesley Allen, Colette Dartford, Chris Whitaker, Vanessa O’Loughlin, Rebecca Thornton, Deborah O’Connor, Sophie Nicholls, Kevin Sullivan and Deborah Bee, who launched debut novels around the same time and enjoyed many laughs along the way.
In the words of the great Lily Tomlin, ‘We’re all in this together – alone.’
Above all, my love and thanks to Melanie McGrath for being delightful, delicious and de-lovely, and keeping the home fires burning.
About the Author
Author and screenwriter Simon Booker writes prime-time TV drama for BBC1, ITV and US TV. His UK credits include The Inspector Lynley Mysteries, Holby City and The Mrs Bradley Mysteries. He has written many plays for BBC Radio 4, worked extensively as a producer in television and radio, and as a journalist. Simon lives in London and Deal. His partner is fellow crime writer Melanie McGrath. They often discuss murder methods over breakfast.
Also by Simon Booker
Without Trace
Reading Group Questions
•To what extent is Karl Savage a victim of his upbringing? Do you feel any sympathy for him?
•Morgan’s daughter Lissa is put through the mill. Morgan loves her but doesn’t always find her easy to like. How do you feel about Lissa? Do your feelings change as the story progresses? Is she a spoilt brat? Victim of her own choices? Unlucky in love?
•Morgan’s relationship with arson investigator Ben Gaminara ends on a bitter-sweet note. Do you feel he let her down? Was she right to ditch him?
•Does Joe Cassidy seem like a better bet as a potential love interest? Or does he pose a potential threat to Morgan and her daughter?
•Morgan is not above flirting with DI Neville Rook in order to get the information she needs. Does she lead him on unfairly or is he fair game?
•Morgan takes desperate measures to lure Karl Savage out of hiding. Was she right to take the risks she did?