From Cradle to Grave (4 page)

FOUR

W
hat?’ Morgan asked weakly.

There was the sound of shuffling and voices getting louder in the background. She could hear the muffled sound of Claire’s voice, dull and leaden. A conversation was going on between Claire and a brusque male voice, and then Claire returned to the phone. ‘I have to go, Morgan,’ she said sounding almost like a child. ‘I did what you said. I told them that I want an attorney.’

‘Let’s go,’ the male voice rumbled in the background.

‘I have to go now. They’re putting me in a holding cell,’ said Claire. ‘Please, hurry, Morgan. Please. I need you.’

Morgan’s mouth was so dry that she wondered if she could utter a sound. ‘I’ll come,’ she tried to say. The phone was dead before Claire could reply.

Morgan snapped her phone shut and put it back into her satchel. For a moment she sat there, staring down at the industrial-looking carpet on the lounge floor. The middle-aged woman across the aisle leaned over, and spoke to her, searching Morgan’s face. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. Are you all right?’ she asked.

Morgan met her sympathetic gaze with a confused look in her eyes. ‘No,’ she said, after a moment. ‘No.’ Morgan stood up on shaky legs, and gripped the handle of her rolling carry-on bag. ‘No. I have to go.’

Morgan hesitated for a moment and then went to the ticket counter, which was still deserted. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the lone agent who was working there.

The ticket agent, a black girl with perfect make-up and a slicked-back ponytail, and a name tag which read ‘Tanisha’, looked up at Morgan. ‘Yes?’

‘I . . . am supposed to be going on this flight,’ she said. ‘To London.’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t go. I have to leave,’ said Morgan. ‘Leave the airport.’

‘Are you ill?’ she asked.

Morgan shook her head. ‘I just got a call. A death . . . in the family,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ the girl named Tanisha asked in a gentler tone. ‘Do you want me to reschedule your flight?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Morgan, her mind racing, as if trying to flee from the admission she had just heard from Claire. The real world felt unreal to her, as if everything she recognized was just a false facade. Everything she ever knew had been a lie. She fumbled in her jacket pocket and handed her boarding pass to Tanisha. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. No. Just cross it out. Cross me off the list.’

Morgan started to leave the lounge and then hesitated, and sat back down in one of the far chairs. She had to tell someone, had to talk about it. She looked at the time on her cellphone, made a mental calculation, and then punched in Simon’s number.

He answered on the third ring. His voice sounded tinny and far away. In the background she could hear the sounds of music, and people talking and laughing. ‘Simon,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘It’s Morgan.’

‘Morgan,’ he said, sounded pleased. ‘I can hardly hear you. I’m at a drinks party in Belgravia. You’d adore these people. Here, let me step into another room . . .’

His inference that she would soon meet his friends was consoling. She heard the noise diminishing at the other end and then Simon came back on the line. The sound of his soothing English voice made her want to weep. ‘There we go. Let me just . . . OK. Well, I’m glad to hear from you but, shouldn’t you be off to the airport by now?’

‘I’m at the airport,’ she said. ‘But I have to leave. I have to . . . I can’t come. Not tonight.’

She heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘Can’t come? Morgan, what’s the matter? Why ever not?’

Morgan took a deep breath. ‘My best friend, Claire, just called me. Remember, I told you. She just had a baby.’

There was a silence at his end.

‘I was the godmother.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Right.’

‘She’s been arrested. They’re both dead. The baby and her husband. The police think that she . . .’ Morgan began to cry.

‘What?’ he said.

Morgan sniffed. ‘They think that she was the one who . . . killed them.’

‘Good God. That’s horrible,’ said Simon. ‘There, there. Now, take it easy.’

‘It is horrible,’ Morgan sobbed.

‘No wonder you’re upset.’

‘Claire is my best friend. She’s like a sister to me.’

‘But, I’m not quite clear on why you’re canceling the trip. I mean, you’re not a solicitor. There’s not all that much you can do for her.’

‘I can stand by her,’ said Morgan angrily. ‘She has no one else.’

‘Well, of course,’ he said soothingly. ‘That’s true, of course. But you realize that these . . . situations can take a long time to be resolved.’

Morgan was silent.

‘Well, I mean, they do. It’s just that simple.’

‘I shouldn’t have bothered you,’ said Morgan. ‘I have to go.’

‘Now, hold it there. Steady on. That was boorish of me. One can’t think of one’s self at a time like this. I’m just a bit . . . disappointed, that’s all. I was so looking forward to our . . . journey.’

Morgan nodded, but didn’t speak. Part of her wanted to say ‘me too’, and part of her wanted to rail at him for being so unfeeling.

‘You’ve had a shock. Why don’t you call me back when you know more,’ he said gently. ‘We’ll sort it out. Maybe we can rebook.’

Morgan felt as if her heart was frozen. ‘As you said, it could take a long time.’

Simon was quiet, considering her reply. Finally, he said, ‘Circumstances often change. Let’s just wait and see what happens. Shall we?’

It was twilight by the time Morgan arrived in the town of West Briar. On previous visits she had walked on the beach, and visited the shops downtown, but she had never had occasion to notice where the police department was. She pulled up beside an elderly man who was walking his dog and asked him for directions. It turned out that the police department was headquartered in a historic building across the street from the firehouse. She probably would have found the place without directions, because of the uproar on the sidewalk outside of the building, where reporters and news vans were clustered. Morgan had to park her car several blocks away and wend her way through the milling representatives of the media to reach the entrance.

The weathered, cedar-shake façade of the police department building resembled those of its near neighbors – a whaling museum and a pastry shop. But as Morgan pulled open the door, it was immediately obvious that only the outer shell of the building was of a historic vintage. Inside, the building had been renovated to include all the latest equipment, surveillance cameras, humming computers and ergonomic office furniture. The white-haired desk sergeant asked Morgan her business.

Morgan frowned. ‘I’m here to see . . . Claire Bolton.’

She did not have to explain who Claire Bolton was. The desk sergeant’s ruddy face turned a shade redder, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Are you another reporter? I already told you people. There will be no interviews with the prisoner.’

The prisoner. Morgan turned the word over in her mind. How could it be? How could he be talking about Claire? ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not a reporter. I’m her . . .’ She started to say ‘friend’, and then immediately stopped herself. Mere friendship would probably not gain her access to their most notorious prisoner. She was pretty sure of that. ‘I’m her sister,’ she said.

‘What’s your name?’ the desk sergeant demanded.

‘Morgan Adair.’

‘And you’re her sister?’ the sergeant said skeptically.

Morgan nodded. ‘She called me and asked me to come. I just arrived in town.’

‘Just a minute,’ he said. He picked up the phone on his desk and spoke into it. ‘Yeah, she says she’s the sister. Morgan.’

The desk sergeant waited, and then nodded. ‘Awright,’ he said. He put the phone down and turned to Morgan. ‘The van for the county jail is on its way to pick her up. You can visit with her until it arrives. But that’s it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Morgan humbly.

‘Hardiman, front and center,’ the sergeant bawled.

A heavyset female officer came up to the desk. ‘Yessir.’

‘Take this lady to see her sister. The Bolton woman.’

‘Yessir.’

‘Stay down there with her. She can go in the cell, but pat her down before she goes in and again when she comes out. We don’t want any fuck-ups here till we get her moved to county.’

‘Yessir,’ said the officer, a square-shaped, acne-scarred woman in her forties. She turned to Morgan solemnly. ‘Come with me.’

Morgan followed the straight-backed officer through a set of locked doors, which she opened by putting her palm against a scanner. They entered a freshly painted room in which there was a bathroom without doors on either side as you entered, and then four barred cells, two on each side. There did not appear to be anyone in the first two cells. Morgan wanted to call out, but she didn’t want to break any rules. She took off her shoes and submitted to a wanding, and then a patdown by the officer. She obeyed as the officer told her to stay put. Officer Hardiman went to the cell on the far left.

‘Your sister’s here,’ she said abruptly.

There was no reply. The officer gestured for Morgan to come to where she was standing. Her heart beating fast, Morgan approached the cell door. Officer Hardiman unlocked the barred door with a card key and motioned for Morgan to go in. After Morgan entered, she slammed it shut behind her.

‘I’m right here,’ said Officer Hardiman. ‘I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll tell you when you have to leave.’

‘Thank you,’ said Morgan meekly.

The cell was much darker than the corridor, but only because of the absence of windows in the room. The walls looked freshly painted, although they were defaced by obscene graffiti. It was clearly a facility only meant for short-term imprisonment. The cell had a small metal table, a chair and a bed, but no toilet or sink. Claire, dressed in her own stained sweatshirt and jeans, was sitting on the edge of the cot. Her short, wedge-cut hair looked flat and without shine. There were dark circles around her eyes. Her flawless complexion was waxy in the dim light. Her huge, dark eyes were fixed on Morgan as she entered the little cell.

Now that they were face to face, Morgan found herself almost afraid to meet that familiar gaze. She was afraid that she would not see the person she knew when she looked into Claire’s eyes. The person she recognized. The whole way home from the airport and en route to West Briar, Morgan had tried not to think about the words she had heard Claire say. ‘I did it. I killed them.’ The story was already on the radio, and Morgan had been forced to change the station, and finally switch on her iPod to try and avoid hearing multiple recountings of the day’s terrible events.

Now she was locked in a jail cell with Claire, and there was no avoiding it any longer. She looked at her dearest friend. Claire got up from the cot, crossed the cell to Morgan, and put her arms around her.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ Claire whispered. Then she let out a sob.

Morgan could smell baby powder on Claire’s sweatshirt, mixed with the odor of dried milk and spit-up. In her mind, she saw Drew’s tiny face, his rosebud lips and bright little eyes, and she felt herself stiffen as Claire’s arms enfolded her. She placed her hands lightly on Claire’s trembling back. Normally, Claire’s grief would have been enough to make Morgan want to cry too. But not today. Morgan’s questions buzzed in her mind, like bees in a hive. Was Claire crying over the loss of Drew and Guy? Or was she crying because she was a prisoner here in this cell? It seemed . . . perverse for her to cry over her loved ones if she was responsible for their deaths.

Seeming to sense Morgan’s hesitation, Claire dropped her arms and stepped back, folding her arms over her narrow chest and rubbing her own forearms, as if she were freezing. ‘Sit down,’ she said, indicating the chair.

Morgan nodded. She pulled the chair out from the table and sat. She licked her dry lips and glanced up at Claire who was watching her. ‘Sorry. I’m just trying to . . .’ Morgan’s voice faded away.

Claire resumed her seat on the edge of the bed. She folded her hands in her lap, kneading them together.

‘Are you OK?’ Morgan asked. ‘Physically, I mean.’

Claire nodded without speaking.

‘Did the lawyer come?’ Morgan asked.

‘Yes,’ said Claire.