Guilty Innocence (7 page)

Natalie’s seen enough of the Morgan family. She does a fresh search on Joshua Barker, and close to three hundred and fifty thousand results ping back at her. Numerous newspaper articles quoting Michelle Morgan’s views on the subject of his release. Another one claims to be an interview with a social worker in regular contact with Joshua Barker during his detention at Vinney Green. The picture she paints doesn’t tally in any way with the man Natalie’s been dating. For one thing, Mark has never displayed any hint of aggression, which is why his conviction for child murder confuses the hell out of her. Yet here is this woman claiming multiple incidents of violence from Joshua Barker; how he beat up other inmates, how he frequently trashed his room, how the staff confided in her that they feared him.

‘Being with him always sent a chill down my spine,’ the woman tells her interviewer, in deliberately theatrical tones. Her clichéd phrasing betrays her secret enjoyment of her fifteen minutes of fame. ‘He’s already shown what he’s capable of. I often thought – what if I ended up being his next victim?’

Natalie’s brain imagines an eleven-year-old boy, capable of murder, then morphs him down through the years as he breaks furniture and punches noses in the cinema of her mind. She watches this boy as he terrorises inmates and staff but somehow the movie in her head stops short of fusing the image with Mark Slater. The two simply don’t tally up and nothing Natalie does will get them to splice together. The dichotomy confuses her no end. If she’s unable to believe Mark Slater emerged from the chrysalis of Joshua Barker, how the hell can she believe him guilty of murdering a two-year-old child?

‘I didn’t do it, Nat.’ His words come back to her, and she remembers how young he was when Abby Morgan died. Is it really beyond her to accept it might have happened the way he says it did? That he was forced into going along with events by the more dominant Adam Campbell?

The answer is yes. She can’t, she won’t, allow herself the luxury of such a belief, even though part of her remains desperate to do so.

No, she’s made the right decision in cutting Mark adrift. Natalie doesn’t intend to waste any more of her life on him.
He’s a vicious killer
, she reminds herself.
Forget him
. Her resolution sorted, her stomach more settled, she heads for the biscuit tin. As she crams the sweet chocolaty comfort into her mouth, Natalie clamps down hard on the nagging voice inside her brain. The one telling her she’s misjudged Mark.

6

INSANITY, OF COURSE

‘Women,’ Tony Jackson says.

Mark’s guts tense.

‘Been seeing anyone in particular?’

Mark shakes his head. If Natalie Richards has been off limits before in his conversations with Jackson, he’s certainly not going to mention their relationship now she’s dumped him.

He shrugs. ‘No. Not my style, as you know.’

Jackson gazes at Mark, causing the knot in his belly to tighten, pulling it tauter, the constriction surging upwards to compress his lungs.

‘You’re aware you need to come clean if you’re getting in deep with anyone. We’ve been over this a thousand times.’

‘There’s nobody.’ Mark’s tone is emphatic. Besides, it’s true.

Tension squeezes the air between them. Jackson’s no fool; three decades in the police force have imbued him with a stellar internal radar for bullshit. Thing is, though, he’s screwed if Mark’s unwilling to divulge details of who he’s been shagging. Besides, other things matter more; Mark’s ability to hold down a job and keep out of trouble. Tony Jackson shrugs, evidently willing to let it go, and turns back to his notes.

It’s the day after Natalie walks out on Mark. The two men are at his flat, where their monthly meetings always take place after Mark finishes work. As usual, Jackson wears civilian clothes to hide his role as Mark’s monitoring officer. He’s somewhere in his early fifties, carrying too many pints of beer around his middle, and prone to large sweat patches under his armpits. A tad florid and more than slightly bald. Mark likes the man; Tony Jackson has always behaved professionally. Whatever emotions he might have about Abby Morgan’s murder are kept shelved. Never once has he fired barbed comments about kiddie killers Mark’s way, unlike plenty of other law officers have done. Moreover, he has a granddaughter who’s now the same age as Abby Morgan was when she died. Making Jackson’s professional detachment all the more remarkable.

An impartiality that will definitely end should Mark reveal not only has he been dating a woman regularly, but also that she’s unmasked Joshua Barker. Something of which he’s well aware Jackson needs to be appraised. Right here. Right now.

Mark stays silent, however. The meeting, never very long these days, ends; Jackson gets ready to leave, all boxes on his list satisfactorily checked.

‘See you next month,’ he says. ‘Keep your nose clean and your arse out of trouble.’

Later on, after his usual seven-mile run, Mark slides into the hot water of his bath, willing the heat to relax his muscles after the punishing workout. He switches his mind back to Natalie. Impossible to blame her for sneaking into his flat and discovering the letter. Not if he accepts responsibility for his own behaviour. How his reluctance to move their relationship beyond the casual has obviously inflamed every one of her insecurities.

In a way, he’s glad the pretence of being Mark Slater, regular guy, is over and she knows the truth. Even if he’s been rejected because of it. The constant need for subterfuge where Natalie’s concerned has weighed heavily on him. Is it really finished between them, though? Is it so impossible that he can be loved despite having witnessed the murder of Abby Morgan, having seen the rake batter her delicate flesh, the knife slide in between her ribs? Women are, after all, notorious for this kind of thing, maintaining correspondence for years with serial killers in jail, marrying prisoners on Death Row in America, seemingly drawn to the psychopathic side of human nature. Perhaps Natalie will be of the same ilk. Maybe she’ll reconsider, once she’s had time to get over the initial shock. He realises she yearns for love, for security and permanence; the chance exists she might regret dumping him as her anger recedes.

But then, he reflects, he doesn’t want a woman who’s with him because he’s a convicted child killer but one who’ll love him because he’s worthy of the emotion, and at that point he abandons his self-pretence. Because he’s not lovable, not at all, as his mother has demonstrated so decisively.

Natalie and her penchant for snooping. He sighs. Tony Jackson will go ballistic if he ever finds out Mark didn’t inform him immediately of the breach of his identity. One that might unleash vigilante action against him if the public find out one of Abby Morgan’s killers is sheltering amongst them. Thugs who like nothing better than an excuse to release their ever-ready aggression are as common as skid marks in a crapper.

Thing is, Mark doesn’t believe Natalie will reveal to anyone what she’s discovered. Admit she’s been dating a convicted child killer? Nope. Not going to happen. Besides, Natalie’s from a solid lower middle-class background. Odds are she has no connections to the kind of thug who’d like nothing better than to dispense him a dose of his own medicine.

Anyway, the part of Mark that yearns for stability, routine, shies fiercely away from what admitting the breach will entail. A fresh identity, a new life, the idea of which holds little attraction. Hell, he’s taken four years to establish what he has now; a stable job, the respect of his boss and colleagues, his home, shabby and cramped though his flat is. The notion of starting again, with a different workplace, a new controlling officer, holds the same appeal as a shit sandwich for Mark.

No. Better by far to accept he’s blown it with Natalie Richards, and pray he’s right in his assumption she’ll keep quiet about him being Joshua Barker.

He reaches across to let out some of the now tepid water, turning on the hot tap full blast to top it up and adding another slug of lemon bath gel. Once it’s replenished, he slides back into the soothing heat, inhaling the sharp citrus scent.

Something’s been nagging in his head since he got back to his flat. Now, with the tension starting to drain away, it comes back to him. The date. Today is March 12, which means the fourteenth anniversary of Abby Morgan’s murder is a mere nine days away. A fact that’s been chewing Mark up in recent weeks, the date always raw and painful for him. What with all the drama yesterday with the letter, it slipped temporarily into his subconscious and has now resurfaced, ugly and mocking, to taunt him. Somehow, with Natalie’s rejection still smarting, it seems worse this time around. So many years have passed and yet the horror remains as keen, as fresh, in his mind as ever.

Mark’s mind travels back to Abby Morgan’s murder. More specifically, March 21, the date when she died. Whilst he’s serving his detention, he’s unaware of the annual vigil that takes place at the scene of her murder. Then he’s released at the age of twenty-one, with a raft of restrictions governing his life and behaviour. When March 21 next rolls around, Mark’s antsy all day, his memories making him uncharacteristically restless. He’s in his flat after work, the small television in one corner his connection to world events. He turns it on and settles down to watch the news, his mind elsewhere. His hands shovel his pie and chips from the local takeaway into his mouth. Mark’s busy savouring the meaty filling, the greasy pastry, the tang of the salt and vinegar. Then his fork stalls and clatters back onto the plate, scattering ketchup and chips across the table.

Abby Morgan’s name is the catalyst. On the television, Michelle Morgan spouts forth her tirade against her daughter’s killers, and Mark becomes aware for the first time of the annual vigil. Michelle’s fiery rhetoric tortures him. Forbidden though it is, Mark’s drawn by a desperate need to revisit the small market town on the edge of Dartmoor where Abby Morgan died.

Once the idea takes hold, he finds achieving it straightforward. His meetings with Tony Jackson are currently weekly, due to his recent discharge from prison, but so far Mark’s been compliant enough not to arouse any suspicion in the man. He’s holding down a steady job, he’s not got into any trouble, and the police can’t monitor him twenty-four hours a day.

Moretonhampstead is an easy drive from Bristol, motorway most of the journey. Mark’s there shortly before lunchtime, having taken a day’s leave from work. It’s a weekday, with the March weather being chilly and unpredictable, meaning few tourists have chosen to visit. Certainly nobody who’ll notice or care about him. He’s nervous, though. The obsessive rituals begin the minute he gets out of his car.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
Mark walks through the town, counting all the way, turning his head away as his route takes him past Abby Morgan’s house. An unavoidable hurdle; Abby’s murder takes place on farmland on the outskirts of Moretonhampstead, and the public right of way he and Adam Campbell use the day she dies lies immediately past her childhood home.
Three, four, knock at the door.
Michelle Morgan might still live there and even though he doubts she’d recognise Joshua Barker in the face of Mark Slater, the notion of encountering the woman is unendurable.

Mark winds his way down the narrow path, up through the field at the bottom, before turning right towards the scene of Abby’s death. Disappointment floods him at the sense of nothingness he experiences. He’s not sure what he hoped to gain from coming here, but with the farm building demolished, it’s just an ordinary field, the trees on its edge simply trees, the hedges commonplace, the grass unremarkable. Silence surrounds Mark apart from the occasional crow squawk; the cold March wind whips up his hair as he surveys the spot where the old wooden building once stood.
Nineteen, twenty, my plate’s empty.
No hint of the blood, terror or screams of Abby Morgan lingers in the air and Mark leaves after a mere quarter of an hour.

Throughout the ensuing years, the urge to return never repeats itself. Whatever he’s looking for, he won’t find it in Moretonhampstead.

Ever since Abby Morgan’s death, Mark’s been searching for answers. Atonement, to be precise. The word best describing what he’s been striving for all this time. Hell, not surprising really. A child died because he was too weak to protect her. Sure, he’s already spent ten years in the lock-up, but Michelle Morgan’s right. A decade’s insufficient punishment for a child’s death. Mark has no idea how to achieve atonement, though, despite the familiarity he’s gained with the YouTube videos of the vigil. How can he give Michelle the justice she’s been denied? Wipe the unhappiness from Rachel’s expression? Find out what emotions Shaun experiences behind his impassive façade? Discover why Abby’s father is always absent from the vigil?

Now March 21 is a mere nine days away, and Mark acknowledges his urge for atonement will only intensify during the countdown, particularly if he encounters any more incarnations of Abby. He’s exhausted by trying to sort his complex emotions into some kind of order; from now on, a different approach seems required.

Mark abruptly realises what’s needed.

This year, he’ll attend the vigil.

An insane idea, of course. Completely forbidden; he’ll be breaking two of his parole rules. He shouldn’t even contemplate going to where Abby Morgan died, let alone risk locking eyes with Michelle Morgan. Mark’s growing ever more desperate in his quest to secure release from his guilt, though. His usual practice of watching the vigil at home then making a donation to a local children’s charity hasn’t provided the relief he seeks. A need to delve deeper into the Morgan family tortures him. The insane idea that’s grasping him tight has to be worth a shot. Perhaps he’ll understand more if he’s back in that field in person, hearing Michelle Morgan’s wrath first-hand, instead of experiencing the vigil via his television.

It’ll be easy enough to attend, like when he visited Moretonhampstead before. He’ll either take the day off, or bunk off sick, and memories of Adam and him skipping school, the way they frequently did, wash over him with bittersweet irony. The vigil will start at four o’clock, the time of Abby’s death; Mark reckons he can leave straight after lunch and be back by mid-evening. He has the advantage, of course, that nobody will recognise him as the eleven-year-old complicit in the murder. At the time, photographs of the two boys were widely published and their names openly broadcast, hence the need for new identities on their release. The public has no idea, though, of how Joshua Barker has morphed into the adult Mark Slater, swapping the childish features of the boy for the fully-formed ones of the man. He can lock eyes with Michelle Morgan without her ever knowing one of the objects of her tirade is anywhere near her. He’ll stand well back from any television cameras, pretend to be an interested onlooker and blend in. As for clothing, he’ll wear something nondescript, a jacket with a hood he can pull over his face. Once the vigil starts, he’ll do his best to get a grasp of how he’s shattered this family’s lives and perhaps he’ll understand how to atone for his misdeeds. If that’s even possible.