The Morgens' Lair

1. Truro, Cornwall, August 2018-2

One evening, I popped my head into Father’s room to find him hunched over his computer screen, tutting and drumming his fingers on the unit. Sensing my presence, he turned his head towards the door.

“It’s you.”

“Right first time! What are you doing?”

“Not much. I think I’ll go around town and maybe grab a pizza. There’s nothing like slumming it, eating outside in public.” The Perfect Pizza in Kenwyn Street next to the Red Lion, I thought, they’re the best in town.

The Perfect Pizza in Kenwyn Street next to the Red Lion, they’re the best in town.Father leaned back, stretching his arms to relieve the stiffness inflicted by prolonged screen-watching. He summarised the case.

“The trouble is, they have a suspect, but he doesn’t show on the police database. Nothing, not even a parking ticket. To compound it all, he’s giving a No comment interview as advised by his smart-arsed lawyer, meaning it’s down to us or, rather, them, to build a case on non-existent evidence.”

No comment them, “Can I watch it?” I asked, already enthralled by his dilemma.

“Well, I’m sworn to maintain confidentiality, as you’d expect, but as long as it remains within these four walls, I guess it’s okay.” Pressing the key to take the CD back to its beginning, he invited me to sit next to him.

“Pull up a stool.”

The interview began, but I realised at once why he was becoming frustrated. The No comment after every question gave nothing away about the suspect whose presence the police had requested.

No comment “Before we begin, Mr Taylor-” The plain-clothes policewoman spoke in a disarmingly soft tone. The uniformed sergeant at her side remained silent, simply jotting down notes. She continued, “I must say that you have not been arrested and you have voluntarily agreed to attend this interview. It’s an opportunity for you to, how shall I put it, to assist us with our enquiries.” Taylor pouted his lips, disrespectfully, in her direction.

“I suppose you’ve heard about a series of burglaries in our town, and particularly unpleasant attacks on elderly women resident in their own homes?”

“No comment.”

“They are, indeed, disturbing and cowardly acts, do you not agree?”

“No comment.”

“You enjoy jogging, is that correct?”

“No comment.”

“You have been caught on various CCTV cameras jogging at night and along roads where three of the victims live. What do you say to that?”

And of course. “No comment.”

That was the entire interview. Non-committal. I refocused my attention on the screen. The policewoman took a sip of coffee and fixed Taylor with sharp green eyes, searching for any sign of weakness in this man for whom she was sensing guilt. An innocent person will cooperate by giving alibis or explanations why he couldn’t possibly be hiding anything. Her years of service had taught her never to be dissuaded by No Comment replies.

“Can I remind you, Mr Taylor, that if you have any information, now is a good time to share it with us.”

Taylor yawned, unimpressed by her invitation.

“Where were you the Thursday before last, the sixteenth?”

I don’t know why, I wasn’t expecting it and it was definitely before the suspect spoke, but I began to picture the pizza menu – the Mexicana was my favourite – when Taylor answered, out of the blue,

“I was in the Red Lion in Kenwyn Street, the pub by that pizza place. Ask Bill, the landlord, I was there from about nine until closing.”

I shook my head, screwed up my eyes and realised After all those No Comment answers, he comes out with that pub and pizza hut. Of course he did. The sharp pain in my temples came. I sometimes denied it as a pain, maybe tension is a more accurate word. Whatever it was, it subsided as quickly as it had risen. It left me, at once, frightened and intrigued.

After all those No Comment answers, he comes out with that pub and pizza hut. Of course he did. pain, tension “That’s all he’s given us,” Father resumed, resignedly.

“Well, good luck with that one.” I left him alone to continue watching the interview. He would often offer the police an assessment based on circumstantial evidence plus his reading of the displayed facial and body language. This considerably reduced probable persons of interest and the criminal was apprehended one night in flagrante delicto and Taylor’s house revealed a stash of stolen goods. Brian Johnson’s work became highly valued, and he was regularly employed by that police force.

in flagrante delicto When I wasn’t out and about in Truro with my ever-dwindling group of mates – I’d not fallen out with them but after university many went to work away, or we simply drifted apart – there was ample time to browse through the treasures of the library and spend quality time with Father. I discovered aspects of him I didn’t know. I suppose it was the first chance WHERE we felt we could engage, man to man. It was rarely hard to persuade him to talk about his dealings with the constabulary, and I was captivated by his relating this case or that, yet I became increasingly annoyed when he only divulged details I could have easily found in the local rag: I sought the juicy bits!

“I have to ** to complete confidentiality for anything I’m told or shown, you know that, and it’s how it should be. But I get so cheesed off when I feel and sense – are they the same words…” He would usually digress. “…what’s coming out of a suspect’s mouth is different from what’s happening inside his head…I sometimes need moral support, a like soul to bounce ideas off. It’s hard to explain but do you follow, David?”

I nodded. Naturally, I follow. It’s a capacity I’ve inherited, Father, haven’t I? After some hesitation I breathed in deeply, stared into his eyes and answered,

Naturally, I follow. It’s a capacity I’ve inherited, Father, haven’t I? “It’s when your soul is involved. It’s the most intentional presence in your life, a connection with the man in the interview room, whether you recognise his existence or not.” I gasped and sat back in my chair, shocked by my own audacity. Where had that come from, I asked myself? How on earth do I know all that stuff? I strode out of the library, through the kitchen, brushing past mother.

Where had that come from,? How on earth do I know all that stuff? “Where are you going, David?” Her words were lost. The familiar tension in my head was distancing me from those I loved the most. This gift was making me feel rather special.

I should have known it would be another day when my problem would raise its threatening head. Before getting out of bed I tapped the remote for a Sky Arts television documentary that I’d recorded on my Sky+ box: ‘Leo Fender, the man, the guitars.’ At university, I’d formed a band of sorts with a few like-minded students. We were all self-taught – although that’s not strictly true because I briefly had piano lessons when I was about ten. My teacher was an old lady who lived nearby. Most families seemed to have a piano in the house and finding tuition was easy. But I had an issue: I hated practising with a vengeance. The day before my weekly lesson, I’d learn the allotted piece well enough to satisfy the little old lady. You see, I have the gift of playing by ear. I found that if I know the tune I can perform it to a passable standard, especially with popular songs. I instinctively recognise the left-hand arpeggios and right-hand melody and I then enjoy developing the song. People gasp, wishing they could do the same.

Mastering guitar chords from the ‘Learn Guitar in a Day’ book by Bert Weedon came naturally, so I picked up the fingering for the basic first position shapes followed by their inversions and could accompany singers – my band was born! We played around university campuses and in local pubs but that was the height of our fame. I couldn’t afford a decent guitar and had always yearned for a Fender Stratocaster, the instrument par excellence of my heroes Jeff Beck and Eric Clapton.

The television programme charted Leo Fender’s beginnings and progress up to the iconic 1954 design that I so much admired. How I’d love to own one! Wondering what second-hand models were fetching, I reached for my laptop, opened Google’s home webpage, and paid little heed to the four news clips that automatically popped up. However, with a sharp intake of breath, I couldn’t ignore one with a picture of The Shadows man, Hank Marvin, on stage with his hallmark red Strat. Simultaneous events, I mused stoically as I rubbed my forehead to alleviate a sudden pain although I wasn’t particularly surprised – it was increasingly happening, and the pragmatic side of my nature was learning to accommodate it.

Later, I walked down the streets from our home and reached the entrance to Victoria Park with its lawns, gardens, and paths, leaving all the traffic din and hubbub behind me. I found the serenity of nature soothing, a place where I’d played with my childhood friends, free from the insidious stresses and strains that adults scattered around like confetti at a wedding. When I was in that mood I could stay there until midnight.

Ahead, through the trees, the sound of music attracted me. It was one of the regular summer concerts in the park, sponsored by the town council. Hundreds of mainly young people, sitting on the grassy knolls leading down to the stage raised on scaffolding, enjoyed picnics with cans of beer. Some lay back under the pleasant late afternoon sunshine taking in the revival of soul music. I sat on a bench as the compere pompously mounted the stage, announcing Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, let’s give a mega Truro welcome to our main band, Motown Magic, who will begin their set with ‘In the Midnight Hour.’

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, let’s give a mega Truro welcome to our main band, Motown Magic, who will begin their set with ‘In the Midnight Hour.’I’d reflected, only moments before, that I could stay out until midnight, and therein lay my problem, accompanied by a now familiar pain in my head.

If I shared it, the predictable, disbelieving, entrenched reaction would be ‘it’s just a coincidence.’ That’s as maybe, but it’s scant consolation for me, alone and isolated, taken away perplexed, wrestling with a demon nobody else has ever confronted – or so I thought. I’m not usually a spiritual individual, but I’ve often pondered if, strange as it sounds, I should interpret such ‘coincidences’ as signs from God or the universe! Sadly, there’s no way to scientifically test it. To accept concurrences meekly that plague me provides me with a feeling of purpose, and to move on, I fear that delving into them too closely will make me miss critical evidence. No, I think I’ll employ common sense, intuition, and veritable facts whenever my problem happens. That’s definitely what Father does when he creates a criminal profile.

it’s just a coincidence.’ The music from the stage enveloped me and, after Wilson Pickett’s ‘In the Midnight Hour’ – which I applauded vigorously – I couldn’t tell you the titles of the songs that followed. But I was conscious of the clapping and cheering from the crowd. Then I realised, glancing at my watch, that the ordered pizza awaited me.

‘In the Midnight Hour’ – “Where have you been?” Mother asked, smiling, as I entered through the kitchen door.

“To the park. There’s a music festival and I lost track of time.” I thought, back to the real world. I took a quick shower before laying my aching head on my pillow and drifting into a deep sleep.

back to the real world. The next morning, our family were, unusually, together for breakfast. Mother and Father sat either end of the table, Sophie and me opposite. I smiled at her, quizzically, to be given the normal screwed-up facial expression, as if she was joking with her sixth form pals.

“Some things don’t change, Sophie, you’re a weirdo.” I raised my eyebrows and, aping Taylor, pouted at her.

“Hey! Pack it in you two. It’s always the same when you get together.’ Father’s warning wasn’t particularly heartfelt. He was undeniably proud of his offspring.

“When do you start back at uni?” I asked her, casually,

“Another three weeks, then it’s Freshers before the rest of the students descend on us.”

“So, you’re departing fair Truro? I can’t fathom out why you’ve chosen Manchester. Even Plymouth Argyle can beat their football teams.”

“Whatever! Well, they have a leading modern languages faculty, isn’t that right, Father?”

“Certainly is.” He nodded.

With that affirmation, we turned our attention to devouring our bowls of cereal and piles of hot buttered toast and mother’s home-made jam. Sophie going off to uni reminded me it was about time I made some decisions of my own. In that regard, I was singularly bereft of much-needed inspiration.