Nine Elms: The thrilling first book in a brand-new, electrifying crime series (Kate Marshall 1)

by Robert Bryndza

  He reached over, switched on his digital radio and scrolled through the list of stations, just in time to hear the 8 a.m. news headlines for BBC Radio Devon. He switched between Radio Four and local radio every morning in the hope that something would be reported, and what had been written in the letter from this ‘fan’ would be confirmed. He listened to the full news reports, but there was nothing.

  He switched off the radio, and was rolling the letter back up tightly when he heard a trolley in the corridor. He couldn’t find the empty capsule on his pile of books, and he spent a frantic moment searching until he found it under the bed. It almost disintegrated in his sweaty hands as he pushed the note back inside. He'd only just got the radiator knob fitted back on when there was a crash and the hatch in the door opened.

  ‘Coffee,’ cried the voice of the woman who delivered refreshments and meals.

  Peter went to the hatch and saw the lurid red plastic sippy cup. He was permitted one hot drink every morning, served in the sippy cup for safety. To Peter it seemed to be designed as a way to humiliate him. ‘Milk and no sugar?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes . . . ’

  ‘You don’t sound sure.’

  ‘You can’t open it in front of me,’ the woman snapped. ‘Either you want to drink it, or I have to take it away.’

  He picked it up. ‘Thank you,’ he said, then muttered ‘Cunt.’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I said, any chance of a biscuit?’ He flashed her a brown-toothed smile. She shook her head, a look of disgust on her hard face.

  ‘I’ll be back in an hour. The cup comes back—’

  ‘Empty, upturned, with the lid off . . . Yes, I know,’ Peter said.

  She slammed the hatch closed. He tipped it back and took a sip. It was cold, milky and sweet.

  He went to his desk, took out a piece of writing paper and, using a ruler, tore it neatly into a thin strip. Then he started to write a reply to his fan.

  CHAPTER 8

  Kate went to an AA meeting the next morning with Myra. It was their regular meeting in a church hall just outside Ashdean. Kate spoke about nearly losing her sobriety and, as always, gained strength from the people in the meeting, sharing their stories of recovery. When she and Myra parted on the steps of the church, Kate was glad that Myra didn’t press her further on what she was going to do.

  Tristan was already in and working at his desk when Kate arrived at the office.

  ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Alan Hexham got back to me. He can make the lecture next week. He also wanted to know if you are okay. He was concerned the post-mortem last night upset you.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll call him,’ said Kate, sitting at her desk and switching on her computer. She could see Tristan out of the corner of her eye, wanting to know more. Why would Alan leave such an indiscreet message? He didn’t know if Kate shared everything with her assistant. She opened her email and saw there was a reply from Malcolm Murray, asking to meet.

  Kate looked up at Tristan. He was working on the cold case exercise for the upcoming lecture, which had involved taking the police file and reports and collating the information for the students to read. She made a decision.

  ‘Do you want to grab a coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure, what would you like?’ Tristan pushed back his chair.

  ‘No, I mean let’s go and have a coffee. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, his thick dark brows furrowing. ‘Is there a problem with my work?’

  ‘God, no. Come on, I’m dying for some caffeine, and let’s talk.’

  They went down to the shiny new Starbucks on the ground floor of the faculty building. It was warm and cosy, and when they had their coffee, they managed to bag a table by the window, looking out over the seafront. Kate glanced around at the busy tables where students worked on their shiny new laptops, guzzling muffins and three-quid lattes, and thought back to her own poverty-stricken student days – her freezing cold bedsit, and living on a diet of lentils and fruit. A Starbucks latte and muffin cost more than her weekly food budget had been back then.

  ‘So many of these students must be minted,’ said Tristan, echoing her thoughts. ‘See that guy over there?’ He indicated a handsome, dark-haired guy lounging in one of the armchairs and talking on his mobile. ‘He’s wearing Adidas Samba Luzhniki World Cup trainers, limited edition.’

  Kate looked over at the white-and-red-striped trainers.

  ‘Really? They just look like trainers.’

  ‘There were only a few thousand pairs made, and they have bison leather and suede. He can’t have got much change out of five hundred quid . . . Sorry, what did you want to talk about?’

  ‘No worries,’ she said, smiling. The more she got to know Tristan, the more she liked him. She told Tristan about the email from Malcolm Murray, and her meeting with Alan Hexham last night. She edited out the part about nearly falling off the wagon. She also showed Tristan the email.

  ‘Do you think they’re linked? The dead girl from the postmortem and then this email about Caitlyn?’

  ‘No. Although the way in which this young woman was murdered is horrific, and it has all the hallmarks of Peter Conway, but he’s locked up, and the police are dealing with that case. I want you to help me look into Caitlyn’s disappearance.’

  ‘How?’ he said, looking at the email.

  ‘You’ve been preparing all the stuff for my cold case lectures. You’ve dealt with the historical case files. I’d like you to come with me when I meet Malcolm and his wife, so I can have a second opinion. I’m very close to the case, obviously, and I’d welcome your thoughts.’

  Tristan looked surprised, and excited. ‘Absolutely. I’ve loved doing the cold case stuff, reading through the old police files. It’s such interesting stuff.’

  ‘How much work do you have on for tomorrow?’ Kate asked. Wednesday was a non-lecture day, but it was still used for preparation and paperwork.

  ‘I can juggle some stuff around, stay a bit later today. You want to go tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. We’d need to leave early in the morning, and of course it’s classed as a work day and I’ll pay your expenses.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Tristan, downing the last of his coffee. He looked at the email again, and at the photo Kate had found of Caitlyn online.

  ‘This must feel like unfinished business for you. Peter Conway was your case, and now there could be more victims.’

  ‘We don’t know that yet. There’s no body, but unfortunately for me, the Peter Conway case will always feel like unfinished business . . . ’

  Tristan nodded. ‘What was he like? Peter. I know what he is now, but he must have seemed like a normal person. No one suspected him for years.’

  ‘He was my boss, and even though we had an affair, I wasn’t on joking terms with him. He seemed like a decent bloke, popular with his team. Always bought a round of drinks after a long hard day. There was a female detective whose husband left her, and Peter gave her a lot of slack and let her do her job, pick up her son from school, that kind of thing. Back in 1995, if a female police officer had children or any childcare issues she was bunged on a desk job quicker than you can say Equal Rights for Women.’

  ‘You think there was a normal person lurking inside him?’

  ‘Yes, and with most multiple murderers the two sides of their character are often in conflict. Good and evil.’

  ‘And evil often wins.’

  ‘I would hope that good triumphs as much as evil . . . ’ Her voice trailed off. She wasn’t so sure any more.

  Tristan nodded. ‘Thanks. I promise I won’t bug you with any more questions about him . . . This is very cool, that I get to see you being a policewoman again and investigating crime.’

  ‘Hold your horses, I just want us to visit Malcolm and his wife, nothing more. I’m not making them any promises.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Kate and Tristan set off early the next morning. It took two hours o
n the motorway to drive to Chew Magna, a pretty village about ten miles outside Bristol.

  The cottage belonging to Malcolm and Sheila was on the outskirts of the village, down a short track which was muddy from the recent rain. They parked close to the front gate, and Tristan had to leap from the passenger seat to the grassy verge by the front gate to avoid a huge muddy puddle.

  The cottage was quaint, and not how Kate had imagined Malcolm and Sheila’s home. She’d envisioned a dingy little Victorian terrace, or a council flat, similar to the other victims’ houses. The cottage was whitewashed, and a thick wisteria wound its way up the drainpipe and under the eaves. Its branches were bare and a few yellowing leaves hung on, dancing in the wind. As they walked up to the front door, the grass in the front garden was at knee height and tall weeds grew through the cracks in the concrete.

  Malcolm answered the door. He was short and plump with rounded shoulders. His hair was very thin, a baby-fine fluff that clung onto his veiny scalp. He wore blue jeans with an ironed crease down the front and a red-and-blue diamond-pattered jumper.

  ‘Hello, hello, so pleased to meet you,’ he said in a raspy voice, smiling and shaking both their hands. Kate noticed he had dark patches on the backs of both hands, and she guessed he must be in his late eighties.

  ‘We made it here quicker than we thought. I hope we’re not too early?’ asked Kate. It was just after nine in the morning.

  ‘We’re much better before lunchtime. The earlier the better, before we go a bit gaga.’ Malcolm grinned.

  He stepped back to let them inside. There was a thick carpet of faded mauve, and the dimly lit hallway had a low ceiling. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and furniture polish. Kate slipped off her shoes and hung up her coat. Malcolm watched Tristan as he undid the laces on his trainers and carefully pulled them off to reveal immaculate snow-white sports socks.

  ‘My, they’re snazzy,’ said Malcolm, adjusting his thick spectacles with a shaking hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tristan, holding up the trainers. ‘Vintage Dunlop Green Flash.’

  ‘No. I meant your socks. They’re so white! Sheila would never let me wear such white socks. They must show the dirt.’

  Tristan laughed. ‘They do a bit, but I’m the one who does the washing in our house,’ he said, hanging up his coat.

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No, I live with my sister. She’s the cook. I’m the bottle washer and sock washer.’

  Kate smiled. She didn’t know this about Tristan, and made a mental note to ask more.

  ‘Malcolm! There’s a draught! Shut that door!’ came a reedy woman’s voice from the living room. ‘And find them some slippers.’

  ‘Yes, we can’t have you getting colds,’ said Malcolm, reaching round to close the door. ‘Now, where are those slippers?’

  Kate and Tristan both declined the slippers, but Malcolm insisted, rummaging around in a large trunk under the coat rack until he found them each a yellowing pair of hotel slippers with HAVE FUN, HAVE SUN, HAVE SHERATON! written on the front. He dropped them down on the carpet in front of their feet.

  ‘There we go. We went to Madeira for the millennium. It was the last holiday we had before Sheila’s agoraphobia took over . . . and then, well, anyway. Pop them on and you’ll be toasty, and they’ll keep those white socks clean.’

  Malcolm went off as Tristan pulled a face at Kate. The tiny slippers looked ridiculous crammed onto the end of his huge feet. They passed a large grandfather clock in the dim hallway, ticking loudly, and went through to the living room which was much brighter. It was a mess: two armchairs were pushed up under the front window with a nest of tables between them, and a dining table and chairs were stacked up at the other end under the window looking out into the overgrown back garden. When Kate saw Sheila, she understood why. The middle of the room had been cleared to fit a large, high-backed chair where Sheila sat, tucked up under a fluffy blue blanket. She had long grey hair, escaping in wisps from a ponytail, and her skin was a deep yellow. Next to her was a huge dialysis machine, humming and whirring with a row of small lights flashing, and on the other side was a high table covered with bottles and packets of medication, with a yellow sharps bin next to it for disposal of needles and dressings. There were indentations in the carpet where the furniture had been. Thick blood-filled tubes emerged from under the blanket and into the machine where a cannula turned, pumping it around and back into Sheila’s veins.

  ‘Malcolm! You should have warned them. Look at him, poor lad,’ she called, looking at Tristan, who was now a little pale. ‘Hello, I’m Sheila,’ she said.

  Kate and Tristan went over to her, and they all shook hands.

  ‘Isn’t he handsome!’ said Sheila, keeping hold of Tristan’s hand. ‘Is he your son?’

  ‘No, he’s my research assistant at the university.’

  ‘That must be an interesting job. Have you got a girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes, it is and, no, I haven’t,’ said Tristan, averting his eyes from the blood.

  ‘A boyfriend? One of my nurses, Kevin, is gay. He’s just come back from a Disney cruise.’

  ‘No. I’m single,’ said Tristan. Sheila finally let go of his hand and indicated that they should sit on the sofa. Kate had the impression that Sheila didn’t get many visitors; she talked constantly until Malcolm came back with a tray of tea things. She explained that she was on the waiting list for a new kidney. ‘I’m lucky that our local authority brings this machine in three times a week.’

  Kate looked around the room and saw that the mantelpiece above the fireplace was the only part of the room that hadn’t been rearranged. There were five photos of Caitlyn. One was of her as a wide-eyed baby, looking up from a blue blanket in a crib. In another, a much younger version of Malcolm and Sheila were on a beach, kneeling next to Caitlyn who was five or six. It looked to be a gloriously sunny day, and they all held ice creams and were smiling at the camera. There was another, which must have been taken at a professional studio a few years later. It was a close-up of the three of them sitting in a row against a blue-and-white dappled background, and they were all staring wistfully into the middle distance. There were two others of Caitlyn as a young teenager, one with a beaming smile standing next to a tall sunflower, and another where she held a tabby cat. The school photo that had been used in the newspaper wasn’t there. The way the row of photos abruptly finished was chilling. Caitlyn never got to grow up and have a wedding photo, or a picture with her first-born baby.

  *

  A while later they were settled with their second cups of tea, and Sheila was still chatting away about the three nurses who came to visit. Malcolm was perched on a dining chair, which he’d brought in and placed next to her. He finally put up a hand.

  ‘Darling, they’ve come a long way. We’ve got to talk to them about Caitlyn,’ he said gently.

  Sheila stopped abruptly and her face crumpled, and she began to cry. ‘Yes. Yes, I know . . . ’

  Malcolm found her a tissue and she blotted her eyes and blew her nose.

  ‘I know this is going to be hard,’ said Kate. ‘Can I ask some questions?’

  They both nodded. Kate took out a notebook and flicked through the pages.

  ‘You said in your email that Caitlyn went missing on ninth September 1990? What day was that?’

  ‘It was a Sunday,’ said Sheila. ‘She went out with her friend – this was back when we lived in Altrincham, near Manchester. They were just going to go and have lunch and see a film at the cinema. I remember what she was wearing the morning she left. Her blue dress had a pattern of white flowers on the hem, which matched her blue leather sandals and handbag. She always looked beautiful. She always knew how to dress.’

  ‘The friend she met. Is it the friend who emigrated to Australia?’

  ‘No, this was another schoolfriend, her best friend, Wendy Sampson,’ said Malcolm. ‘Wendy told the police that they went to an Italian cafe where they had lunch on the Sunday and then they went
and saw Back to the Future III at the cinema. They left the cinema just after three p.m. and they parted ways at the end of the high street. It was a bright sunny day, and Caitlyn always walked home from town if it was nice. It was just a twenty-minute walk . . . ’

  ‘She never arrived home,’ finished Sheila. ‘One woman remembers seeing her at the newsagent’s which was midway between town and our house in Altrincham. She said Caitlyn popped in and bought a tube of polo mints.’

  ‘Can you remember her name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How soon was this after she’d left Wendy in town?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Half an hour or so. The woman didn’t know the exact time,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘It was as if Caitlyn vanished, without a trace. I didn’t want to move, even ten years after she went missing. I thought she might come back and knock on the door. I couldn’t bear the thought of us not being there if she did,’ said Sheila.

  They were silent for a moment and there was just the beep and hum of the dialysis machine.

  ‘Do you have Wendy’s details? Phone number or address?’ asked Kate.

  ‘She died two years ago of breast cancer. She did marry. Her husband invited us to the funeral,’ said Sheila.

  ‘I can look up his address,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘What did Caitlyn like to do outside school?’ asked Kate.

  ‘She went to the youth club, which was just around the corner from our house, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings,’ said Malcolm. ‘And she had a part-time job at a video shop on Monday evenings, and all day on a Saturday. The video shop was called Hollywood Nights and the youth club was called Carter’s. I never knew the official name, but the caretaker was a miserable old git called Mr Carter, and the nickname stuck.’

  ‘Do you know his address?’

  ‘Oh, he’s long dead. He was knocking seventy back in 1990,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Did Caitlyn play sport at school, or was she in any after-school clubs?’ asked Kate. Sheila shook her head and dabbed at the end of her nose with a tissue.