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

by Robert Bryndza

  When she arrived at work an hour later, Kate still hadn’t had a response. She put her phone away and made a mental note to follow it up later with her mother.

  Tristan arrived ten minutes later, and excitedly handed her a printout of a LinkedIn profile.

  ‘Who is Vicky O’Grady?’ she asked. There was no photo.

  ‘I didn’t have the box file at home,’ he said. ‘But I remembered Malcolm and Sheila said that in 1990 Caitlyn worked at a video shop in Altrincham called Hollywood Nights. I took a punt and had a look on LinkedIn to see if anyone worked there at the same time, and this Vicky O’Grady came up.’

  ‘Are there any contact details?’

  ‘I messaged her last night and she got back to me straight away. She works at the BBC studios in Bristol as a make-up artist. I was upfront and said we were looking into Caitlyn’s disappearance, and asked if she remembered her.’

  Tristan gave Kate another piece of paper with the printout of the messages. It went to six pages. Kate scanned them.

  ‘Blimey, you had a good chat with her. And she says they were close friends? Malcolm and Sheila didn’t mention her.’

  Kate went to the box file and pulled out Caitlyn’s school photo. She scanned the names on the back, then she flipped it over and peered at the photograph. ‘Okay. That’s Vicky O’Grady.’

  Tristan came over and peered at a picture of a haughty-looking young girl with long dark hair and high cheekbones. She was fixing the camera with a confident glare.

  ‘She lives in Bristol. She said she can meet us this afternoon or this evening.’

  ‘This afternoon is out,’ said Kate.

  ‘What about this evening?’

  ‘Does she have more to tell you? We could drive all the way over there when a phone call would save us time, and be enough.’

  ‘She’s got pictures from when she and Caitlyn went away on a weekend camping trip, and other photos from the youth club. She also said that Kate was hanging around with a couple of dodgy blokes – her words, not mine. She went to talk to the police at the time.’

  ‘And what did the police say?’

  ‘They took a statement, but nothing came of it. She never heard from them again.’

  ‘What if we did it tomorrow? Saturday would be easier. I have something tonight.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘We also need to schedule a Skype call with Megan Hibbert, the friend from Melbourne. It would be good to do that before we meet Vicky, to see if she knew about her. Perhaps she could do nine-thirty our time, tonight. I’ll email her,’ said Kate.

  ‘I thought you said you were busy tonight?’

  Kate had her AA meeting at six, but it would be over by seven.

  ‘I’ll be done by then,’ she said, not wanting to elaborate. She knew she would have to tell him soon. It was surprising how much the topic of alcohol came up, especially in the academic world. There were endless drinks parties and formal dinners with speeches and toasts. She’d lost count of the times she’d had to ask to switch her drink for orange juice.

  ‘Okay, I’ll try and schedule that call for tonight,’ said Tristan.

  ‘We should work through this school photo of Caitlyn’s and track down each of her classmates, and the teacher, and we can hit LinkedIn and Facebook.’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t on Facebook?’

  ‘I am about to join,’ said Kate. She quickly explained about Jake and Facebook.

  ‘I was sixteen when I joined Facebook,’ Tristan said.

  ‘Bloody hell, now I feel old!’

  They sat at their desks and logged onto their computers. Kate set up a Facebook profile, and she heard a ping from Tristan’s computer a moment after she sent him a friend request.

  ‘That’s cool. I’m your first friend,’ he said. ‘That’s your profile picture?’ he asked, laughing. She’d uploaded the picture of the dead fish she’d taken that morning.

  ‘That’s me, first thing in the morning without make-up,’ she said dryly.

  ‘I’m sure you look great when you wake up . . . I mean, you don’t wear make-up anyway, do you, and you look really good . . . ’ His voice trailed off; he had blushed bright red. ‘Sorry, that came out all wrong.’

  She waved it away. ‘I’ll take it as a compliment! I’m old enough to be your mother.’

  She saw Tristan had a hundred Facebook friends. She typed ‘Jake Marshall’ into the search field and a list of profiles came up. Three down, she found Jake.

  The little monkey didn’t wait, she thought. Jake had used a photo of him with Milo the Labrador, taken in the garden. And she saw he already had twenty-four friends. His wall was covered in messages from his classmates, welcoming him. She sent him a friend request before turning her mind back to the task of finding Caitlyn’s classmates.

  They worked for a couple of hours and managed to find ten of Caitlyn’s schoolfriends. Kate also found the teacher, who was living close by in Southampton.

  ‘Do you fancy a coffee break?’ she asked Tristan. ‘Who knows how long it will take people to reply.’

  They went down to Starbucks, where Tristan grabbed the good comfy seats by the window and Kate ordered. When she came over with their coffees, he was on his phone.

  ‘This is on the BBC News site,’ he said.

  Kate took his phone and watched the short video. It was a statement from the parents of Kaisha Smith, recorded at the front gate of their terraced house. Tammy and Wayne were both pale and thin, and looked as if they hadn’t slept in days. They were dressed in black, and a small girl dressed in a grubby pink fake fur coat stood by Tammy. They were flanked by a police officer who was reading out an appeal for witnesses, and there was a hotline number and website address. They blinked at the flashing cameras. Kate could see that Wayne and Tammy were poor. Wayne wiped at a tear in his eye as the police officer read out the statement, and Kate saw that he had LOVE and HATE tattooed on his knuckles. She wondered how the newspapers would frame the story. The working class were usually built up as tragic heroes, but if the story cooled the press would go for the jugular. The school photo of Kaisha flashed up again – her hopeful smiling face in her school uniform, unrecognisable from the hideous corpse. When the report finished, Kate handed the phone back and took a long pull on her coffee.

  ‘There’s nothing on the news about what we found at the wrecker’s yard, or the other girl,’ said Tristan, swiping through his phone.

  ‘The police will want to keep that information back. I would keep it back if I was working on it.’

  They finished their coffee, and went back up to the office, hoping that they had some replies waiting. When they walked through the door they found a man and a woman in the office. The man was sitting on the sofa looking through the box file containing the Caitlyn photos, and the woman sat at Kate’s desk looking at her computer.

  ‘Excuse me, who the hell are you?’ asked Kate.

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Varia Campbell,’ said the woman, ‘and this my colleague, Detective Inspector John Mercy.’

  They got up and flashed their police warrant cards.

  ‘Do you have a warrant to search through our private paperwork?’ asked Kate.

  ‘No. But do we need one?’ Varia tilted her head and put her shoulders back, as if squaring up to Kate for a fight. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and wore a blue trouser suit with shoulder pads. Her cappuccino-coloured skin was very smooth. DI John Mercy was a big, strapping redhead with a ruddy complexion. His broad shoulders and muscular build strained against the constraints of his smart black suit.

  ‘Yes. You do. Put that down,’ said Kate to John, who was holding a photo. He put it back and closed the box file.

  ‘Your visit to the Nine Elms wrecker’s yard yesterday. I need some clarification as to how you stumbled upon the stuffed bird and found the note inside,’ said Varia. ‘May we sit?’

  Kate indicated the small sofa in front of the bookshelf and they
both sat. Kate and Tristan sat at their desks.

  ‘Common sense,’ said Kate. ‘The crime scene at the Nine Elms wrecker’s yard matched the crime scene at the original Nine Elms Lane wrecker’s yard in London. I’m referring to the Nine Elms Cannibal Case. The case I solved.’

  ‘You were also involved in a relationship with Peter Conway, and you have a son together,’ said Varia. ‘Are you still in contact with him?’

  Kate folded her arms across her chest. This Varia wasn’t messing about. ‘No.’

  ‘Does he write to you?’ she asked.

  ‘You must be aware you can check Peter Conway’s communications. And you’d see that since his arrest and incarceration, I have never visited him or written to him and we’ve never spoken on the telephone. He wrote to me once.’

  ‘What about your son?’ asked John.

  ‘He’s fourteen, and he has no contact with Peter Conway,’ said Kate. The police officers knew that coming into her office would put her on the defensive. ‘Was there a note at the second crime scene, where Kaisha Smith’s body was found near the river by Hunter’s Tor?’

  Varia folded her arms and pursed her lips.

  ‘You can drop the poker face,’ said Kate. ‘Alan Hexham called me in for a second opinion on Kaisha Smith’s post-mortem. Both her murder and the murder of Emma Newman have the same hallmarks of Peter Conway . . . ’ Kate could see a flicker in Varia’s eyes, and John looked over at her. ‘Ah. There was a note, wasn’t there?’

  Varia looked back at John, and then got up, taking a notebook from her back pocket. She pulled out a photocopied sheet of paper and placed it on Kate’s desk. Tristan came over to look.

  ‘There’s a parish noticeboard twenty metres down the river from where Kaisha Smith’s body was found. This note had been left there. It wasn’t discovered until yesterday.’

  TO THE POLICE ‘FORCE’,

  I’M STREETS AHEAD OF YOU CLOWNS. KAISHA WAS A SPIRITED YOUNG WOMAN. HOW MANY MORE DEATHS WILL THERE BE UNTIL YOU TAKE NOTICE OF ME? THE PARISH NOTICEBOARD SEEMS FITTING SOMEHOW.

  A FAN

  ‘He’s annoyed that no one is taking notice of his work,’ said Kate. ‘He’s killed two and there’s nothing yet in the news. A copycat craves the attention. Like the first note, he’s signed it ‘A Fan’, which says more about him than he realises. He’s caught up in the cult of celebrity surrounding Peter Conway and the Nine Elms case.’

  ‘The original case still has to be officially referred to as Operation Hemlock,’ said Varia. Kate rolled her eyes. Jeez, this woman was pedantic. ‘At this stage, a copycat killer theory needs to be proved,’ Varia added, picking up the note and slotting it back in her notebook.

  ‘What else do you need? Another body? I’m sure there will be one. Peter Conway killed four women before I caught him. Well, four women that we know of. You need to focus this investigation on finding a copycat killer . . . They’re not as clever as the killer they ape. They want the notoriety and fame involved with repeating the terror. One of the things that will make him a success is if he becomes notorious and makes the news, and you could use that.’

  ‘Hey!’ said Varia, putting up her hand. She looked really pissed off. ‘I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.’

  ‘Well, you walk into my office and start rummaging through my private papers without a warrant . . . ’

  ‘You left your door open,’ said John.

  ‘I remember dealing with house break-ins, where the suspect said exactly the same thing,’ said Kate.

  He gave her a hard stare. ‘Do you have any other information to share?’ he asked.

  ‘No. We called the police as soon as we found the bird and the note.’

  ‘Why were you in the area? It’s a bit out of the way for both of you.’

  Kate outlined their visit to Chew Magna, and details of the letter from Caitlyn’s father. ‘Malcolm Murray had already asked the Greater Manchester Police to re-open this case, but they declined due to lack of evidence,’ she finished. There was a moment’s silence, then Varia looked over at Tristan.

  ‘And you went along on this field trip in your capacity as an academic assistant?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tristan, his voice cracking a little with nerves.

  ‘You live with your sister. She works for Barclay’s Bank?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is this relevant?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Has he told you he’s got a criminal record?’

  He hadn’t, but Kate didn’t want to give these pushy, rude police officers the satisfaction of hearing that. She didn’t say anything, and looked over at Tristan.

  ‘I was fifteen and got drunk with some mates. Well, they weren’t mates,’ said Tristan, blushing. ‘I broke the window of a car parked down the other end of the seafront.’

  ‘You broke into a car,’ said Varia. ‘That’s what the police report says.’

  ‘No. I broke the window.’

  ‘And one of the other people in your gang stole the radio.’

  ‘I wasn’t in a gang. He ran off when the police arrived. I stayed there and faced the music,’ said Tristan, recovering his composure. ‘And I wasn’t charged, I was cautioned. I don’t have to declare a caution.’

  ‘Does your boss know?’ asked John with a nasty grin. Kate stood up.

  ‘Hang on, I don’t like this. You don’t come in here and bully a valuable and trusted member of my staff,’ she said. ‘We’ve shared all the information we have. Instead of snooping around without a warrant, why don’t you get back out there and do some police work?’

  Varia gave her a cold stare. ‘We ask that you share any other information with us immediately, and you say nothing to the press, should they come knocking, which they will if they publicly link this with Peter Conway . . . ’

  ‘Neither of us has any interest in talking to the press,’ said Kate.

  Varia and John turned their attention to Tristan.

  ‘No. I won’t be speaking to anyone,’ he said.

  ‘Right then, that’s all for now,’ said Varia. They left the office and John slammed the door.

  ‘Shit,’ said Tristan, putting his head in his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I’m so sorry. I was fifteen. It was just a stupid— ’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise. I’ve done my fair share of stupid things on booze. Listen, earlier I said I had something to do before our phone call. I’m going to an AA meeting. I was an alcoholic for, well, too many years. It’s the reason Jake lives with my parents . . . Do you think you have a drink problem?’

  Tristan looked surprised. ‘No.’

  ‘Then that’s all we need to say about it. They wanted to bully you; don’t let them succeed.’

  Tristan nodded. ‘Thank you. And thank for telling me and for being cool. Do you think they will be back?’

  ‘I don’t know. They’re rattled, I can see. She’s under huge pressure to catch him, obviously, but when it hits the press it will be big, and the police never come out of it in a good light.’

  Kate grabbed a piece of paper and started writing.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Writing down what was in that second letter, before I forget.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Tristan came to Kate’s house after her AA meeting. She made them tea, and then they settled at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and Skyped Megan Hibbert in Melbourne. She answered immediately. She had a broad smile, and was tanned with green eyes and long ash-blonde hair. She sat in her living room in front of large windows looking out onto a swimming pool and a big garden.

  ‘Hi Kate, and Tristan, is it?’ Her accent was a mix of Australian and British.

  ‘Thanks for talking to us so early in the morning, Melbourne time,’ said Kate. She quickly ran through what had happened at their meeting with Malcolm and Sheila.

  ‘I feel so sorry for them. Malcolm looked a shadow of the man he used to be when I bumped into him at the cemetery . . . It broke my heart w
hen he said he wished he had a grave for Caitlyn. Imagine being at the point in your life where you say that about your own child . . . ’ Her sunny disposition dimmed, and she took out a tissue and wiped her eyes. ‘What are the chances you think you’ll find her body?’

  Kate paused, and Tristan glanced across at her. ‘I often think cold cases favour private investigation,’ said Kate. ‘The police often don’t have time, and the UK police don’t put a lot of funds into looking at cold cases unless there’s more evidence.’

  ‘They didn’t think my conversation with Malcolm was enough to open it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t hear about Caitlyn until a few months after it happened. We left the UK at the end of August 1990. My whole family emigrated – me, Mum, Dad and my kid brother who was five. We had no other relations, and letters from friends and neighbours got held up. We lived in a youth hostel for three months. Anyway, that’s why I didn’t hear about Caitlyn.’

  ‘You were Caitlyn’s best friend?’ asked Kate.

  ‘No. That was Wendy Sampson.’

  ‘Were you and Caitlyn close to the girls in your class?’

  ‘We were the only three scholarship girls at the school. Me, Caitlyn and Wendy. The rest of them were moneyed, not all bad, but a lot of stuck-up bitches, if you pardon my language. Caitlyn and Wendy’s fathers were more acceptable than mine. Malcolm worked for the council and Sheila was a homemaker, or housewife as you say back home. My father was a builder, and we were working class in the UK. I was the lowest of the lows. We stuck together.’

  ‘Were you bullied?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘No. I was a big strapping girl, Caitlyn had a quick wit and Wendy was a strong sportswoman – that can often deter the bullies. But this was a girls’ school. When people bullied it was much more psychological,’ said Megan.

  ‘So as far as you knew, Caitlyn wasn’t close with any other girls?’ asked Kate.

  ‘No, we didn’t get invited round for tea at any other girls’ houses.’

  ‘She must have been gutted you were leaving?’ asked Tristan.