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

by Robert Bryndza

  Megan paused. ‘It was odd. We were all close, but the school year had finished and I left at the end of August, and as that last month progressed, I saw her less. She spent more time with Wendy. I understood that.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, we stopped arranging to all go out together. And to be fair, I was distracted. My mother was taking us up and down to London to the Australian Embassy to get our visas and paperwork for the move. There was no bad blood.’

  ‘Didn’t Wendy tell you about Caitlyn?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t get her letter till a few months after. It was awful, but you have to remember there was no internet then. It didn’t make the news in Australia – why would it?’ Megan started to tear up and she pulled out a tissue. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Do you remember a girl called Vicky O’Grady in your class?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you friends?’

  ‘No. I hated her. She was a bit of a bitch, and she was always playing truant. She got caught drinking during a break time,’ said Megan.

  ‘So, none of you were friends with her?’

  ‘No.’

  Kate looked down at her notes. ‘But Caitlyn worked at a video shop with Vicky?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Vicky’s dad owned a franchise, I think, for the video shops, and Caitlyn worked there as a Saturday job. Vicky was supposed to work there, but she spent most of her time ordering Caitlyn around and flirting with the customers.’

  ‘We’re meeting with Vicky tomorrow,’ said Kate.

  ‘Really? What’s she doing now?’

  ‘She’s a make-up artist for the BBC in Bristol.’

  ‘Okay, well, good on her. What’s she got to say about this?’

  ‘We don’t know. She does say that her and Caitlyn were good friends.’

  Megan looked surprised. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Apparently so,’ said Kate.

  ‘I don’t understand, but a lot of water has gone under the bridge. It was a long time ago. Good luck to her.’

  There was a pause, and for the first time Megan looked awkward.

  ‘Okay, let’s move on to the night where you saw Caitlyn outside Carter’s youth club. Can you remember when it was?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Yes. It was right at the end of July. I remember the day because my mum was freaking out about our visas not arriving and we only had four weeks. It was really hot, and the youth club was nothing more than a big old hall. Mr Carter, the caretaker, couldn’t open the windows because he’d lost the window pole. There was a stream that ran past the back, and most of the kids were out there paddling. Me and Caitlyn were playing table tennis, and she went off to the loo, but didn't come back. I found her out front, standing by a car belonging to this older guy, a policeman. She said she’d met him at the video shop. He came in to rent a movie, they got chatting, and he came to show her his new car. The new H-reg car had just been released.’

  ‘What kind of car?’ asked Kate.

  ‘A Rover, blue.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘Yes, but he was inside the car, and it was dark out front and he was under streetlights. He had slicked-back black hair and strong features, a broad smile and very white teeth, ’cause I remember him poking his head out of the window and smiling when he kissed her.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Caitlyn got in the car, said goodbye and they drove off.’

  ‘Was this out of character for Caitlyn?’

  ‘Yes. But she was sixteen, and we were all going on dates with guys. Both me and Wendy did the older guy thing. A car was a place to make out with them . . . and there was nothing in the press about any weirdos going around killing young women. We just thought she was really lucky, and she came to school the next day, no problems.’

  Tristan took a printout from his notebook and gave it to Kate. It was Peter Conway’s warrant card photo. Kate held it up to the screen.

  ‘I can email this too, but do you think this could have been the guy? This was taken in 1993.’

  Megan tilted her head and stared at it.

  ‘I’ve seen the photo before, and it could have been him, but it was a long time ago . . . His face was in shadow.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Enid Conway lived in a small end of terrace house in a rundown street in east London. It was a desperate place, with a row of filthy front gardens filled with rubbish, old cars and fridges, dog shit and broken glass.

  It was where Peter had grown up, and he had bought it for her when he came back from Manchester to work in London in 1991.

  In 2000, Enid had written a tell-all book called No Son of Mine. She’d been paid a considerable advance, and a ghost writer had been dispatched to the house to interview her. One of the questions he’d asked was if she was going to move house now that she could afford something better?

  ‘I wouldn’t last five minutes in middle-class suburbia,’ she’d said. ‘People respect me in this street. You see all sorts, day and night, but you keep out of other people’s business and you never talk to the police.’

  She thought of this conversation when she opened the front door to the red-haired Fan, as she called him. She didn’t know his name.

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘No one important,’ he said. She didn’t fear anyone, but he made her uneasy. He looked to be in his late twenties and was a tall, broad, muscular man. His red hair was buzz-cut to a couple of inches in length and he had strange features. It was as if baking soda had been added in the womb. His skin was smooth, but his face was puffy with oversized, rubbery lips and fleshy hooded eyes, and his nose had a bulbous quality. He wasn’t unattractive, though, and he dressed well in leather shoes and sharp neutral jeans shirt and jacket, and he always smelled freshly showered.

  They went through to her kitchen, which was modern with glass and steel and expensive appliances.

  ‘The photos are there,’ she said, indicating an envelope on the counter. ‘You want tea?’

  ‘No.’

  He didn’t take off his coat, or sit. Enid lit a cigarette and watched him as he took the four passport-size photos out of the envelope. There were two of her that she’d taken earlier that day at a machine in the train station. And there were two of Peter.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ he said, holding them up.

  ‘It’s the most recent I have. They were taken a week before he was arrested. People age, don’t they?’ She figured that Peter didn’t look vastly different, but he now had long grey hair and a craggier face.

  ‘The passports need six to eight years left before they expire. This. Won’t. Work,’ he said, chucking the photos down on the counter.

  ‘He’s a prisoner. There isn’t a passport photo machine in the bloody canteen!’

  He turned to her and moved closer and held up a finger to her face. ‘Don’t speak to me like that, do you hear?’

  She closed her eyes and opened them again, shaking her head. ‘What should I do?’

  He went to the fridge and opened it, taking out a carton of milk. He unscrewed the lid and took a long drink. The milk shone on his wet, rubbery lips and a drop or two escaped from the corners of his mouth. He took a last swallow and replaced the carton. Then he went to Enid’s roll of kitchen towel and tore off a square, folding it neatly before dabbing at his lips. He gave a deep rumbling belch.

  ‘What kind of phone have you got?’ he asked.

  Enid went to the Chanel bag which was perched on the end of the counter. The gassy smell of his stomach acid made her feel queasy. She took out her phone, a Nokia, and held it up.

  He shook his head. ‘That’s no good. You need to get the newest iPhone. It has a five mega pixel camera.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Enid asked.

  ‘It means it will take a high-quality photo. Will they let you take a photo of Peter when you next visit?’

  ‘Yes. I took one before on my phone last year. They made me show them the photo.’

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p; ‘Good. I’ll download it when I next see you,’ he said. He reached into his pocket and took out two small brown envelopes, one thick and one thin. He slipped her passport photos inside the thin one, and put the thick one on the counter. ‘Where is your toilet?’

  He had never asked on any of his other visits.

  ‘First door off the landing.’

  When he had gone upstairs, Enid went to the thin envelope and opened it. She found her passport photo, along with one of him. She listened for a moment, hearing the floorboards creak in the bathroom upstairs. She switched on her phone and waited impatiently for it to boot up, then took a picture of his passport photo. The quality wasn’t great, but she needed some insurance. Leverage if things went wrong. In his passport photo, he stared straight ahead. Eyes cold. Those oversized lips wet and glistening.

  Enid heard the toilet flush and floorboards creaking above, and replaced the photo. She heard the creak of him walking out of the bathroom and across the landing, but he didn’t come back downstairs. He carried on into Peter’s old room. She hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  He was lying in the darkness on Peter’s single bed, with its blue-and-green-striped woollen blanket. Enid switched on the small overhead light. There was a poster of David Bowie striking a pose as Ziggy Stardust on one wall, and a small shelf of sports trophies above the bed. On a desk was a photo of Peter and Enid after his passing-out ceremony from Hendon Police College. He was in his uniform, Enid in a blue dress and matching hat. Next to it was a collage of photos from Peter’s days in Manchester: a photo of him sitting on his first squad car, a Fiat Panda; another of him with Enid on the grass outside the flat he rented in Manchester; and another three taken with friends he had at that time.

  ‘Was this Peter’s bedroom?’ he asked, looking up at her from where he lay.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is this where he slept?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are there bars on the windows? Did you have discipline issues when he was growing up?’

  ‘No. It’s to stop people getting in.’

  ‘For many people this is a shrine,’ he said. He sat up. ‘Come to me.’ He put out his hand.

  ‘Why?’ she said, her voice sharp.

  ‘Why don’t you humour the man who is paying for your son’s freedom?’

  In the lean years of her past, men had paid her for sex, knocking on the door late at night, all shapes and sizes. She went to him and took his hand. There was something about him that repulsed her. He buried his face in her belly. Rubbing against her. Inhaling. He smoothed a hand over her crotch. Stroking.

  ‘You made him. He grew in here,’ he said, his voice cracking.

  Enid tried not to recoil. He kept smoothing and rubbing. It wasn’t sexual. He was worshipping her.

  ‘Yes. He is my flesh. I am his,’ she said.

  He finally pulled away, leaving a snail’s trail of drool on the front of her sweater. He held eye contact with her, then abruptly got up and left the room. She followed him back downstairs. He was staring at the passport photo she’d left on the kitchen counter.

  ‘I needed to check mine. I thought I’d signed the back,’ she said quickly. ‘Force of habit. If I’m going to have a new identity I can’t have a photo with Enid Conway written on the back.’

  He nodded and tucked them back in the envelope. He put it in his pocket and touched his fingers to the thick envelope.

  ‘Instructions for you. And another letter from me to Peter.’

  He took a roll of cash from his pocket and placed it beside the envelope.

  ‘Do you drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  She took down two whisky glasses from the cupboard and filled them with two fingers of Chivas. She slid one across the counter and took out a pack of cigarettes, offering him one. He shook his head. She tapped one out of the packet and lit up.

  ‘What’s in it for you? Breaking Peter out?’

  ‘I love chaos,’ he said with a grin, taking a sip, the whisky shining on his big lips.

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ Enid said, tipping her head back to exhale the smoke. He watched it float up to where it spread across the yellow ceiling. ‘I have a decent life here. I don’t want for many things, but Peter. If I leave here, I can’t come back. Now tell me, what’s in it for you?’

  ‘I’m subverting my father’s expectations.’ He smiled.

  ‘Who’s your father?’

  He waggled a finger at her. ‘No, no, no. That would give the game away.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to her.

  Enid unfolded it and saw it was a printout of the Facebook profile of a young boy with dark hair.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Can’t you see the name? Jake Marshall. He’s your grandson.’

  ‘He’s a handsome boy, like his father. But he’s no use to me right now,’ she said, handing back the piece of paper.

  ‘Won’t you miss him? When we leave?’

  ‘You can’t miss what you don’t know.’ She looked back at the photo, tilting her head. She could see Peter in there, amongst his features.

  ‘Has Peter seen this?’

  ‘No. I don’t want him to,’ said Enid. ‘There is no chance he can find it himself. He hasn’t got internet access.’

  He downed the whisky and got up. ‘Read what’s in the envelope, and get me those photos. I’ll be back next week.’

  ‘I don’t want this,’ she said, giving him back the printout.

  Enid walked around her house after he had left. She had been born a prisoner of her class and her circumstances. She’d taken the cards she’d been dealt at birth, and done the best that she could. Fighting. Always having to fight for everything in life.

  Now there was the prospect of leaving and starting as a new person in another country. She wanted it just to be her and Peter. The world was better when it was just the two of them. She didn’t want to know about the boy. She had no doubt he’d been brought up thinking Peter was a monster, but they’d probably told him worse about her. The boy could poison him. Enid never got scared, but she felt the fear now. It was a dirty emotion.

  She went back to the kitchen and poured herself another whisky.

  CHAPTER 22

  Kate didn’t sleep much that night, after the call with Megan. She kept thinking of the policeman who picked Caitlyn up from outside the youth club, his face bathed in the shadow of his car. Could it have been Peter?

  Kate thought back to the two nights she’d spent with Peter, back in 1995. The first night when they came back to her place, after the night out in the pub, she’d found him so magnetic and sexy and couldn’t resist him. She had tried for so many years to separate the feelings from that night. His firm muscular body, the rich smell of his hair and skin. His strength as he had scooped her up and placed her on her bed and undressed her. He had been passionate and tender, and while it made her skin crawl that she’d been so intimate with someone who did things so sick and vile, those memories were there. They couldn’t be changed. It also made her feel closer to Caitlyn. Did she feel caught up in Peter Conway’s facade? Did she find him desirable when she climbed into that car and it sped away? Where did they go, and what did they do?

  Kate never thought of herself as a victim, but just like Caitlyn she’d been duped by his mask of normality.

  The photo she’d shown Megan was lying downstairs on the breakfast bar. It was inside her notebook, but as she lay in bed her mind kept playing tricks on her. She imagined the notebook lying there in the darkness, then slowly standing up by itself, the pages flicking through and stopping at the photo of Peter. His eyes opened and he started to look around, eyes darting from within the still image of his face. Then his mouth started to twitch, and the lips peeled back to reveal his teeth, so straight and white as he shouted, ‘KATE!’

  Kate woke up sweating, her heart thumping against her chest. T
he room was dark and it was 2.11 a.m. by the clock on her bedside table. She threw back the bedcovers and went downstairs, flicking on all the lights and making a lot of noise on the stairs. The living room was still and empty. The notebook lay closed on the breakfast bar – of course it did – but she still took out the photo of Peter and put it in her shredder, enjoying the whirring sound as the shredder did its work. Only then did she go back upstairs and fall asleep.

  The next morning, Kate and Tristan drove to Bristol where they met Vicky O’Grady for lunch at The Mall at Cribbs Causeway. They were half an hour early, and found the fancy Italian restaurant Vicky had suggested.

  ‘She chose somewhere expensive,’ said Tristan, when they’d been seated in the smart restaurant next to a huge window looking down at the teeming food court below. ‘It would be much cheaper down there.’

  ‘We couldn’t have a decent conversation at the food court,’ said Kate. ‘This is good. Quiet.’

  ‘Jeez. Fourteen quid for a glass of red wine!’ whistled Tristan. ‘Do you want me to hide the wine list?’

  ‘No. The aim of this meeting is to get information,’ said Kate.

  ‘Do you want to get her tanked up on booze, in case she talks more?’ Tristan was for the most part a mature young man, but there were occasional flashes of a twenty-one-year-old.

  ‘We need to make her feel relaxed and see what happens,’ said Kate.

  Just then a large lady wearing a bright floral dress was brought to their table by the waiter. She had an immaculate bob of brown hair, dramatic smoky eye make-up and designer shades on her head.

  ‘Hello? Kate and Tristan?’ she asked. ‘I’m Victoria.’ She was very well spoken and confident. They got up and shook hands.

  ‘Is it Vicky or Victoria?’ asked Kate when they were seated again.

  ‘I haven’t been Vicky since school,’ she said, pouring olive oil onto her side plate, adding a dot of balsamic vinegar and mopping it up with one of the bread rolls the waiter had brought over in a woven basket.

  They made a little small talk, and ordered. Kate could see Tristan was relieved Victoria didn’t order champagne – sticking to tonic water. Tristan and Kate had the same.