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

by Robert Bryndza

  The other half of the cover was a police mug shot of Peter Conway, which was taken on the day he gave evidence at his preliminary trial. His hands were cuffed and he was smirking at the camera. His eyes had a crazed look. ‘A crazed come-hither look’ one tabloid journalist had written at the time. He still had stitches above his left eyebrow – even in his semi-conscious state at Kate’s Deptford flat, he had violently resisted arrest.

  Kate opened the book and flicked through the pages, first seeing the signature and the charming dedication from Enid.

  Rot in hell, you bitch, Enid Conwa y

  Kate remembered showing Myra the book one evening, when she first became Kate’s sponsor.

  ‘Look on the bright side. My mother-in-law never bought me a book!’ Myra had quipped. It had helped Kate laugh about the awful situation.

  She flicked through to the index and scanned down until she found ‘The Jamaica Inn’, which was on page 118. With her heart racing, she paged through until she found the paragraph.

  We had so many happy holidays on Dartmoor. There is nothing better than God’s free earth, and Peter – who was a sickly child growing up, always suffering from coughs and colds – loved being out in the fresh air. Our local vicar, Father Paul Johnson, had a contact with several boarding houses owned by the Christian association, and we were able to stay, often for free, during our holidays. The Brewers Inn was the first stop on our holiday. A small, cosy pub in the middle of nowhere, overlooking Higher Tor . . .

  Kate almost dropped the book in shock, seeing the tor mentioned. She carried on reading.

  On our first day, armed with a picnic, we climbed Higher Tor because Peter was keen to try letterboxing. Several spots on Dartmoor have postboxes where you can leave a postcard for the next person who opens the box to find. When we got to the top of the tor, it was all a bit of an anticlimax, as when we opened the box, there was nothing inside. Peter had bought a postcard from one of the pubs we’d visited, the Jamaica Inn, and he left this postcard, which was addressed to me with a lovely note. Sure enough, five weeks after we got home from our holiday, the postcard showed up with a postmark from Sydney, Australia! A woman who ran a dog shelter was on holiday in the UK and she had taken the postcard all the way home before posting it . . .

  Kate flicked through to the index of photos at the back of the book, all printed on glossy paper. And three pages in, she found two images, front and back of the Jamaica Inn, and Peter’s scrawled message on the back of the postcard.

  Dear Mummy

  We are having a lovely time in Devon, and I don’t want it to end. I love you more than everything in the world.

  Peter xxxx

  Kate went to the kitchen to refill her glass of iced tea, then came back and looked through the index, searching for the other locations where the victims had been dumped – the Nine Elms wrecker’s yard, and Hunter’s Tor by the river.

  The next morning, Kate was working her way back to the shore after her swim when she saw Tristan coming down the dunes.

  ‘Morning!’ he shouted, holding up a large white paper bag. ‘I have breakfast.’

  When she came out of the water, he averted his eyes and held the robe out for her, which she’d left on the sand with her towel. ‘You hungry?’ he asked when she had it on.

  ‘Starving,’ she said, tying the robe and rubbing at her wet hair with the towel. They came up the dunes and into the house, and she put the kettle on. Tristan had brought two huge white rolls filled with fried egg and bacon. They didn’t wait for the tea, just tucked in.

  ‘God, that’s good,’ said Kate through a mouthful. The roll was soft and there was melted butter, slightly soft egg yolk, not too runny, and crispy bacon. ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘A transport cafe off the high street in town.’

  They wolfed them down, then Kate poured the tea.

  ‘Thank you. That hit the spot,’ she said, putting strong steaming cups in front of them. ‘You feeling better today?’

  He nodded awkwardly, taking a gulp of tea.

  ‘Good. Take a look at this.’

  She slid the copy of No Son of Mine by Enid Conway across the breakfast bar. He looked at the cover and opened it.

  ‘Jeez. That has to be the gnarliest dedication I’ve ever read,’ he said.

  ‘The note written on the Jamaica Inn postcard last night rang a bell. Enid and Peter went on holiday to Devon when he was little in the summer of 1965. And in the book she lists the places they visited. I’ve marked the pages with Post-Its.’

  Tristan flicked to the first.

  Kate went on, ‘They drove from London in a very old Ford Anglia whose fan belt broke one hot day. They were stuck in the middle of nowhere, and they happened upon the Nine Elms wrecker’s yard. Enid chatted up the man who was working there at the time. He gave them an old fan belt from one of the wrecks, and helped them on their way.’ Kate flicked the pages. ‘Next, they went for a picnic to Hunter’s Tor. They sat on the riverbank nearby, and they ate potted meat sandwiches. Look.’ She pointed at a picture of a young Peter on a picnic rug next to the river, which sparkled in the sunlight. She turned the pages again and indicated another photo. ‘Then we have Peter on Higher Tor, pushing his postcard into the letterbox.’

  ‘Jesus. How many other places does she mention?’

  ‘Cotehele House, which is quite a posh National Trust place. Enid went in to get Peter a drink in their tearoom and they were ignored. People refused to serve them. They visited kistvaens, which are medieval tombs, and Castle Drogo, which has huge grounds and is close to the edge of Dartmoor. They stayed the night at a B&B on a farm in Launceston. This was the day before they were due to go home. Enid overheard the farmer’s wife calling them “scum” so she stole one of their chickens. She describes how they smuggled it into the back of the car just before they left.’

  ‘If the killer is working from this book, then he’s not really a copycat,’ said Tristan. ‘It’s more of a homage or a reboot of Peter Conway’s crimes. What are you going to do with this information?’

  ‘I sent an email to Varia Campbell and shared this all with her. She got right back to me.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Four in the morning. She said it’s an interesting theory, but she doesn’t have the manpower to deploy officers to all of these locations. They’re dotted around five hundred square miles of countryside, so I understand what she said about the manpower.’

  Tristan drank the last of his tea. ‘But that’s crazy. You’ve given her a motive for the killer. A blueprint of where he could strike next.’

  ‘And she’ll pursue it, I’m sure, but who knows what else the police are doing?’ said Kate.

  ‘What about Malcolm and Sheila Murray?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘I’ve left another message with the neighbour, but she hasn’t got back to me. Listen, what did you think of what Alan said last night, about doing this properly, as private investigators?’

  ‘I think it’s exciting. Reading through the cold case stuff I’ve been preparing for your lectures has been so interesting. This is a step up from that, but something we’d have to do on the side, yeah?’ asked Tristan.

  Kate nodded. She could see he was worried about money, and remembered him saying that he’d been unemployed for a long time before he got this job. While their investigations into Caitlyn’s disappearance were stimulating and exciting, they weren’t going to make them rich.

  ‘Reading week is coming up, and we could use some time then, but there could be times when we need to work outside hours. And I’d like to make it official in that I’ll pay you for any overtime you do, outside of being my assistant,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ said Tristan. He put out his hand and they shook on it. Kate suddenly felt daunted again. By making things official, it was now more than just an interesting hobby.

  ‘We’ve already been looking at what happened to Caitlyn,’ she said. ‘At one stage I thought Malcolm and Sheila were just clutching at s
traws, and that it was Peter Conway who killed her, and I know we’ve hit a wall, but there’s still something that’s bothering me. Paul Adler and Victoria O’Grady.’

  ‘She did seem to change her tune between my messages with her and when we met. Do you think she spoke to him? I know we’ve no proof of that.’

  ‘I thought the same.’ Kate picked up the book again. ‘This person, whoever they are, is delving into Peter Conway’s past for inspiration. We’re delving too, to try and find out what happened with Caitlyn. I think something is linked, and I think if we start looking into the last three victims of this copycat, it could give us answers about Caitlyn, and we could find whoever is doing all of this.’ Kate paused. After saying this all out loud, her confidence was ebbing. She shook the thought away. ‘I want to look into these three victims – Emma Newman, Kaisha Smith and whoever this latest victim is. We don’t have access to any police files, but we can talk to people. We have the internet. We have access to the microfilm at the university. We have Alan Hexham.’

  ‘You also have a lecture in twenty minutes,’ said Tristan, noticing the time.

  ‘Shit! I’d better get ready. Let’s reconvene afterwards and talk more.’

  CHAPTER 28

  After the lecture, Kate and Tristan went to the office armed with coffee. Kate had managed to find an article from when Emma’s body had been found earlier in the summer. It was from a local newspaper, the Okehampton Times.

  FORMER RESIDENT OF MUNRO-DYE

  CHILDREN’S HOME FOUND DEAD

  Emma Newman (17) who lived at the Munro-Dye Children’s Home near Okehampton from the age of six, was found dead at the Nine Elms wrecker’s yard, close to the edge of Dartmoor. It is believed she had been missing for two weeks before her body was discovered by a worker at the yard. Friends had been concerned for Emma in the months leading up to her disappearance. She had recently been arrested for drug possession and soliciting with intent. Janice Reed, director of the home, described Emma as ‘a bright little button’ during her stay, but recently they had lost touch. Police are treating her death as suspicious, but as of yet they have no suspects.

  ‘Do you want to see what you can find out about Emma on Facebook? said Kate. ‘I’m going to track down the journalist who wrote this piece and call this Janice Reed who runs the children’s home.’

  Just before lunch they came back together to share what they had. Kate had spent a couple of hours on the phone and had made lots of notes.

  ‘Okay. Emma lived at the Munro-Dye Children’s Home from when she was six,’ said Kate. ‘She was born to a single mother, who was a drug addict and who died during childbirth. There was no other family. I spoke to Janice Reed. She seemed helpful. Emma was a happy, sporty young girl and when she left the children’s home at sixteen she seemed to have a promising future. She’d done well in her GCSEs. She had friends. They found her a small flat in Okehampton, and she was able to claim benefits and get a part-time job. She was planning to do her A levels.’

  ‘She left the home at sixteen?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Yes. When she was legally classed as an adult.’

  ‘Bloody hell. I can’t imagine having to go it alone at sixteen.’

  Kate thought about Jake. In less than two years he would be sixteen too.

  ‘She said that Emma went on to start her A levels at the local college, but she dropped out last July after her first year. But she said things had started to fall apart as early as last February when she was picked up by the police for soliciting. Janice said that Emma wasn’t identified until two weeks after her body was found, using dental records. No one had reported her missing. Janice said she last saw Emma in late July. She was in a bad way, and very depressed, after her boyfriend Keir left to go to the States for six weeks. Keir had stopped replying to her messages. That was the last time Janice saw Emma – she did try to call two weeks before her body was found, and she left a message, but got no reply. Janice arranged Emma’s funeral, and it was paid for out of charitable funds from the children’s home.’

  ‘Okay. I think I might be able to fill in some gaps,’ said Tristan, turning his computer screen round to face them. ‘I found Emma’s Facebook profile. It’s completely open. There are no privacy controls activated.’ He clicked back to the beginning of her photo album. ‘She joined Facebook around 2007. Didn’t post much – pictures of her with a cat; here are some friends from the children’s home; a picture of her with Father Christmas; another of her in a running race at sports day.’

  Kate watched as he clicked through the photos of Emma growing older and morphing into a young woman.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Kate when they got to a photo of Emma at a music festival with a tall older man. In the photo they looked drunk and Emma was draped over him. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and he was a redhead. He had large features and very red, pronounced lips. He wasn’t unattractive, but in some photos where he was cleanshaven his face looked strange, almost like a plastic mask.

  ‘This was taken on the beach in June. He's tagged as Keir Castle.’

  ‘The boyfriend, Keir,’ said Kate. He appeared suddenly in the photo stream in early May, and from then on was in scores more photos taken in parks, on the beach, back at Emma’s flat, and on nights out in the pub.

  ‘Keir’s Facebook profile is locked down with privacy controls,’ Tristan continued. ‘It does give a bit of info. He’s privately educated. Went to Cambridge and he now lists his occupation as “music promoter”.’

  ‘Is that as broad as it sounds?’

  ‘Yeah. He could be managing bands, or he could be giving out CDs in the street,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Any other friends who stick out?’ asked Kate.

  ‘No. She only started posting regularly on Facebook when she got together with this guy,’ said Tristan, clicking through more photos. Kate leaned closer. As the weeks passed, Emma appeared to lose weight in the photos and dress more provocatively, and the shine went from her eyes. There were more photos taken of partying, one in particular of Emma and Keir with dilated pupils.

  ‘They were doing drugs, don’t you think?’ said Kate.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Would you be willing to friend him? This Keir?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Why? He has an alibi; he was away in America when Emma went missing.’

  ‘Yes, but he was close to her. He could have information.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Are you into bands?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Could you pretend to be in a band?’

  Tristan shook his head. ‘He’d check. What if I said I was a booker for bands?’

  ‘What if you worked for one of the big breweries?’ said Kate. ‘You could be their person who gets bands into the pubs run by the breweries.’

  ‘That’s good. New bands always book gigs in smaller venues.’

  Kate nodded and smiled. ‘Brilliant.’

  Tristan wrote a short message and sent it with the request. Then they went downstairs to get coffee.

  ‘Bingo,’ said Tristan when they got back. ‘He accepted.’

  ‘Jesus. Do people realise what Facebook really is? I wonder how different my conviction rate would have been if I’d had Facebook profiles to snoop around,’ said Kate.

  They started to look through his profile. Various posts on Facebook said he was a music promoter, or a music journalist. He had links to three abandoned blogs, none had any effort put into the design. The first two had brief articles about gigs and the third had been set up to accommodate a GoFundMe page for Keir to become a Reiki healer. His goal was to raise £3,500 for the course, but it had been abandoned after only £54 was raised.

  ‘He’s set it so we can’t see his friends,’ said Tristan.

  ‘He must come from money with a name like “Keir”, private school and Cambridge, and his work life seems vague, yet in all these photos he’s well dressed,’ said Kate.

  ‘He’s creepy. That fle
shy face, the hooded eyes. He’s an odd-looking guy.’

  ‘That’s no measure of a serial killer. Remember, Ted Bundy was handsome. So was Peter Conway.’

  ‘Yeah, but his eyes are so cold, even in the photos where he’s smiling,’ said Tristan.

  Keir had only posted a couple of pictures of him with Emma, and she vanished from his newsfeed a few weeks before her death, when he went to America. Kate turned her computer round and googled him.

  ‘Aha,’ she said, scrolling through results. ‘He has a criminal record. Article in the local paper in 2009. Keir Castle, charged with threatening his girlfriend with a knife. The girlfriend wasn’t Emma. She’s not named. He got off with a fine and a hundred hours’ community service.’

  ‘I would have thought he’d get time for that,’ said Tristan, reading from her screen. ‘He must have been able to afford good representation.’

  ‘Any more info about his family?’ asked Kate. They went back to Tristan’s screen.

  ‘Keir attended King’s York independent school in Oxfordshire. Doesn’t look like he graduated from Cambridge. He’s got two sisters: Mariette Fenchurch and Poppy Anstruther. Also sound posh. The sisters’ profiles are locked with maximum security settings by the look of them, but they all went to the same school,’ said Tristan.

  Kate sat back in her chair, deep in thought.

  ‘He was linked closely to Emma,’ said Tristan.

  ‘And if he gets about, he could have come into contact with the other girls,’ said Kate. ‘What if we could arrange a meeting with him?’