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

by Robert Bryndza

  Kate put her plate in the sink and hurried out of the back door.

  ‘Myra! You got a minute?’ she shouted, following her down the sandy cliff.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ said Myra. ‘I missed you at the last AA meeting.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry to me. It’s your sobriety.’

  ‘Things have got crazy. Can we talk? Can you open up the shop? I need a wetsuit,’ said Kate.

  ‘Sure, I’ll grab the keys,’ said Myra.

  The inside of the surf shop smelled musty, and the long windows looking out over the sea had been boarded up now the season was over. Myra pressed a switch and the fluorescent strip lights flickered on, lighting up the interior. At the front, Kate saw a row of shelves stocked with tinned and dried goods, camping stoves, bottled gas and a few small tents.

  Myra led Kate to the surf section at the back, where racks of wetsuits hung with flippers, snorkels and some faded cardboard adverts for surf gear – handsome muscled men standing with lithe bikini-clad babes. The wind moaned around the building.

  ‘How tall is Jake?’ asked Myra, sorting through a rack of kids’ wetsuits with her glowing cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. ‘He was below my shoulder the last time he was here at Easter.’

  She pulled out a small black and blue wetsuit with a Rip Curl logo on the back.

  ‘I saw him last month and he was up to my shoulder,’ said Kate.

  Myra held it up to Kate. ‘Has he got fat? Some kids balloon when they hit puberty. When I hit fourteen I got very fat and bossy,’ she said.

  ‘He’s not fat.’

  ‘There are other colours if you want to take a look,’ said Myra. She lit up a fresh cigarette with the dog end of the old, which she stubbed out on the grubby concrete floor.

  Kate searched through the rack.

  ‘You can’t say fat any more,’ Myra went on. ‘One woman came in over the summer with a little girl who was a right porker. I said to her, the sea is lovely and warm and she’s well insulated. Save yourself a few quid on wetsuit hire.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘I didn’t shout it out. I took the mother to one side. Still, you’d think I’d declared World War Three!’

  ‘This one, he loves green,’ said Kate, pulling out a suit with what looked like a pattern of green paint splashes.

  ‘When is he coming?’

  ‘Half term, in twelve days. I just wanted to send him a picture of it.’

  ‘Take it, love,’ said Myra, putting the other suit back.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What do you think? Nothing.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Kate,’ Myra said, putting her hand on her arm. ‘Don’t miss another meeting. Okay?’

  ‘It’s this case I’m working on.’

  ‘Nothing is as important as your sobriety. You see this empty wetsuit? It will still be empty in twelve days if you fall off the wagon. Your mother won’t let him near you if you start drinking,’ said Myra.

  ‘I know. Is it always going to be this hard? Sobriety?’

  Myra nodded. ‘I’ve got twenty-three years’ sobriety on you. I still go to meetings and see my sponsor. But I’m alive.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Kate sent Jake a text message with a picture of the wetsuit, but she didn’t hear anything back all evening. Just as she was about to go to bed she got a phone call from an unlisted number.

  ‘Kate, hello. It’s Dr Baxter at Great Barwell.’

  ‘I was just going to bed,’ said Kate.

  Meredith Baxter was Peter Conway’s consultant psychiatrist at Great Barwell. She was a little ‘new age’ for Kate’s liking. She always spoke about Peter as a ‘patient’, not a prisoner. She’d phoned Kate two years ago wanting to connect Kate and Jake with Peter, saying it would be good for his healing process. The last time Kate had spoken to her, she’d used colourful language and told Meredith where to go.

  ‘I’m going to be in London tomorrow. I’d like to meet you,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Kate.

  ‘It’s about Peter and Jake.’

  ‘I told you before, he is not having contact with Jake.’

  ‘It’s not about that. I can meet you at Paddington station. There’s a fast train from Exeter.’

  ‘I know there’s a bloody train.’

  ‘Please, Kate. It’s important.’

  *

  Kate was up early the next morning. It took half an hour to get to Exeter St David’s train station, and she only just made the 7 a.m. fast train to Paddington. She managed to get a seat with a table, and she’d brought work with her, but she couldn’t concentrate. She kept checking her phone to see if Jake had texted back, but he hadn’t. She arrived at Paddington just before 9 a.m., and she found Meredith waiting for her at a table in Starbucks at the train station.

  She was a pleasant-faced woman in her early forties with long strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She carried a leather satchel and wore jeans, a red woollen jumper and a short denim jacket. The laminated lanyard around her neck showed her ID, and that she was a doctor.

  ‘I took the liberty of getting you a cappuccino,’ said Meredith. ‘Please sit.’ She had a soothing voice, and Kate wondered if it was an affectation, or if she spoke the same way when she was at home, moaning at her husband to do the dishes. The seats in Starbucks were half empty, but there was a huge queue of commuters waiting for takeaway. Kate was glad of the noise of the coffee machines and station announcements.

  ‘You’ve made me very uneasy. I didn’t sleep well last night,’ said Kate.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I really wanted to speak face to face, and I figured you didn’t want to come to the hospital . . . ’

  Kate’s phone pinged to say she had a text. She pulled it out, but saw it was only from Tristan.

  ‘Do you need to deal with that?’

  ‘No,’ said Kate, putting her phone back.

  ‘My patients’ communications are kept private, but something addressed to Peter Conway was intercepted because it violates a no-contact order that you had put in place.’

  Meredith pulled a small brown envelope from her bag and put it on the table. It was addressed by hand and in the top right-hand corner was written in thin black handwriting, ‘from a fan’.

  The sight of those words made Kate feel sick.

  ‘Have you fingerprinted this?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Why would we fingerprint it?’

  ‘What’s inside?’ asked Kate. She opened it and took out a single sheet of paper. It was a printout of Jake’s Facebook page with his photo, and underneath was written, in the same handwriting,

  I’M THE ONLY PERSON WHO WANTS YOU TO SEE HOW WELL HE’S DOING – HE’LL SOON BE 15! WHO KNOWS, HE MIGHT BECOME A CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK . . .

  A FAN

  ‘I know this is horrible and shocking, but remember that anyone can print this off and send it. Jake’s Facebook page is public. It’s not illegal to send it privately,’ said Meredith. Her voice was irritatingly soothing.

  Kate’s heart thumped against her ribs and her hands shook when she saw it was signed ‘a fan’. She thought of Jake and his Facebook page, of how he’d unfriended Glenda. She took out her phone and tried her mother, but it went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Mum, call me when you get this. It’s urgent,’ she said. They were sitting by a huge window looking out into the station concourse. Opposite there was a luxury drinks store. A tower of Absolut vodka bottles was displayed in the window, and two good-looking young men were standing outside the shopfront with trays covered in tiny sample cups filled with the clear liquid.

  ‘Kate? Kate?’ said Meredith. Kate turned back to her. ‘Are you okay?’

  Am I okay? thought Kate. You have a degree in psychology and you ask if I’m okay? You have no comprehension of how scared and angry I feel!

  Kate took out her phone again and scrolled through until she found the photo she’d taken of the note at th
e Nine Elms wrecker’s yard. She showed it to Meredith and told her the whole story of the dead girls and the notes that had been left.

  Meredith sat back when Kate was finished. ‘Talk to me, Kate. You shouldn’t bottle up how you feel.’

  Kate resisted the urge to grab Meredith by the back of her neck and slam her face into the table.

  ‘Is this the first note that’s been sent to Peter, which is signed in this way? From a fan?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

  ‘No. He gets so much mail from all over the place, and many of them profess to be his fan.’

  ‘No, I mean, this specific way of signing “A Fan”?’

  ‘I’m unable to discuss contents of his private mail—’

  ‘Jesus Christ. You call me all the way here, show me this letter, and then tell me you can’t discuss it!’ shouted Kate, banging her fist on the table.

  ‘Kate. I need you to calm down.’

  ‘You’re a psychiatrist. Does telling someone who is upset to calm down ever work?’

  ‘Kate. I’m on your side. You know all Peter’s communication is monitored. Everything that comes in, apart from privileged communication from his legal team, is checked. You should know this as a former police officer.’

  ‘Detective Constable,’ said Kate. She paused and took a deep breath. ‘Please look at the handwriting on this paper, and on the letters left at the crime scenes. It looks like the same hand.’

  Meredith glanced at them. ‘I don’t know. It does, but I’m not a graphologist. I will of course now share this with the police. You have to understand, Peter gets a great deal of strange mail.’

  ‘Have the police been in contact and asked to see his mail? Just a yes or no answer?’

  ‘Yes, but we get regular requests from them. Once or twice a year, and they don’t have to share with us the reason why they want to see it.’

  ‘So, there is a chance that this person is communicating with Peter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does he receive many visitors?’

  ‘Kate . . . ’

  ‘For God’s sake, Meredith! My son is high risk. I have a court injunction out that Peter cannot communicate with him. And there is someone sending this fucked-up shit! You have a son, don’t you? Why can’t you show me as much compassion as you show all your convicted paedophiles and murderers?’

  Despite her calm demeanour, Meredith gritted her teeth and smoothed down her hair. ‘Peter has very few phone calls. All are monitored and recorded, and very few people visit him. He meets with a priest, who he got to know through writing letters. They meet once every six weeks, and there’s glass between them when they meet. If and when his solicitor visits, it’s the same, behind glass.’

  ‘Is Peter still violent?’

  ‘Kate, I’m telling you more than I should. I can’t comment on his mental state . . . The only person he meets face to face is Enid. They meet twice a week. Visits are monitored very closely and they are both searched before and after.’

  ‘Have they talked about this case, about the dead girls’ bodies recently found?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did he last see his solicitor?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Last week, and their visit was privileged. Do you know who represents him? Terrence Lane is a respected human rights lawyer. He wouldn’t risk his career. And for what? Peter has a few hundred pounds in savings . . . Now this is all confidential.’

  ‘Look at this note again. It’s like he’s picking up on a conversation. He doesn’t introduce himself . . . ’ Kate rubbed at her face. ‘I have to go.’ She got up abruptly and took a photo of the note with her phone.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do?’ asked Meredith. ‘I will be sending this to the police.’

  ‘Will you search Peter Conway again, really search him? Turn his cell over. Search everyone who comes into contact with him. Staff included.’

  ‘My patients have legal rights, and . . . ’ started Meredith, her tones almost aggressively soothing.

  ‘I just hope you never find yourself on the wrong side of a crazed psychopath,’ said Kate. ‘If you spent some time in my shoes, you’d feel differently about their human bloody rights!’ She picked up her bag and walked out of Starbucks.

  She hurried to the nearest toilets in the station, which were under the concourse. They were empty and she locked herself in a cubicle. She let herself cry, and the release felt good. After a few moments she heard the sound of a cleaner’s bucket on wheels and a knock on the door.

  ‘What are you doing in there?’ said a sharp voice.

  ‘Nothing. Go away,’ said Kate, catching her breath, determined not to let her emotions show in her voice.

  There was a pause, then the bucket rumbled on. Kate wiped her eyes and pulled out her phone. She had no signal. She took some deep breaths and wiped her eyes again, then came out of the cubicle and back up into the station. She tried to call her mother, Jake, her father and even her brother, but nobody was answering. She called Jake’s school and was told by a rather pious-sounding secretary that Jake was busy in classes.

  Kate found she’d wandered down the concourse, and she was close to the luxury wine and spirits store. The bottles stacked high in the windows glowed with a soft, welcoming light, and the two young men outside offering samples were tall, dark and beautiful.

  ‘Care to try Absolut Elyx?’ one of the young men asked, moving over to her with a tray covered in little plastic sample cups. The clear liquid shimmered. Kate took one. ‘It’s copper pot distilled and very smooth,’ he added with a smile. He was perfect. Smooth skin and floppy dark hair. The little plastic glass felt cold in her hand. The vodka was chilled, and it was such a small amount. Just a sip. A man and woman, both smart and well dressed, took a sample each and knocked them back.

  ‘Very good,’ said the man. The woman nodded in agreement, and they placed their empty sample cups back on the tray and carried on walking down the platform.

  Kate moved away from them all, towards a quiet place in the station where a van was parked next to a line of tall pillars. It was a red Royal Mail van. Kate’s whole focus was on that tiny glass, still cold in her hand, and the smell, the cool sharp smell of really smooth vodka.

  Everything seemed to go in slow motion as she turned back and saw the two beautiful young men, standing together with laden trays. She could easily have more.

  Kate went to lift the cup to her lips, and as she did she didn’t see the man with the box of parcels. He crashed into her arm and the little cup was knocked from her grip and fell on the concourse, the vodka making the smallest spatter on the tiled floor.

  ‘Mind out!’ he said, moving around her. Kate came to her senses.

  She backed away from the little cup lying on its side, the vodka spreading out over the tiled floor, and she hurried away, past the luxury wine and spirits store and onto her platform. She saw it as fate that a fast train was due to leave in one minute. She ran along the platform and hopped on board just as the doors closed.

  CHAPTER 32

  Kate calmed down a little on the train home. She found a quiet corner and managed to speak to Glenda, who said she would contact the police liaison they had been assigned over the years.

  ‘He’s safe, Kate. I promise. The school is secure and they know Jake’s background.’

  ‘Keep me posted, Mum, and ask Jake to text me back, tell me what he thinks of the picture I sent him of the wetsuit.’

  ‘Of course. Are you okay, love?’

  Kate looked out at the landscape rushing past. She didn’t want to think that she’d come so close to drinking.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said. When she ended the call, her phone rang again. This time it was Tristan. She quickly told him what had happened, omitting the part where she almost drank.

  ‘I’ll be back in time for my three o’clock lecture,’ she said.

  ‘Cool. Listen. I just saw online that at seven this evening there’s going to be a candlelit vigil for the thi
rd victim, Layla. It’s in Topsham, the village where she lived. It’s only about ten miles away from Ashdean. It could be a good place to talk to people, find out more information, especially if it’s a small village.’

  Kate had a quick think. I’ve got a lecture from 3 to 4 p.m., there’s a 5 p.m. AA meeting I should go to with Myra. Afterwards I could drive to Topsham.

  ‘Okay, let’s do that,’ she said.

  Keeping busy was good, she thought. It kept her mind off other things.

  Later that afternoon, Peter was doing push-ups in his cell when he heard a bang on the door. Winston opened the hatch.

  ‘Peter, we need to search your room,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Routine,’ said Winston, looking at him with impassive eyes.

  Peter came to the hatch and was cuffed and hooded, and taken out into the corridor. Winston stayed with him as Terrell pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves.

  ‘Anything you want to tell me before I go in?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Peter.

  Terrell went inside, closing the door.

  Peter tried to remain calm. He was keeping the letters from Enid and his ‘fan’ inside capsules in the bottle of vitamin C tablets. He figured that, at a glance, the white paper packed inside looked the same as a full capsule. He hoped that the radiator knob wouldn’t be discovered loose. It would be a shame to sacrifice that hiding place.

  ‘You okay, Peter?’ asked Winston. ‘You’re sweating.’

  ‘I was exercising,’ he said. Glad to be able to tell the truth for once. He had noticed how much better his clothes fitted.

  Winston’s radio bleeped and a call came through for medical backup in solitary confinement.

  ‘Urgent. We have a patient caught up in the new razor wire . . . ’

  Winston reached for the knob on the radio and turned the sound down.

  ‘New razor wire?’ asked Peter. ‘Did someone try to escape? I didn’t hear the siren go off.’

  ‘The yard in solitary now has razor wire on top of the walls,’ said Winston.

  ‘How did he get through the net?’ asked Peter.