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

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘It’s comforting, but I remember back when I used to do stakeouts and watch houses. The more time that goes past and nothing happens, the more complacent you get. And Myra keeps going out with cups of tea and cake for them.’

  ‘We should give them some of this cheesecake. It’s huge.’

  ‘You should take it home.’

  ‘My sister doesn’t like sweet stuff. Wouldn’t you have liked people to give you nice stuff to eat when you were doing surveillance?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Good point. Anyway, I’m sure Varia will move them onto something else once the threat dies down,’ said Kate.

  She went to the back window of the kitchen and looked out. The police car was parked out front and a bored-looking officer was drinking tea and scratching at his chin. She wondered if Glenda was taking out tea for the officer watching Jake, and how spooked she was getting by it all. It was now less than a week until Jake was due to come and stay for half term.

  ‘She’s never written another book?’ asked Tristan, picking up No Son of Mine again and looking at the back cover.

  Kate was suddenly struck by something so obvious she couldn’t believe she’d missed it. ‘How could I be so stupid?’ she said. ‘Enid didn’t write this book. She had a ghost writer who came over and interviewed her and made her words into prose. Well, I say prose in the loosest sense . . . ’ She took the book from Tristan and scanned the inside, remembering at the time it was published that she’d seen the name of a ghost writer. ‘That’s it, Gary Dolman. He was the ghost writer. I remember back whenever it was I had a message from him, asking me to contribute to the interviews he was doing to write the book. We should talk to him. There could be stuff that he heard, that was never published, stuff that Enid talked about . . . ’

  ‘He might have information about Peter Conway’s time spent in Manchester. It could lead to something on Caitlyn Murray’s disappearance,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Maybe, but I’m interested in the sequence of events on this holiday they took. There were four victims in the original case; our copycat has killed three. We should also be asking the question: what happens after number five?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Peter Conway only stopped because I caught him. This guy is copying Peter. And presumably he wants to be caught, that’s why copycat killers happen. Is he just going to go to four murders and then stop?’

  ‘Carry on living his life, and risk getting hit by a bus before anyone catches him,’ said Tristan.

  Kate sat down. ‘That’s depressing. I want us to look at everything again, all the people involved. There must be a link. How is this guy finding the girls? Why has he chosen to copy all these killings around this area and not in London like Peter did?’

  ‘CCTV? Back in 1995 there wasn’t as much CCTV coverage in London. He could move around a lot more easily without the risk. I’ve never been to London, but I read there’s CCTV everywhere, and a system of cameras that run the London congestion charge.’

  Kate nodded. ‘You’re right. Every car coming in and out of London is photographed and its number plate logged. In comparison Devon and Cornwall are still very rugged and it’s easier to get lost on the moors and in the surrounding towns. I told you that Varia wasn’t able to pull any CCTV the other night from Topsham.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s hitting the part of the country you moved to?’ said Tristan. ‘Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Yes. I have, and it terrifies me.’

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  ‘I can get in contact with the ghost writer,’ said Tristan. ‘If he’s willing to talk do you want to do it over the phone or face to face?’

  ‘I’d like to meet him face to face,’ said Kate.

  She took a sip of her coffee and looked out of the window. Tristan’s words went through her head again: Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s hitting the part of the country you moved to?

  CHAPTER 42

  Peter paced his room, impatient. He was desperate to get the next note from Enid. When the knock on the door came, he hurried to the hatch.

  ‘Morning, Peter, I’m here to take you to visit with your mother,’ said Winston. He said the same thing every time, in a slightly monotone voice. ‘I’ll pass through your hood, if you could place it on your head, buckle it up, then back up to the hatch . . . ’

  ‘Yes, yes. Just get on with it,’ said Peter.

  Winston pushed the spit hood through the hatch, and Peter grabbed it and slipped it over his head. The mesh felt cold against his skin, and he could smell his sweat and the acidic tang of his dry saliva. When the straps were done up, Peter backed up to the hatch, put his hands through and Winston fastened the cuffs on his wrists.

  Winston’s radio beeped, and he was given the go-ahead to open the door and take Peter to the lift.

  Enid waited for Peter in the usual meeting room with the green walls and the screwed-down furniture, the bag of sweets at her feet. She drummed her fingers on the bare table and checked her watch. Peter was two minutes late. She shifted in her seat, uneasy. Things at Great Barwell ran with an almost military precision, to the minute. Where was he? She looked up at the security cameras in the four corners of the room.

  What’s your game? she thought. Are you on to us?

  Enid sat back and crossed her arms, feigning relaxation. But inside her stomach was churning.

  The surveillance room at Great Barwell Psychiatric Hospital could rival the CCTV control centre in any of the London Underground stations. The back wall was covered in a vast screen where the view from every camera, of which there were 167, was displayed in a checker-board of images; every corridor, doorway, therapy room and interview room was monitored, along with the exercise yards, the visitors’ centre and every major entrance and exit. Six officers were on duty at any one time, and they each worked in front of a smaller screen and were assigned to a different sector of the hospital. They could communicate with every member of staff on duty via a radio link, and from the CCTV centre they could remotely open and close doors the second there was any kind of trouble.

  Ken Werner was the duty manager that day. He sat at the desk nearest the door. He was a veteran of the hospital, and had been a member of staff since the early days when there was no CCTV and you kept your wits about you. He was surprised when the intercom rang on the entrance door. He switched to the camera outside and saw Dr Meredith Baxter peer up and wave.

  ‘Morning, Doctor,’ he said, buzzing her in.

  ‘Hello, Ken. Have you got a minute?’ she asked, coming to stand by his desk.

  She was always fragrant, and softly dressed in pastel colours and woollen jumpers. Her hair smelled good too. Whenever he saw her it made him think how much Great Barwell had changed from his early days as an orderly. Back then it was a brutal asylum, where the staff all wore starched whites. The patients were called prisoners and you could give them a good kicking if they got out of line, which, Ken thought privately, often worked better than hours of expensive therapy.

  ‘What can I do you for?’ he asked.

  Meredith flashed him a professional smile. ‘Can you pull up the video feed for visitors’ room one in G Wing? On the big screen if possible, please?’

  ‘No problemo . . . ’ Ken tapped at his keyboard and an image of Enid waiting for her visit with Peter appeared on the huge screen.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Meredith. She went close to the screen and peered at the image for a moment, tilting her head.

  On the screen, Enid crossed her legs and shifted in her chair, checking her watch.

  Ken looked down at the row of images in front of him. He could see two patients on their way to a group therapy session, another emerging from the bathroom on his corridor, flanked by an orderly.

  Peter Conway was being led down the corridor towards the lift at the end with Winston. Meredith turned.

  ‘Could you delay Peter at the lift please, Ken?’

 
Her tone told him that it wasn’t a question.

  When Winston reached the lift with Peter, the orderly pressed the call button and the doors pinged and slid open. The lift was empty.

  ‘Can you hold it there please, Winston?’ said a voice crackling through his radio. Winston took a step back and pulled the radio from his belt.

  ‘Okay. Holding position,’ he said. The lift pinged and the doors closed. Winston turned to Peter. ‘We’ve been asked to stop here for a—’

  ‘I know. I heard. I’m right beside you,’ snapped Peter.

  There was another ping and the doors opened to the empty lift. A moment passed, and with a further ping they closed. Peter looked up and saw that the lift remained on their floor. He saw Winston check his watch. It was now 11.04. He took out his radio again.

  ‘Waiting for clearance. I have Peter Conway for visiting at eleven a.m. . . . ’

  ‘If you could hold there, Winston, thank you,’ came the voice.

  Peter heard a voice in the background say, ‘I’m going to initiate a strip search.’ It was a woman’s voice and Peter recognised it as Dr Baxter.

  Peter could feel sweat starting to form under the hood. What was the delay? They were only ever delayed when there was an incident, and the different kinds of incidents had numbered codes. A fight was signalled by 101, 102 was a suicide attempt, 381 was if a staff member had been attacked. He’d only ever heard 904, a riot, used once, a few years back. Winston had been told to halt, but there had been no numbered code given. Something was going on.

  Back in the control room, there was another buzz at the door. Ken saw it was Dr Rajdai, Dr Baxter’s deputy in the psychology department.

  ‘Please let him in,’ said Meredith, keeping her eyes on the big screen. He came in and went straight to join her.

  ‘How are we doing?’ he asked, looking up at the screen.

  ‘Enid Conway’s been through security checks, full patdown at the main gate. All her belongings and the sweets she’s brought him have gone through X-ray. They are all sealed,’ said Meredith. She looked at Dr Rajdai and he nodded.

  ‘I’m happy to sign off with you, but she could complain,’ he said.

  Meredith nodded and pulled out her radio. ‘This is Dr Baxter. Please can you take Enid Conway out of visitors’ room 1 and give her a full strip and cavity search.’

  ‘Copy that,’ came the voice on the other end.

  Ken watched as Enid was taken out of the visitors’ room by two female orderlies. He shook his head. Dr Baxter liked to think of herself as modern and sympathetic, but she was just as brutal as the old-school doctors.

  Peter was held in the corridor for another ten minutes, which felt like it stretched to hours. There was no explanation. Finally, Winston was given the go-ahead and Peter was taken to visitors’ room 1.

  When he saw his mother, her eyes looked red from crying, and this shocked and terrified him. He rarely, if ever, saw her cry. He waited until Winston and Terrell had gone and then gave her a hug.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said, sitting opposite her.

  ‘Those bastards. They gave me a full search, latex gloves, and they were rough and all . . . They said if I didn’t submit to it I couldn’t see you.’ She took a balled-up tissue out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

  Peter looked up at the security camera and fixed it with a glare.

  That fucking bitch, Dr Baxter, he thought. Just you wait.

  ‘Come here, Mum,’ he said. She got up and they embraced; he held her close, burying his face in the top of her head and smelling her hair. She pressed her face against his chest.

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she said, stroking his pectorals with red nail-varnished fingers.

  ‘Yeah, getting fit for, well, the future,’ he said. She pulled away and looked up at him. ‘And I was getting to be a porker.’ She smiled and laughed. ‘There, that’s my girl,’ he said. ‘You look years younger when you smile.’

  The orderly outside leaned forward and knocked on the glass, indicating they should separate.

  Back in the control room, Meredith stood with Dr Rajdai. She watched their embrace on the screen.

  ‘Jesus, we’ve got our own private showing of Oedipus Rex,’ said Ken from behind her. ‘If you ask me, it’s not drugs he wants to slip her . . . ’

  A couple of the other orderlies manning the computer monitors chuckled.

  Meredith turned and gave him a withering look. ‘Unless you have a clinical opinion, which I doubt, keep things to yourself,’ she said. She turned to Dr Rajdai who was standing in front of the screen with her. ‘I want Enid Conway stopped on her way out at the front gate for another full strip search and cavity search. If she objects, tell her we’ll withdraw all visiting rights. And I want Peter searched too,’ she said.

  When the visit came to an end, Enid held onto Peter for a long time. She ran her hands down his back and squeezed his buttocks, feeling his new, trimmer body. She felt him stiffen as he pushed himself against her.

  ‘Not long now, Mum,’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered back.

  There was a knock on the window and the orderly signalled she had to leave. She reluctantly pulled away and broke their embrace.

  ‘Don’t forget to take your sweets,’ she said, placing the bag on the table.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. Next time you hear from me it’ll be by phone.’

  She nodded.

  Almost home free, she thought to herself. If they knew about the sweets they’d have taken them off me.

  Enid was stopped at the body scanners on her way out and taken off into a side office for another body search.

  Afterwards, when she was dressed, she was taken towards the exit by the big female officer who had examined her.

  She was still anxious. What was happening to Peter? Had they found her note and the note from his fan? The notes had the final details of their plan.

  ‘If you could join the queue. I’ll leave you here,’ said the woman, indicating the line of people waiting at the X-ray machines.

  ‘After all that, you still need me to go through?’ said Enid.

  ‘Yes please, madam,’ said the woman.

  ‘You call me “madam” after shining your torch up my arse? Fuck you,’ she snapped.

  ‘I need you to moderate your language.’

  ‘And why don’t you sit on this and spin?’ said Enid, giving her the middle finger.

  The woman gave her a hard stare and walked off.

  The line of staff and visitors already waiting gave Enid a wide berth as she went through the X-ray machines. The young lad with the thin hair and odd-shaped head checked her through the X-ray machines.

  ‘Your hearing aid, it’s in a different ear,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  He tapped the right side of his head.

  ‘Wasn’t it in the other ear the last time you visited?’

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ she said. She took her coat and her phone from the tray and hurried out of the entrance. She was breathless with fear and excitement. She hoped that Peter was able to retrieve the note without being rumbled by the guards.

  Peter knew something was up when four orderlies were waiting at the door of his cell. The plastic bag of sweets felt slick in his sweating hands.

  ‘We need to conduct a body search please, Peter,’ said Terrell. ‘Is there anything you would like to tell us about before we do this?’

  Peter shook his head.

  One of the orderlies held out his hand and Peter gave him the plastic bag. The strip search, conducted by all four officers, took twenty minutes, but the whole time the plastic bag of sweets lay discarded on the bed, and they left without touching it again.

  Peter waited twenty minutes until the corridor outside was empty; only then did he open the bag and find the two notes written to him.

  His heart started to thump, this time with excitement. It was time to put his part of the plan in action.

  C
HAPTER 43

  The van bearing the logo of the Southwestern Electrical Company was parked up against the kerb. It was a quiet street, lined on one side with several run-down terraces, three of which were boarded up, and on the other side there was an expanse of fenced-off scrubland with a low brick windowless building which housed an electrical substation. A streetlight was flickering on and off in the twilight.

  The Fan sat watching the empty street through a small mirrored window in the back of the van. His preparations had been meticulous, and his method of tracking down his victims was taken directly from the Nine Elms Cannibal himself. Find a girl who has a routine. It’s the routine that leads her to you. After-school sports clubs attended by young women were a fertile ground. Sure, many of them had loving parents to pick them up, but he had found success by zeroing in on the poorer girls, the ones with the scholarships. They often had working parents and were forced to take the bus.

  This was now the fourth victim, and even though he loved it all – the stalking, abduction and killing – he was eager to get this one over and done with. He needed it out of the way for the final, most exciting part of his plan.

  The van was borrowed from the family company. Southwestern Electrical was one of many companies that leased vans from CM Logistics. He’d stocked it with everything he needed: a drawstring bag with a thin cord, a baton, duct tape, a fresh medical kit with hypodermic syringes and surgical gauze, a black balaclava and leather gloves. He also had a fresh set of clothes: the uniform of a delivery man working for the Southwestern Electrical Company. The number plates were fakes, registered to a stolen van. He hadn’t done the stealing, but the plates had been put up for sale on the black market. If the van was caught and identified on CCTV, it wouldn’t come back to him.

  The final piece of kit he’d placed in the van were two glass vials of isoflurane. It was commonly used to anaesthetise animals, and deliveries to veterinarians were not so closely monitored as controlled drugs delivered to the NHS and private health clinics.

  He saw movement outside, and an old man entered the road, walking his dog.