Darkness Falls (Kate Marshall, #3)(41)

Marnie looked behind her, at the clock on the wall. “I’d better make a move in a bit. I need to pick up the kids from school. Can I show you something?”

“What’s that?” asked Kate.

“It’s in the lounge.”

Marnie got up and picked up the crutch. Kate followed her slow walk down the hallway. Marnie opened the living room door. It was furnished with a dark leather sofa and a flat-screen TV. To the right of the TV was a giant bookcase filled with DVDs. To the left was a large wooden shelf unit with four tiers of shelves behind glass doors. On the shelves behind the glass were rows of foot-high collector’s movie merchandise models: Freddy Krueger, Brandon Lee from The Crow, Pennywise the clown, Ripley from Aliens holding a tiny Newt in one arm and a flame-throwing gun in the other. There were two versions of Chucky, one with and one without a knife, and three versions of Pinhead from Hellraiser and his Cenobites. There was also a group of figures that Kate didn’t recognize.

“Wow,” said Kate, trying to keep her voice light. It was all rather creepy.

“Yeah,” said Marnie, misreading Kate’s reaction as being impressed. “I’ve got a YouTube channel: Marnie’sMayhem07. I demonstrate film-merchandise toys,” she said. “I’m waiting on a fifteen-inch talking Regan from The Exorcist, but she’s stuck in the sorting office.”

Kate smiled and nodded again. It was an oppressive room, and the smell of stale cigarettes was fighting with a cheap air freshener. Marnie had closed the thick curtains, and there was just a harsh overhead light, which bounced off the glossy cheap furniture. Marnie moved over to the DVD shelf, and at the bottom was a shelf of books, and as she picked up one particular book, Kate realized what was coming next. Marnie was holding a copy of No Son of Mine, the memoir written by Enid Conway, Peter Conway’s mother. Kate could feel her chest tighten and her heart begin to thump as she saw there was a black felt-tip pen hooked over the book cover.

“Would you sign it?” She smiled, leaning her elbow on her crutch and opening the book to the title page. There were already two signatures. One in blue that read Peter Conway, and one in black that was illegible, but because Kate had been sent a signed copy of No Son of Mine when it was published, she knew it was Enid Conway’s signature. Marnie held out the pen with an eager look in her eyes.

“But I didn’t write it,” said Kate.

“It would really help me out,” said Marnie. “Do you know how much this book could be worth if a copy has all three signatures?”

“I’ve never signed a copy,” said Kate.

“Exactly. I’ve helped you out, and if I remember anything else, I can help you out even more. Yeah?”

“Where did you get both of their signatures?” asked Kate.

“If you know the right person, you can get it.”

This was abhorrent to Kate. The book, when it was published, had been a cheap ploy by Enid Conway to make money.

“There’s a rare book dealer who’s told me I can sell this for two thousand pounds or more if it has your signature. Do you know how much me and my kids could benefit from two grand? I’ve got black mold in this flat!” Her nostrils flared, and she looked angry. It suddenly made her look like one of her foot-high film-monster models.

Kate thought back to the conversation she’d had with Jake that morning, and it was oddly prescient. The reality of her life was not up for sale. It made sense now, why Marnie was so keen to talk to her.

“No. I’m sorry,” said Kate. “I’m not signing that.”





23


Tristan was the first to arrive at the café to meet Bishop and sat in a booth in the window. South Street in Exeter had one of the last independent coffee shops. Opposite were a home-ware shop, a betting shop, and a hairdresser with flats above them.

A few minutes later, Bishop the waiter—Tristan didn’t know his last name—emerged from one of the doors opposite. He wore jeans and a tight white T-shirt.

“Hiya,” said Bishop with a broad grin. He leaned over and pecked Tristan on the cheek. “Did you order?”

“Yeah. Americano,” said Tristan, taken aback by the kiss on the cheek.

“You don’t look like you need to watch your figure . . . although I could watch it all day,” said Bishop. Tristan laughed awkwardly. Was Bishop naive enough to think this was a date? Kate and Tristan had already said they were private detectives and had asked to talk to his boss at Jesper’s.

“I like your tattoos,” Bishop added, indicating Tristan’s forearms and the top of the eagle protruding from the neck of his T-shirt.

“Thanks.”

“You want your usual?” said the owner, coming over to the table. She was an elderly lady with a stern face.

“Yes please, Esperanza. And a slice of that Snickers cheesecake . . . This is my local,” he added when she’d gone. “You look even better than you did the other day.”

“Thanks,” said Tristan. “Listen. I’ve asked you here for a reason.”

Bishop’s eyes opened wider. “I thought I asked to meet you? My number on the receipt . . .”

“Yes, but to be clear, this isn’t a date. Do you remember me and my colleague, Kate, saying to Max that we’re private detectives and we’re investigating the disappearance of several young men? One of them was living at Jesper’s when it was a commune.”