Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(101)

“Mother, Father. You will both have to sit up and pay attention to me now,” he said. He gently covered up Kate and Jake with a blanket and then closed the van door. Checking that no one had seen him, he set off for the long journey, waving at the dead policeman, still propped up in the driver’s seat of his squad car.





62

In the three days since he had murdered Meredith Baxter, Peter Conway had been kept in solitary confinement. The routine had been the same: food, medication, shower, exercise.

It had been difficult to keep track of time with no watch or window during the day, but it crawled by, and paranoia had crept in. He was now cut off from updates from Enid. What if the plan fell through? He faced a long stretch in solitary, and then what? A slow slide into a life as a geriatric serial killer.

He had asked the time at each meal and when he was let out in the small yard for exercise. Like a dog, he thought, a dog being let out to do his business in the morning and evening.

On the previous day he had been visited by Terrence Lane, his solicitor, and for twenty minutes he had been taken into the small glass-partitioned visitors’ room in solitary. Terrence had explained that he would be charged with murder, but he may not stand trial, as they would push for a plea of diminished responsibility. When their meeting had finished, Terrence got up and gathered his papers.

“I spoke to Enid. She was devastated to hear what you’d done . . . You were on the way to being sent to a category B prison, Peter. What are you playing at? This doctor. She was on your side. She was working on getting you a better place to live out your final years . . . She had a small son . . .” He shook his head, seemingly reminding himself that Peter was his client, and it wasn’t his place to pass moral judgment.

“Thank you, for everything, Terrence,” said Peter, standing. “I wish I could shake your hand and thank you for everything over the years.”

“Going somewhere, are you?” asked Terrence, pushing the last of the papers back into his bag.

“Course not.”

“I’ll see you next week, then,” said Terrence, and he left the visiting room. Peter smiled to himself.

“A better place to live out my final years . . . Just you wait and see,” he muttered.



Enid Conway sat on the end of her bed and looked at the small suitcase that was open and neatly packed. The small plastic carry-on suitcase was blue and unremarkable to look at. Inside she had carefully packed several casual outfits, a couple of smart suits and shoes, and a new swimming costume. There was also a home bleaching kit and some sharp scissors. She planned to go blonde and change her hair. This was one of the things she was so excited about. She had the opportunity to become someone different. She would be June Munro, and Peter would be Walter King.

On the bed beside the suitcase was a tan-colored money belt. She took the eight-inch-thick packet of €500 notes and slipped them inside. The quarter of a million euros only just fit. She checked their passports for the umpteenth time: June Munro and Walter King. She slipped them inside the money belt and zipped it up. She tried it on around her waist. It was tight and dug painfully into her skin. She rearranged her clothes and checked her reflection in the mirror. The belt protruded only slightly under her blouse, like a little extra belly.

The phone rang, and she came downstairs to take the call. It was Peter’s solicitor. Terrence sounded despondent and gave her an update on Peter’s upcoming assessment to see if he would be fit to stand trial for the murder of Dr. Baxter. He also told her that Peter was looking well and that Great Barwell would be keeping him in solitary confinement for the next few weeks.

Enid came off the phone elated. They had no clue of the plan. She just wished she could tell Peter that everything was on course. She came through to the kitchen and poured herself a large whisky. Enid Conway didn’t have any friends; she had acquaintances on the street where she lived, but she lived a simple life. She was either at home or visiting Peter.

Enid couldn’t quite believe that shortly she would walk out of her house and her life forever. She downed the tumbler of whisky and poured herself another. For courage.





63

Tristan left Jepson’s Wood just after dark, when the skeleton had finally been lifted from the soil and placed in a black body bag to go off to the forensic lab.

He had seen the missed call from Kate, but she hadn’t left him a message, and he had tried to call her back repeatedly, but there was no answer. He felt guilty running away and leaving Victoria O’Grady, but Kate’s lack of contact, when she was desperate to know the outcome of the police search, worried him, so he drove home as fast as the speed limit would allow.

When he arrived back in Ashdean and turned into Kate’s road, he was shocked to see blue flashing lights and the outside of her house swarming with police cars.

Myra was standing in front of the surf shack with Varia Campbell, the car park was filled with police cars, and Tristan’s shock turned to alarm when he saw a pathologist’s van. Police tape surrounded Kate’s house. He parked as close as he could get and ran over to Varia and Myra.

“What’s happened? I’ve been trying to call Kate,” he said. His question was answered as the body of the police officer guarding the house was lifted from the car and placed onto a trolley with a body bag.

Varia explained what had happened. “Kate and her son, Jake, are missing. We think someone broke into the house. The glass in the front door is smashed, and we can see signs of a struggle,” she said.