Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(20)

“You can’t open it in front of me,” the woman snapped. “Either you want to drink it, or I have to take it away.”

He picked it up.

“Thank you,” he said, muttering, “cunt.”

“What did you just say?”

“I said, any chance of a biscuit?” He flashed her a brown-toothed smile. She shook her head, a look of disgust on her hard face.

“I’ll be back in an hour. The cup comes back . . .”

“Empty, upturned, with the lid off . . . Yes, I know,” he said. She slammed the hatch closed. He tipped the cup back and took a sip. It was cold, milky, and sweet.

He went to his desk and took out a piece of writing paper and, using a ruler, tore it neatly into a thin strip; then he started to write a reply to his Fan.





8

Kate went to an AA meeting the next morning with Myra. It was their regular meeting in a church hall just outside Ashdean. Kate spoke about nearly losing her sobriety, and as always, she gained strength from the people in the meeting and sharing their stories of recovery. When she and Myra parted on the steps of the church, Kate was glad that Myra didn’t press her further on what she was going to do.

Tristan was already in and working at his desk when Kate arrived at the office.

“Morning,” he said. “Alan Hexham got back to me. He can make the lecture next week. He also wanted to know if you are okay. He was concerned the postmortem last night upset you.”

“Thanks. I’ll call him,” she said, sitting at her desk and switching on her computer. She could see Tristan out of the corner of her eye, wanting to know more. Why would Alan leave such an indiscreet message? He didn’t know if Kate shared everything with her assistant. She opened her email and saw there was a reply from Malcolm Murray, asking to meet.

Kate looked up at Tristan. He was working on the cold case exercise for the upcoming lecture, which had involved taking the police file and reports and collating the information together for the students to read. She made a decision.

“Do you want to grab a coffee?” she asked.

“Sure, what would you like?” he said, pushing back his chair.

“No, I mean let’s go and have a coffee. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Okay,” he said, his thick, dark brows furrowing. “Is there a problem with my work?”

“God, no. Come on, I’m dying for some caffeine, and let’s talk.”

They went down to the shiny new Starbucks on the ground floor of the faculty building. It was warm and cozy, and when they had their coffee, they managed to bag a table by the window, looking out over the seafront. Kate glanced around at the busy tables where students worked on their shiny new laptops, guzzling muffins and three-quid lattes, and thought back to her own poverty-stricken student days: her freezing-cold studio and living on nothing but a diet of lentils and fruit. A Starbucks latte and muffin cost more than her weekly food budget had been back then.

“So many of these students must be minted,” said Tristan, echoing her thoughts. “See that guy over there?” he said, indicating a handsome dark-haired guy lounging in one of the armchairs and talking on his mobile. “He’s wearing Adidas Samba Luzhniki World Cup trainers, limited edition.”

Kate looked over at the white-and-red-striped trainers. “Really? They just look like trainers.”

“There were only a few thousand pairs made, and they have bison leather and suede. He can’t have got much change out of five hundred quid . . . Sorry, what did you want to talk about?”

“No worries,” she said, smiling. The more she got to know Tristan, the more she liked him. She told Tristan about the email from Malcolm Murray and her meeting with Alan Hexham the night before. She edited out the part about nearly falling off the wagon. She also showed Tristan the email.

“Do you think they’re linked? The dead girl from the postmortem and then this email about Caitlyn?”

“No. Although the way in which this young woman was murdered is horrific, and it has all the hallmarks of Peter Conway, but he’s locked up, and the police are dealing with that case. I want you to help me look into Caitlyn’s disappearance.”

“How?” he said, looking at the email.

“You’ve been preparing all the stuff for my cold case lectures. You’ve dealt with the historical case files. I’d like you to come with me when I meet Malcolm and his wife, so I can have a second opinion. I’m very close to the case, obviously, and I’d welcome your thoughts.”

Tristan looked surprised and excited. “Absolutely. I’ve loved doing the cold case stuff, reading through the old police files. It’s such interesting stuff.”

“How much work do you have on for tomorrow?” Kate asked. Wednesday was a nonlecture day, but it was still used for preparation and paperwork.

“I can juggle some stuff around, stay a bit later today. You want to go tomorrow?”

“Yes. We’d need to leave early in the morning, and of course, it’s classed as a workday, and I’ll pay your expenses.”

“Sounds good,” he said, downing the last of his coffee. He looked at the email again and at the photo Kate had found of Caitlyn online. “This must feel like unfinished business for you. Peter Conway was your case, and now there could be more victims.”