Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(21)

“We don’t know that yet. There’s no body, but unfortunately for me, the Peter Conway case will always feel like unfinished business . . .”

Tristan nodded. “What was he like? Peter. I know what he is now, but he must have seemed like a normal person. No one suspected him for years.”

“He was my boss, and even though we had an affair, I wasn’t on joking terms with him. He seemed like a decent bloke, popular with his team. Always bought in a round of drinks after a long, hard day. There was a female detective whose husband left her, and Peter gave her a lot of slack and let her do her job, pick up her son from school, that kind of thing, and back in 1995 if a female police officer had children or any childcare issues, she was bunged on a desk job quicker than you can say equal rights for women.”

“You think there was a normal person, lurking inside him?”

“Yes, and with most multiple murderers, the two sides of their character are often in conflict. Good and evil.”

“And evil often wins.”

“I would hope that good triumphs as much as evil . . .” Her voice trailed off. She wasn’t so sure anymore.

Tristan nodded. “Thanks; I promise I won’t bug you with any more questions about him . . . This is very cool, that I get to see you being a policewoman again and investigating crime.”

“Hold your horses; I just want us to visit Malcolm and his wife, nothing more. I’m not making them any promises.”





9

Kate and Tristan set off early the next morning, and it took two hours on the motorway to drive to Chew Magna, a pretty village about ten miles outside Bristol.

The cottage belonging to Malcolm and Sheila was on the outskirts of the village, down a short track that was muddy from the recent rain. They parked close to the front gate, and Tristan had to leap from the passenger seat to the grassy shoulder to avoid a huge muddy puddle.

The cottage was quaint and not how Kate imagined Malcolm and Sheila’s home—she’d envisioned a dingy little Victorian terrace or a state-subsidized flat, similar to the other victims’ houses.

The cottage was whitewashed, and a thick wisteria vine wound its way up the drainpipe and under the eaves. Its branches were bare, and a few yellowing leaves hung on, dancing in the wind. As they walked up to the front door, the grass in the front garden was at knee height, and tall weeds grew through the cracks in the concrete.

Malcolm answered the door. He was short and plump with rounded shoulders. His hair was very thin, a baby-fine fluff that clung to his veiny scalp. He wore blue jeans with an ironed crease down the front and a red and blue diamond-patterned jumper.

“Hello, hello, so pleased to meet you,” he said in a raspy voice, smiling and shaking both their hands. Kate noticed he had dark patches on the backs of both hands, and she guessed he must be in his late eighties.

“We made it here quicker than we thought. I hope we’re not too early?” asked Kate. It was just after nine in the morning.

“We’re much better before lunchtime; the earlier the better, before we go a bit gaga.” He grinned.

He stepped back to let them inside. There was a thick carpet of faded mauve, and the hallway was dimly lit with a low ceiling. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and furniture polish. Kate slipped off her shoes and hung up her coat. Malcolm watched Tristan as he undid the laces on his trainers and carefully pulled them off to reveal immaculate snow-white sports socks.

“My, they’re snazzy,” said Malcolm, adjusting his thick spectacles with a shaking hand.

“Thank you,” said Tristan, holding up the trainers. “Vintage Dunlop Green Flash.”

“No. I meant your socks. They’re so white! Sheila would never let me wear such white socks. They must show the dirt.”

Tristan laughed. “They do a bit, but I’m the one who does the washing in our house,” he said, hanging up his coat.

“Are you married?”

“No. I live with my sister. She’s the cook. I’m the bottle washer and sock washer.”

Kate smiled. She hadn’t known this about Tristan and made a mental note to ask more.

“Malcolm! There’s a draft! Shut that door!” came a woman’s reedy voice from the living room. “And find them some slippers.”

“Yes, we can’t have you getting colds,” said Malcolm, reaching round to close the door. “Now, where are those slippers?”

Kate and Tristan both declined the slippers, but Malcolm insisted, rummaging around in a large trunk under the coatrack until he found them each a yellowing pair of hotel slippers with HAVE FUN, HAVE SUN, HAVE SHERATON! written on the front. He dropped them down on the carpet in front of their feet.

“There we go. We went to Madeira for the millennium. It was the last holiday we had before Sheila’s acrophobia took over . . . and then, well, anyway. Pop them on and you’ll be toasty, and they’ll keep those white socks clean.”

Malcolm went off as Tristan pulled a face at Kate. The tiny slippers looked ridiculous crammed onto the end of his huge feet. They passed a large grandfather clock ticking loudly in the dim hallway and went through to the living room, which was much brighter. It was a mess: two armchairs were pushed up under the front window with a nest of tables, and a dining table and chairs were stacked up at the other end under the window looking out into the overgrown back garden. When Kate saw Sheila, she understood why. The middle of the room had been cleared to fit a large high-backed chair where Sheila sat, tucked up under a fluffy blue blanket. She had long gray hair, escaping in wisps from a ponytail, and her skin was a deep yellow. Next to her was a huge dialysis machine, humming and whirring with a row of small lights flashing, and on the other side was a high table covered with bottles and packets of medication and next to it a yellow sharps bin for disposal of needles and dressings. There were square indentations in the carpet where the furniture had been.