Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(25)

He then shone a small flashlight into her mouth, and she lifted her tongue. He checked her ears and her hearing aid. Finally, he waved her through.

Peter Conway was still classed as a Category A violent prisoner and was dealt with as such, but Enid had successfully lobbied to have face-to-face visits with her son, without a glass partition between them.

They met twice a week in a small room. Their meetings were recorded on CCTV, and hospital orderlies were always present, watching them through a large glass observation window. The room was starkly lit, with just a square plastic table and two chairs bolted to the floor. Enid was always placed in the room first, and then Peter was brought in. She’d had to sign numerous legal documents to say that she met Peter at her own risk, and she had no legal recourse if he attacked her.

She waited in the room for ten minutes before Peter was led through by Winston and Terrell, cuffed and wearing the spit hood.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Conway,” said Winston. He guided Peter to the chair opposite Enid, then undid straps at the back of the spit hood and removed the handcuffs. Peter rolled up his sleeves, ignoring both of the orderlies as they backed away to the door, one with a baton, the other with his Taser drawn. As soon as they were through, there was a buzzing and the sound of a lock being activated.

“All right, love?” asked Enid. Peter reached around to the back of his head and undid the buckles, pulling the hood off with a flourish. He folded it neatly and placed it on the table, as if he had just shrugged off a sweater.

“Yeah.”

“Another new guard,” she said, indicating the orderly watching them through the glass. “Do they specify fucking ugly on the application form for this place?” She knew their conversation was being broadcast outside the room, and she got a kick out of the fact they had no idea what was really going on during their visits. The orderly outside didn’t react and watched them impassively. They stood, and Peter leaned over and kissed Enid on the cheek, and they embraced. He stroked his mother’s back, tracing down to the curve of her buttocks. Enid pushed herself against him and gave a little sigh of pleasure. They held the embrace for a long moment, until the orderly knocked on the glass. They reluctantly broke apart and sat down.

“I brought your sweeties,” she said, picking up the carrier bag and pushing it across the table.

“Lovely. Thanks, Mum.”

Peter took out three bags of boiled sweets, three bags of jelly babies, and three bags of Cadbury’s chocolate eclairs.

“Ah, my favorite, the chocolate eclairs.”

“Something to enjoy later with a nice cup of tea,” she said with a knowing smile. “Any luck getting your kettle back?”

“No.”

“Bastards. I’ll contact Terrence Lane again, get him to write another letter.”

“Mum. They won’t give it back to me, and it’ll be another few hundred quid in solicitor’s fees.”

“It’s a basic human right to be able to make yourself a cup of tea!”

“Seriously, Mum, leave it.”

Enid sat back and pursed her lips. Just you wait, she thought, looking at the guard staring at them through the glass. You lot won’t know what’s hit you. She picked up the pink Chanel bag and placed it reverently between them on the table.

Peter whistled. “Jesus, Mum. Is that real?”

“Course it’s bloody real!”

“How much did that cost you?”

“Never you mind. But it’s as real as the money what bought it . . .” She sat back, smiling, and bit her lip. She had to stop herself from saying more and wished for the thousandth time that they could speak freely.

“Seriously, Mum?”

There was a knock on the glass, and they turned to see the orderly signaling to put the bag back down on the floor.

“What difference does it make if my fucking bag is on the table or the floor? They’ve already searched me!”

“Mum, Mum, please,” said Peter. Enid pulled a face and put the bag on the floor.

“I wouldn’t put it past them to stick a camera up my arse to see what I had for breakfast,” she said.

“That’s what they do to me,” he said. She reached out and took his hand. She went to say something and stopped herself.

“Peter. The chocolate eclairs. When you get back to your cell, open them, yes?”

She patted his hand, and a look passed between them.

“Of course, Mum,” he said, nodding. “I’ll do that.”





11

Kate and Tristan stopped at a motorway service station on their way back from meeting Malcolm and Sheila in Chew Magna. It was still early, and they both ordered fish and chips and found a quiet corner in the dining room before the lunch rush. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Tristan shoveled his food in, but Kate pushed hers around her plate. The greasy battered fish was making her feel queasy.

“I just felt so sorry for them both,” said Tristan. “They looked broken.”

“When you went up to the bathroom, I was asking them about the psychic they went to see. The one who told them Caitlyn was dead. She charged them three hundred quid.”

Tristan swallowed and put his fork down. “And they believed her?”

“She was the first person who gave them a conclusion. I’ve seen it before in cases I worked on. When a loved one vanishes, it’s not only devastating, but it plays with the mind. If there’s a body, it’s closure. You heard Sheila say she didn’t want them to move house, in case Caitlyn came home,” said Kate.