Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(38)

Kate folded her arms across her chest. This Varia wasn’t messing about. “No.”

“Does he write to you?” she asked.

“You must be aware you can check Peter Conway’s communications. And you’d see that since his arrest and incarceration, I have never visited him or written to him, and we’ve never spoken on the telephone. He wrote to me once.”

“What about your son?” asked John.

“He’s fourteen, and he has no contact with Peter Conway,” said Kate. The police officers coming into her office had put her on the defensive, but Kate used to employ the same techniques when she was an officer. “Was there a note at the second crime scene, where Kaisha Smith’s body was found near the river by Hunter’s Tor?”

Varia folded her arms and pursed her lips.

“You can drop the poker face,” said Kate. “Alan Hexham called me in for a second opinion on Kaisha Smith’s postmortem. Both her murder and the murder of Emma Newman have the same hallmarks of Peter Conway . . .” Kate could see a flicker in her eyes, and John looked over at her. “Ah. There was a note, wasn’t there?”

Varia looked back at John and then got up, taking a notebook from her back pocket. She pulled out a photocopied sheet of paper and placed it on Kate’s desk. Tristan came over to look.

“There’s a parish noticeboard twenty meters down the river from where Kaisha Smith’s body was found. This note had been left there. It wasn’t discovered until yesterday.”

TO THE POLICE “FORCE,”

I’M STREETS AHEAD OF YOU CLOWNS. KAISHA WAS A SPIRITED YOUNG WOMAN. HOW MANY MORE DEATHS WILL THERE BE UNTIL YOU TAKE NOTICE OF ME? THE PARISH NOTICEBOARD SEEMS FITTING SOMEHOW.





A FAN




“He’s annoyed that no one is taking notice of his work,” said Kate. “He’s killed two, and there’s nothing yet in the news. A copycat craves the attention. Like the first note, he’s signed it ‘A Fan,’ which says more about him than he realizes. He’s caught up in the cult of celebrity surrounding Peter Conway and the Nine Elms case.”

“The original case still has to be officially referred to as Operation Hemlock,” said Varia. Kate rolled her eyes—jeez, this woman was pedantic. “At this stage, a copycat killer theory needs to be proved,” she added, picking up the note and slotting it back in her notebook.

“What else do you need? Another body? Of which I’m sure there will be one. Peter Conway killed four women before I caught him. Well, four women that we know of. You need to focus this investigation on finding a copycat killer . . . They’re not as clever as the killer they ape. They want the notoriety and fame involved with repeating the terror. One of the things that will make him a success is if he becomes notorious and makes the news, and you could use that.”

“Hey!” said Varia, putting up her hand. She looked really pissed off. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

“Well, you walk into my office and start rummaging through my private papers without a warrant . . .”

“You left your door open,” said John.

“I remember dealing with house break-ins where the suspect said exactly the same thing,” said Kate. He gave her a hard stare.

“Do you have any other information to share?” he asked.

“No. We called the police as soon as we found the bird and the note.”

“Why were you in the area? It’s a bit out of the way for both of you.”

Kate outlined their visit to Chew Magna and the details of the letter from Caitlyn’s father. “Malcolm Murray had already asked the Greater Manchester Police to reopen this case, but they declined due to lack of evidence,” she finished. There was a moment’s silence; then Varia looked over at Tristan.

“And you went along on this field trip in your capacity as an academic assistant?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Tristan, his voice cracking a little with nerves.

“You live with your sister. She works for Barclays Bank?”

“Yes.”

“How is this relevant?” asked Kate.

“Has he told you he’s got a criminal record?”

He hadn’t, but Kate didn’t want to give these pushy, rude police officers the satisfaction. She didn’t say anything and looked over at Tristan.

“I was fifteen and got drunk with some mates. Well, they weren’t mates,” said Tristan, blushing red. “I broke the window of a car parked down the other end of the seafront.”

“You broke into a car,” said Varia. “That’s what the police report says.”

“No. I broke the window.”

“And one of the other people in your gang stole the radio.”

“I wasn’t in a gang. He ran off when the police arrived. I stayed there and faced the music,” said Tristan, recovering his composure. “And I wasn’t charged; I was cautioned. I don’t have to declare a caution.”

“Does your boss know?” asked John with a nasty grin.

Kate stood up. “Hang on, I don’t like this. You don’t come in here and bully someone who is a valuable and trusted member of my staff,” she said. “We’ve shared all the information we have. Instead of snooping around without a warrant, why don’t you get back out there and do some police work?”