Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(39)

Varia gave her a cold stare. “We ask that you share any other information with us immediately and you say nothing to the press, should they come knocking, which they will if they publicly link this with Peter Conway . . .”

“Neither of us have any interest in talking to the press,” said Kate.

Varia and John turned their attention to Tristan.

“No. I won’t be speaking to anyone,” he said.

“Right then, that’s all for now,” said Varia. They left the office, and John slammed the door.

“Shit,” said Tristan, putting his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Kate. I’m so sorry. I was fifteen. It was just a stupid . . .”

“You don’t need to apologize. I’ve done my fair share of stupid things on booze . . . Listen. Earlier I said I had something to do, before our phone call. I’m going to an AA meeting. I was an alcoholic for, well, too many years. It’s the reason Jake lives with my parents . . . Do you think you have a drink problem?”

Tristan looked surprised. “No.”

“Then that’s all we need to say about it. They wanted to bully you—don’t let them succeed.”

Tristan nodded. “Thank you. And thanks for telling me and for being cool. Do you think they will be back?”

“I don’t know. They’re rattled, I can see. She’s under huge pressure to catch him, obviously, but when it hits the press it will be big, and the police never come out of it in a good light.”

Kate grabbed a piece of paper and started writing.

“What are you doing?” asked Tristan.

“Writing down what was in that second letter, before I forget.”





20

Tristan came to Kate’s house after her AA meeting. She made them tea, and then they settled at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and Skyped Megan Hibbert in Melbourne. She answered immediately. She had a broad smile and was tanned with green eyes and long ash-blonde hair. She sat in her living room in front of large windows looking out onto a swimming pool and large garden.

“Hi, Kate, and Tristan, is it?” Her accent was a mix of Australian and British.

“Thanks for talking to us so early in the morning, Melbourne time,” said Kate. She quickly ran through what had happened at their meeting with Malcolm and Sheila.

“I feel so sorry for them. Malcolm looked a shadow of the man he used to be when I bumped into him at the cemetery . . . It broke my heart when he said he wished he had a grave for Caitlyn. Imagine being at the point in your life where you say that about your own child . . .” Her sunny disposition dimmed, and she took out a tissue and wiped her eyes. “What are the chances you think you’ll find her body?”

Kate paused, and Tristan glanced across at her.

“I often think cold cases favor private investigation,” said Kate. “The police often don’t have time, and the UK police don’t put a lot of funds into looking at cold cases unless there’s more evidence.”

“They didn’t think my conversation with Malcolm was enough to open it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t hear about Caitlyn until a few months after it happened. We left the UK at the end of August 1990. My whole family emigrated—me, Mum, Dad, and my kid brother, who was five. We had no other relations, and letters from friends and neighbors got held up. We lived in a youth hostel for three months. Anyway, that’s why I didn’t hear about Caitlyn.”

“You were Caitlyn’s best friend?” asked Kate.

“No. That was Wendy Sampson.”

“Were you and Caitlyn close to the girls in your class?”

“We were the only three scholarship girls at the school. Me, Caitlyn, and Wendy. The rest of them were moneyed—not all bad, but a lot of stuck-up bitches, if you pardon my language. Caitlyn and Wendy’s fathers were more acceptable than mine. Malcolm worked for the council, and Sheila was a homemaker, or housewife as you say back home. My father was a builder, and we were working class in the UK. I was the lowest of the lows. We stuck together.”

“Were you bullied?” asked Tristan.

“No. I was a big strapping girl, Caitlyn had a quick wit, and Wendy was a strong sportswoman—that can often deter the bullies. But this was a girls’ school. When people bullied, much of it was psychological,” said Megan.

“So as far as you knew, Caitlyn wasn’t close with any other girls?” asked Kate.

“No, we didn’t get invited round for tea at any other girls’ houses.”

“She must have been gutted you were leaving?” asked Tristan.

Megan paused. “It was odd. We were all close, but the school year had finished, and I left at the end of August, and as that last month progressed, I saw her less. She spent more time with Wendy. I understood that.”

“In what way?”

“Well, we stopped all arranging to go out. And to be fair, I was distracted. My mother was taking us up and down to London to the Australian embassy to get our visas and paperwork for the move. There was no bad blood.”

“Didn’t Wendy tell you about Caitlyn?” asked Kate.

“Yes, but I didn’t get her letter till a few months after. It was awful, but you have to remember there was no internet then. It didn’t make the news in Australia—why would it?” Megan started to tear up, and she pulled out a tissue. “Sorry.”