Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(40)

“Do you remember a girl called Vicky O’Grady in your class?”

“Yes.”

“Were you friends?”

“No. I hated her. She was a bit of a bitch, and she was always playing truant. She got caught drinking during a break time,” said Megan.

“So none of you were friends with her?”

“No.”

Kate looked down at the notes they had made.

“But Caitlyn worked at a video shop with Vicky?” she asked.

“Yes. Vicky’s dad owned a franchise, I think, for the video shops, and Caitlyn worked there as a Saturday job. Vicky was supposed to work there, but she spent most of her time ordering Caitlyn around and flirting with the customers.”

“We’re meeting with Vicky tomorrow,” said Kate.

“Really? What’s she doing now?”

“She’s a makeup artist for the BBC in Bristol.”

“Okay, well, good on her. What’s she got to say about this?”

“We don’t know. She does say that her and Caitlyn were good friends.”

Megan looked surprised. “Seriously?”

“Apparently so,” said Kate.

“I don’t understand, but a lot of water has gone under the bridge. It was a long time ago. Good luck to her.”

There was a pause, and for the first time Megan looked awkward.

“Okay, let’s move on to the night where you saw Caitlyn outside Carter’s youth club. Can you remember when it was?” asked Kate.

“Yes. It was right at the beginning of August. I remember the day because my mum was freaking out about our visas not arriving and we only had four weeks. It was really hot, and the youth club was nothing more than a big old hall. Mr. Carter, the caretaker, couldn’t open the windows because he’d lost the window pole. There was a stream that ran past the back, and most of the kids were out there paddling. Me and Caitlyn were playing table tennis, and she went off to visit the loo but didn’t come back. I found her out front, standing by a car belonging to this older guy, a policeman. She said she’d met him at the video shop. He came in to rent a movie, they got chatting, and he came to show her his new car. The new H-reg car had just been released.”

“What kind of car?” asked Kate.

“A Rover, blue.”

“Did you see him?”

“Yes, but he was inside the car, and it was dark out front and he was under streetlights. He had slicked-back black hair, strong features; he had a broad smile and very white teeth, cos I remember him poking his head out of the window and smiling when he kissed her.”

“And what happened?”

“Caitlyn got in the car, said goodbye, and they drove off.”

“Was this out of character for Caitlyn?”

“Yes. But she was sixteen, and we were all going on dates with guys. Both me and Wendy did the older guy thing. A car was a place to make out with them . . . and there was nothing in the press about any weirdos going around and killing young women. We just thought she was really lucky, and she came to school the next day, no problems.”

Tristan took a printout from his notebook and gave it to Kate. It was Peter Conway’s police ID card photo. Kate held it up to the screen.

“I can email this, too, but do you think this could have been the guy? This was taken in 1993.”

Megan tilted her head and stared at it.

“I’ve seen the photo before, and it could have been him, but it was a long time ago . . . His face was in shadow.”





21

Enid Conway lived in a small end-of-terrace house in a run-down street in East London. It was a desperate place, with a row of filthy front gardens filled with rubbish, old cars and fridges, dog shit, and broken glass.

It was where Peter had grown up, and then Peter had bought it for her when he’d returned from Manchester to work in London in 1991.

In 2000, Enid had written a tell-all book called No Son of Mine. She’d been paid a considerable advance, and a ghostwriter had been dispatched to the house to interview her. One of the questions he’d asked was if she was going to move house, now that she could afford something better.

“I wouldn’t last five minutes in middle-class suburbia,” she’d said. “People respect me in this street. You see all sorts, day and night, but you keep out of other people’s business, and you never talk to the police.”

She thought of this conversation when she opened the front door to the red-haired Fan, as she called him. She didn’t know his name.

“Did anyone see you?”

“No one important,” he said. She didn’t fear anyone, but he made her uneasy. He looked to be later twenties and was a tall, broad, muscular man. His red hair was buzz-cut to a couple of inches in length, and he had strange features. It was as if baking soda had been added in the womb. His skin was smooth, but his face was puffy with oversize, rubbery lips and fleshy, hooded eyes, and his nose had a bulbous quality. He wasn’t unattractive, though, and he dressed well in leather shoes, sharp neutral jeans, shirt, and jacket and always smelled freshly showered.

They came through to her kitchen, which was modern with glass and steel and expensive appliances.

“The photos are there,” she said, indicating an envelope on the counter. “You want tea?”