Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(41)

“No.”

He didn’t take off his coat or sit. Enid lit a cigarette and watched him as he took out the four passport-size photos. There were two of her that she’d taken earlier that day at a machine in the train station. And there were two of Peter.

“Is this a joke?” he said, holding them up.

“It’s the most recent I have. They were taken a week before he was arrested. People age, don’t they?” She figured that Peter didn’t look vastly different, but he now had long gray hair and a craggier face.

“The passports need six to eight years left before they expire. This. Won’t. Work,” he said, chucking the photos down on the counter.

“He’s a prisoner. There isn’t a passport photo machine in the bloody canteen!”

He turned to her and moved closer and held up a finger to her face. “Don’t speak to me like that, do you hear?”

She closed her eyes and opened them again, shaking her head. “What should I do?”

He went to the fridge and opened it, taking out a carton of milk. He unscrewed the lid and took a long drink. The milk mingled on his wet, rubbery lips, and a drop or two escaped from the corners of his mouth. He took a last swallow and replaced the carton. He then went to her roll of kitchen towels and tore off a square, folding it neatly before dabbing at his lips. He gave a long, deep belch.

“What kind of phone have you got?” he asked. She went to the Chanel bag, which was perched on the end of the counter. The gassy smell of his stomach acid made her feel queasy. She took out her phone, a Nokia, and held it up. He shook his head.

“That’s no good. You need to get the newest iPhone. It has a five-megapixel camera.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means it will take a high-quality photo. Will they let you take a photo of Peter when you next visit?”

“Yes. I took one before on my phone last year. They made me show them the photo . . .”

“Good. I’ll download it when I next see you,” he said. He reached into his pocket and took out two small brown envelopes, one thick and one thin. He slipped her passport photos inside the thin one, and he put the thick one on the counter. “Where is your toilet?”

He had never asked on any of his other visits.

“First door off the landing.”

When he had gone upstairs, Enid went to the thin envelope and opened it. She found her passport photo, along with one of him. She listened for a moment, hearing the floorboards creak in the bathroom upstairs. She switched on her phone and waited impatiently for it to boot up, then took a picture of his passport photo. The quality wasn’t great, but she needed some insurance. Leverage if things went wrong. In his passport photo, he stared straight ahead. Eyes cold. Those oversize lips wet and glistening.

Enid heard the sound of the toilet flush and floorboards creaking above and replaced the photo. She heard the creak of him walking out of the bathroom and across the landing, but he didn’t come back downstairs. He carried on into Peter’s old room. She hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He was lying in the darkness on Peter’s single bed, with its blue-and-green-striped woolen blanket. Enid switched on the small overhead light. There was a poster of David Bowie striking a pose as Ziggy Stardust on one wall, and a small shelf of sports trophies was above the bed. On a desk was a photo of Peter and Enid after his passing-out ceremony from Hendon Police College. He in his uniform, Enid in a blue dress and matching hat. Next to it was a collage of photos from Peter’s days living in Manchester: a photo of him sitting on his first squad car, a Fiat Panda. Another of him with Enid on the grass outside the flat he’d rented in Manchester. And another three taken with friends he’d had at that time.

“Was this Peter’s bedroom?” he asked, looking up at her from where he lay.

“Yes.”

“Is this where he slept?”

“Yes.”

“Why are there bars on the windows? Did you have discipline issues when he was growing up?”

“No. It’s to stop people getting in.”

“For many people this is a shrine,” he said. He sat up. “Come to me.” He put out his hand.

“Why?” she said. Her voice sharp.

“Why don’t you humor the man who is paying for your son’s freedom?”

In the lean years of her past, men had paid her for sex. Knocking on the door late at night, all shapes and sizes. She went to him and took his hand. There was something about him that repulsed her. He buried his face in her belly. Rubbing against her. Inhaling. He smoothed a hand over her crotch. Stroking.

“You made him. He grew in here,” he said, his voice cracking. Enid tried not to recoil. He kept smoothing and rubbing. It wasn’t sexual. He was worshipping her.

“Yes. He is my flesh. I am his . . . ,” she said. He finally pulled away, leaving a snail’s trail of drool on the front of her sweater. He held eye contact with her and then abruptly got up and left the room. She followed him back downstairs. He was staring at the passport photo she’d left on the kitchen counter.

“I needed to check mine. I thought I’d signed the back,” she said quickly. “Force of habit. If I’m going to have a new identity, I can’t have a photo with Enid Conway written on the back.”