Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(42)

He nodded and tucked it back in the envelope. He put it in his pocket and touched his fingers to the thick envelope. “Instructions for you. And another letter from me to Peter.”

He took a roll of cash from his pocket and placed it beside the envelope.

“Do you drink?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She took down two whisky glasses from the cupboard and filled them with two fingers of Chivas. She slid one across the counter and took out a pack of cigarettes, offering him one. He shook his head. She tapped one out and lit up.

“What’s in it for you? Breaking Peter out?”

“I love chaos,” he said with a grin, taking a sip, the whisky shining on his big lips.

“That’s not an answer,” she said, tipping her head back to exhale the smoke. He watched it float up to where it spread across the yellow ceiling. “I have a decent life here. I don’t want for many things, but Peter. If I leave here, I can’t come back. Now tell me, what’s in it for you?”

“I’m subverting my father’s expectations.” He smiled.

“Who’s your father?”

He waggled a finger at her.

“No, no, no. That would give the game away . . .” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to her.

Enid unfolded it and saw it was a printout of a Facebook profile of a young boy with dark hair.

“Who’s this?”

“Can’t you see the name? Jake Marshall. He’s your grandson.”

“He’s a handsome boy, like his father. But he’s no use to me right now,” she said, handing back the piece of paper.

“Won’t you miss him? When we leave?”

“You can’t miss what you don’t know.” She looked back at the photo, tilting her head. She could see Peter in there, among his features.

“Has Peter seen this?”

“No. I don’t want him to. There is no chance he can find it himself. He hasn’t got internet access,” she said.

He downed the whisky and got up. “Read what’s in the envelope, and get me those photos. I’ll be back next week.”

“I don’t want this,” she said, giving him back the printout.

Enid walked around her house after he had left. She had been born a prisoner of her class and her circumstances. She’d taken the cards she’d been dealt at birth and done the best that she could. Fighting. Always having to fight for everything in life.

Now there was the prospect of leaving and starting as a new person in another country. She wanted it just to be her and Peter. The world was better when it was just the two of them. She didn’t want to know about the boy. She had no doubt he’d been brought up thinking Peter was a monster, but they’d probably told him worse about Enid. The boy could poison him. Enid never got scared, but she felt the fear now. It was a dirty emotion.

She went back to the kitchen and poured herself another whisky.





22

Kate didn’t sleep much that night, after the call with Megan. She kept thinking of the policeman who had picked Caitlyn up outside the youth club, his face bathed in the shadow of his car. Could it have been Peter?

Kate thought to the two nights she’d spent with Peter, back in 1995. The first night when they came back to her place, after the night out in the pub. She had found him so magnetic and sexy and couldn’t resist him. She had tried for so many years to separate the feelings from that night. His firm, muscular body, the rich smell of his hair and skin. His strength as he had scooped her up and placed her on her bed and undressed her. He had been passionate and tender, and while it made her skin crawl that she’d been so intimate with someone who did things so sick and vile, those memories were there. They couldn’t be changed. It also made her feel closer to Caitlyn. Had she felt caught up in Peter Conway’s facade? Had she found him desirable when she climbed into that car and it sped away? Where had they gone, and what had they done?

Kate never thought of herself as a victim, but just like Caitlyn she’d been duped by his mask of normality.

The photo she’d shown Megan was lying downstairs on the breakfast bar. It was inside her notebook, but as she lay in bed, her mind kept playing tricks on her. She imagined the notebook lying there in the darkness and then slowly standing up by itself, the pages flicking through and then stopping at the photo of Peter. His eyes opened, and he started to look around, eyes darting from within the still image of his face. Then his mouth started to twitch, and the lips peeled back to reveal his teeth, so straight and white, and he shouted, “Kate!”

Kate woke up sweating, her heart thumping against her chest. The room was dark, and it was 2:11 a.m. by the clock on her bedside table.

She threw back the bedcovers and went downstairs, flicking on all the lights and making a lot of noise on the stairs. The living room was still and empty. The notebook lay closed on the breakfast bar—of course it did—but she still took out the photo of Peter and put it in her shredder, enjoying the whirring sound as the machine did its work. Only then did she go back upstairs and fall asleep.



The next morning, Kate and Tristan drove to Bristol, where they met Vicky O’Grady for lunch at the Mall at Cribbs Causeway. They were half an hour early and found the fancy Italian restaurant Vicky had suggested.