Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(54)

The next morning, Kate was working her way back to the shore after her swim when she saw Tristan coming down the dunes.

“Morning!” he shouted, holding up a large white paper bag. “I have breakfast.”

When she came out of the water, he averted his eyes and held the robe, which she’d left on the sand with her towel, for her. “You hungry?” he asked when she had it on.

“Starving,” she said, tying the robe and rubbing at her wet hair with the towel. They came up the dunes and into the house, and she put the kettle on. Tristan had brought two huge white rolls filled with fried egg and bacon. They didn’t wait for the tea, and they tucked in.

“God, that’s good,” said Kate through a mouthful. The roll was soft, and there was melted butter, slightly soft egg yolk, not too runny, and crispy bacon. “Where did you get them?”

“A transport café off the high street in town.”

They wolfed them down, and then Kate poured the tea.

“Thank you. That hit the spot,” she said, putting strong, steaming cups in front of them. “You feeling better today?” He nodded awkwardly, taking a gulp of tea. “Good. Take a look at this.”

She slid the copy of No Son of Mine across the breakfast bar. He looked at the cover and then opened it.

“Jeez. That has to be the gnarliest dedication I’ve ever read,” he said.

“The note written on the Jamaica Inn postcard last night rang a bell. Enid and Peter went on holiday to Devon when he was little in the summer of 1965. And in the book, she lists the places they visited. I’ve marked the pages with Post-its.”

Tristan flicked to the first. Kate went on, “They drove from London in a very old Ford Anglia car whose fan belt broke one hot day. They were stuck in the middle of nowhere, and they happened upon the Nine Elms Wrecker’s yard. Enid chatted up the man who was working there at the time. He gave them an old fan belt from one of the wrecks and helped them on their way . . .” Kate leaned across and flicked the pages. “Next, they went for a picnic to Hunter’s Tor. They sat on the riverbank, and they ate potted meat sandwiches. Look.” She pointed at a picture of a young Peter on a picnic rug next to the river, which was sparkling in the sunlight. She turned the pages again and indicated another photo. “Then we have Peter on Higher Tor, pushing his postcard into the letter box.”

“Jesus. How many other places does she mention?”

“Cotehele House, which is quite a posh National Trust place to go. Enid went in to get Peter a drink in their tearoom, and they were ignored. People refused to serve them. They visited kistvaens, which are medieval tombs, and Castle Drogo, which has huge grounds and is close to the edge of Dartmoor. They stayed the night at a B and B at a farm in Launceston. This was the day before they were due to go home. Enid overheard the farmer’s wife calling them ‘scum,’ so she stole one of their chickens. She describes how they smuggled it into the back of the car just before they left.”

“If the killer is working from this book, then he’s not really a copycat?” said Tristan. “It’s more of an homage or a reboot of Peter Conway’s crimes . . . What are you going to do with this information?”

“I sent an email to Varia Campbell, and I shared this all with her. She got right back to me.”

“What time?”

“Four in the morning. She said it’s an interesting theory, but she doesn’t have the manpower to deploy officers to all of these locations. They’re dotted around five hundred square miles of countryside, so I understand what she said about the manpower.”

Tristan drank the last of his tea. “But that’s crazy. You’ve given her a motive for the killer. A blueprint of where he could strike next.”

“And she’ll pursue it, I’m sure, but who knows what else the police are doing?” said Kate.

“What about Malcolm and Sheila Murray?” asked Tristan.

“I’ve left another message with the neighbor, but she hasn’t got back to me. Listen, what did you think of what Alan said last night, about doing this properly, as private investigators?”

“I think it’s exciting. Reading through the cold-case stuff I’ve been preparing for your lectures has been so interesting. This is a step up from that, but something we’d have to do on the side, yeah?” asked Tristan.

Kate nodded. She could see he was worried about money and remembered him saying that he’d been unemployed for a long time before he got this job, and while their investigations into Caitlyn’s disappearance were stimulating and exciting, they weren’t going to make them rich.

“Reading week is coming up, and we could use some time there, but there could be times when we need to work outside hours. And I’d like to make it official in that I’ll pay you for any overtime you do, outside of being my assistant,” she said.

“Okay,” said Tristan. He put out his hand, and they shook on it. Kate suddenly felt daunted again. By making things official it was now more than just an interesting hobby or sideline.

“We’ve already been looking at what happened to Caitlyn,” she said. “At one stage I thought Malcolm and Sheila were just clutching at straws and that it was Peter Conway who killed her, and I know we’ve hit a wall, but there’s still something that’s bothering me. Paul Adler and Victoria O’Grady.”