Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(61)

“It’s not about that. I can meet you at Paddington station. There’s a fast train from Exeter.”

“I know there’s a bloody train.”

“Please, Kate. It’s important.”



Kate was up early the next morning. It took half an hour to get to Exeter’s Saint David’s train station, and she only just made the seven a.m. fast train to London Paddington. She managed to get a seat with a table, and she’d brought work with her, but she couldn’t concentrate. She kept checking her phone to see if Jake had texted back, but he didn’t. She arrived at Paddington just before nine a.m., and she found Meredith waiting for her at a table in the Starbucks at the train station.

She was a pleasant-faced woman in her early forties with long strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She carried a leather satchel and wore jeans, a red woolen jumper, and a short denim jacket. The laminated lanyard around her neck showed her ID and that she was a doctor.

“I took the liberty of getting you a cappuccino,” said Meredith. “Please sit.” She had a soothing voice, and Kate wondered if it was an affectation or if she spoke the same when she was at home, moaning at her husband to do the dishes. Half of the seats in the Starbucks were empty, but there was a huge queue of commuters waiting for takeaway. Kate was glad of the noise of the coffee machines and station announcements.

“You’ve made me very uneasy. I didn’t sleep well last night,” said Kate.

“I’m sorry, but I really wanted to speak face-to-face, and I figured you didn’t want to come to the hospital . . .”

Kate’s phone pinged, and she pulled it out but saw it was a text message from Tristan.

“Do you need to deal with that?”

“No,” said Kate, putting her phone back.

“My patients’ communications are kept private, but something addressed to Peter Conway was intercepted because it violates a no-contact order that you had put in place.” Meredith pulled a letter from her bag and put it on the table. It was a small brown envelope. It was addressed by hand, and in the top right-hand corner was written in thin black handwriting:





FROM A FAN




The sight of those words made Kate feel sick.

“Have you fingerprinted this?” she asked.

“No. Why would we fingerprint it?”

“What’s inside?” asked Kate. She opened it and took out a single sheet of paper. It was a printout of Jake’s Facebook page with his photo, and underneath was written, in the same handwriting:

I’m the only person who wants you to see how well he’s doing—he’ll soon be fifteen! Who knows, he might become a chip off the old block . . .





A FAN




“I know this is horrible and shocking, but remember that anyone can print this off and send it. Jake’s Facebook page is public. It’s not illegal to send it privately,” said Meredith. Her voice was irritatingly soothing.

Kate’s heart was thumping against her ribs and her hands shaking when she saw it was addressed from “A FAN.” She thought of Jake and his Facebook page, of how he’d defriended Glenda. She took out her phone and tried her mother, but her phone was off, and it went straight to voice mail.

“Mum, call me when you get this. It’s urgent,” she said. They were sitting by a huge window looking out into the station concourse. Opposite there was a luxury drinks store. A tower of Absolut Vodka bottles was displayed in the window, and two good-looking young men were standing outside the shop front with trays covered in tiny sample cups filled with the clear liquid.

“Kate? Kate?” said Meredith. Kate turned back to her. “Are you okay?”

Am I okay? thought Kate. You have a degree in psychology and you ask if I’m okay? You have no comprehension of how scared and angry I feel!

Kate took out her phone again and scrolled through until she found the photo she’d taken of the note at the Nine Elms Wrecker’s yard. She showed it to Meredith and told her the whole story of the dead girls and the notes being left. Meredith sat back when Kate was finished.

“Talk to me, Kate. You shouldn’t bottle up how you feel.”

Kate resisted the urge to grab Meredith by the back of her neck and slam her face into the table.

“Is this the first note that’s been sent to Peter that is signed in this way, from a Fan?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“No. He gets so much mail from all over the place, and many of them profess to be his fan.”

“No, I mean, this specific way of signing: ‘A Fan’?”

“I’m unable to discuss contents of his private mail . . .”

“Jesus Christ. You call me all the way here, show me this letter, and then tell me you can’t discuss it!” said Kate, banging her fist on the table.

“Kate. I need you to calm down.”

“You’re a psychiatrist. Does telling someone who is upset to calm down ever work?”

“Kate, I’m on your side. You know all Peter’s communication is monitored. Everything that comes in, apart from privileged communication from his legal team, is checked. You should know this as a former police officer.”

“Detective constable,” said Kate. She paused and took a deep breath. “Please look at the handwriting on this paper and on the letters left at the crime scenes. It looks like the same hand.”