Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(62)

Meredith glanced at them.

“I don’t know. It does, but I’m not a graphologist. I will of course now share this with the police. You have to understand, Peter gets a great deal of strange mail.”

“Have the police been in contact and asked to see his mail? Just a yes-or-no answer?”

“Yes, but we get regular requests from them. Once or twice a year, and they don’t have to share with us the reason why they want to see them.”

“So there is a chance that this person is communicating with Peter?”

“No.”

“Does he receive many visitors?”

“Kate . . .”

“For God’s sake, Meredith! My son is high risk. I have a court injunction out that Peter cannot communicate with him. And there is someone sending this fucked-up shit! You have a son, don’t you? Why can’t you show me as much compassion as you show all your convicted pedophiles and murderers?”

Despite her calm demeanor, Meredith gritted her teeth and smoothed down her hair.

“Peter has very few phone calls. All are monitored and recorded, and very few people visit him. He meets with a priest, who he got to know through writing letters. They meet once every six weeks, and there’s glass between them when they meet. If and when his solicitor visits, it’s the same, behind glass.”

“Is Peter still violent?”

“Kate, I’m telling you more than I should. I can’t comment on his mental state . . . The only person he meets face-to-face is Enid. They meet twice a week. Visits are monitored very closely, and they are both searched before and after.”

“Have they talked about this case, about the dead girls’ bodies recently found?”

“No.”

“When did he last see his solicitor?” asked Kate.

“Last week, and their visit was privileged. Do you know who represents him? Terrence Lane is a respected human rights lawyer. He wouldn’t risk his career. And for what? Peter has a few hundred pounds in savings . . . Now this is all confidential.”

“Look at this note again. It’s like he’s picking up on a conversation. He doesn’t introduce himself . . .” Kate rubbed at her face. “I have to go . . .” She got up abruptly and took a photo of the note with her phone.

“Is there anything else I can do?” asked Meredith. “I will be sending this to the police.”

“Will you search Peter Conway again, really search him? Turn his cell over. Search everyone who comes into contact with him. Staff included.”

“My patients have legal rights, and . . . ,” started Meredith, her tones almost aggressively soothing.

“I just hope you never find yourself on the wrong side of a crazed psychopath,” said Kate. “If you spent some time in my shoes, you’d feel differently about their human bloody rights!” Kate picked up her bag and walked out of the Starbucks.

She hurried to the nearest toilets in the station, which were under the concourse. They were empty, and she locked herself in a cubicle. She let herself cry, and the release felt good. A moment later, she heard the sound of a cleaner’s bucket on wheels and then a knock on the door.

“What are you doing in there?” said a sharp voice.

“Nothing. Go away,” said Kate, catching her breath. Determined not to let her emotions betray her voice.

There was a pause, and the bucket rumbled on. Kate wiped her eyes and pulled out her phone. She had no signal. She took some deep breaths, then came out of the cubicle and back up into the station. She tried to call her mother, Jake, her father, and even her brother, but none of them were answering. She called Jake’s school and was told by a rather pious-sounding secretary that Jake was busy in classes.

Kate found she’d wandered down the concourse, and she was now close to the luxury wine and spirits store. The bottles stacked high in the windows glowed with a soft, welcoming light, and the two young men outside offering samples were tall, dark, and beautiful.

“Care to try Absolut Elyx?” one of the young men asked, moving over to her with a tray covered in little plastic sample cups. The clear liquid shimmered. Kate took one. “It’s copper pot distilled and very smooth,” he added with a smile. He was perfect. Smooth skin and floppy dark hair. The little plastic glass felt cold in her hand. The vodka was chilled, and it was such a small amount. Just a sip. A man and woman, both smart and well dressed, took a sample each and knocked them back.

“Very good,” said the man. The woman nodded in agreement, and they placed their empty sample cups back on the tray and carried on walking down the platform.

Kate moved away from them all, toward a quiet place in the station where a van was parked next to a line of tall pillars. It was a dark-red Royal Mail van. Kate’s whole focus became on that tiny glass, still cold in her hand, and the smell, the cool, sharp smell of really smooth vodka.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion as she turned back and saw the two beautiful young men, standing together with trays laden. She could easily have more.

Kate went to lift the cup to her lips, and as she did, she didn’t see the man with the box of parcels. He crashed into her arm, and the little cup was knocked from her grip and fell on the concourse, the vodka making the smallest spatter on the tile floor.

“Mind out!” he said, moving around her. Kate came to her senses.