Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(64)

“Absolutely,” said Winston. “But I’d like to add for the record that I have a loyal, honest team, with strong players. We have to be. I can confidently say that there is no one working for a prisoner, delivering messages or contraband.”

Meredith looked at Winston. He was staking a lot, saying so.

“That’s noted. Please—I want the search done now. Close down all areas. No one leaves until it’s done.”





33

Kate and Tristan arrived in Topsham at half past six that evening and parked in a residential street on the outskirts of the village. They each had a small lantern and some tea lights and matches, and they stashed them in Tristan’s rucksack and set off down toward the main street in the village. She had pushed the events of the morning to the back of her mind. She had attended the AA meeting alone and sat at the back. Half listening, but her mind was on the case. Kate knew she had to talk to Myra, but she didn’t want to miss the opportunity to join the vigil and glean new information.

As they got closer to the main street, they joined crowds of people, and the BBC and ITV regional news had their vans parked up in the market square. There was an energy in the air, and Kate couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as if people who didn’t have a voice usually suddenly had one. Topsham seemed a well-heeled area to live in, and the village was full of traditional shops, enjoying a resurgence: a cheese shop, butcher, and baker sat next to the usual high street banks and a post office. The high street was closed to traffic, and there was a police presence, with a small police van and six uniformed officers milling around.

Kate and Tristan were glad they wore woolly hats and gloves, as the air was sharp and it grew colder as the sky faded from blue to black and the streetlights flicked on.

The vigil was due to start at the bottom of the high street and go all the way to the church.

“All of these shops are supposed to close at five thirty or six,” said Tristan as they passed the butcher and the baker.

“Staying open for the crowds,” said Kate. “I can’t imagine that any friends or family will stick around afterward, even if they do come to it.” Now that they were here, she thought it seemed unlikely they would get the chance to talk to anyone, and if they did, it wouldn’t be appropriate to start grilling people about their alibis.

At the start of the high street, a man and a woman were being interviewed by the local news crew, who were jostling for space in the center of the gathering crowd. They were both well dressed with a haunted, sad look, and they were flanked on either side by a young boy and girl.

Their winter coats were all open, and they wore T-shirts with DID YOU SEE LAYLA? CALL 0845 951 237, and printed underneath was a photo of Layla smiling into the camera.

“We want to pay our respects to our daughter and to keep the investigation alive,” said Layla’s father. He was handsome and in control of his emotions. “We appeal to anyone with information to contact the police at this number.”

Layla’s mother clung to him, unable to speak. Layla’s brother and sister were equally mute and looked to still be in shock. Kate felt a nudge in her ribs, and Tristan tilted his head. Farther up the road, DCI Varia Campbell and DI John Mercy stood to one side with three uniformed police officers. They stood out because they weren’t lighting candles and were scanning the crowd.

“Let’s keep out of their way,” said Kate as she retreated behind a tall man and his wife. Tristan pulled down his woolly hat over his eyebrows. The crowds were starting to gather behind Layla’s parents, brother and sister, and some other friends and relations who were wearing the Layla T-shirts, and had linked arms to form a line.

Kate cupped her hands around Tristan’s lantern as he lit a tea light, and then he helped light hers. The procession started off slowly up the hill. It had swollen to several hundred people, all quiet and rugged up against the cold. As they passed Varia, she noticed Kate and looked a little surprised, but her attention was taken by one of the uniformed officers, who leaned over to talk to her.

It took half an hour to slowly walk back into the village. The roads were closed, and everyone was silent. The candles were undeniably beautiful. Hundreds of golden lights.

When they reached the church, the vicar met the crowd at the gates and led everyone in prayer, speaking over a megaphone.

Then a girl from Layla’s class at school sang “Amazing Grace,” unaccompanied. It was a haunting moment. Kate scanned the crowds. Everyone looked somber—men and women of all ages, and there was a group of schoolchildren who appeared, all wearing the Layla T-shirts.



The red-haired man. Peter Conway’s “biggest fan” had walked the vigil very close to Layla’s family wearing their T-shirts. It had given him a kick to be among the crowds of mourners in the market square and be so close, so close as to almost smell their tears. The cold weather had given him confidence to attend. Everyone was wearing heavy coats, woolly hats, and scarves over their mouths. It was easy to blend in.

He’d seen the police officers scanning the crowd so intently. Their vigilance had a sense of theatricality. They didn’t really believe that the killer would show up. And they had nothing to go on. He had been so careful. He’d used different vans with fake number plates to abduct the girls. He’d avoided CCTV. No one had seen him—well, no one that mattered. If they had any kind of composite sketch, they would have released it to the public.