Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(65)

So, in light of all this, why were the police there? Were they hoping to identify the killer because he looked like a “bad” man?

He’d walked right past DCI Campbell and her officers, and their eyes had moved over him, past him, searching, searching.

And then he’d joined the prayers among the crowd outside the church, keeping his head down as the news cameras filmed everyone. He was amazed how many people had prayed studiously outside and then ignored the vicar’s invitation to attend the evening service and surged back to the high street, where the shops and pubs had stayed open.

Perhaps it was only worth praying if people could see you on camera.

So many of them had gone across to the pub, including Layla’s parents.

He queued for a cheeseburger at one of the takeaway vans and was taking a large bite when he saw Kate Marshall with a tall, thin young lad. She wore a hat but was instantly recognizable, and he gulped down the mouthful of burger, a little starstruck. She was part of the history of the Nine Elms Cannibal. And here she was mingling in public.

He circled the crowd and moved a little closer. She was older than the photos he’d found online, and a little dumpy in her red winter coat, but he still thought she was attractive. She was edible. He bit into his burger and tried to imagine what it would be like to bite into the soft flesh on the backs of her thighs.

No, he could conjure it. The nasty flesh of the burger was now dry in his mouth . . . The young lad she was with seemed close to her. They didn’t look like they were an item. But she could be a dirty bitch. They might role-play. Would he go home with her and suck on her MILF titties?

Kate looked up, still talking to the boy, and she seemed to look right at him, but she didn’t see him. She looked through him, as part of the white noise of the crowd.

He pushed the last of the burger into his mouth, pretending to enjoy it, and he moved off into the crowd.





34

It was freezing cold by the time Tristan and Kate arrived back at the car. The line of parked cars had cleared, and theirs was the only one left under a row of trees, set back in the shadows from the streetlights.

Kate saw the note tucked under the right windscreen wiper, a square of thick cream paper. For a moment, she thought it might have been put there by a person from one of the houses on the street, but then she saw her name written in black ink. The handwriting looked the same as in the note Meredith had shown her. With a shaking hand, Kate slipped the paper out from under the wiper and unfolded it.

KATE, YOU LOOKED POSITIVELY EDIBLE TONIGHT IN YOUR RED COAT.

YOU WERE SO CLOSE.





A FAN




Kate’s head snapped up, and she looked along the street, but it was quiet, save for a man and woman walking with a small girl, and an older lady struggling with two bulging bags of shopping. She felt exposed, like she was being watched.

Tristan came around and took the letter from her shaking hand, reading it over. She gripped the side of the car, feeling faint, and he opened the door on the driver’s side.

“Sit down a second,” he said. Kate felt all the blood drain from her head. Cars rushed past on the road, their lights dazzling them. Tristan looked up and down the road.

He’s getting closer, he’s writing notes about Jake, and now he’s writing to me, thought Kate. She wasn’t afraid for her safety—what she feared was the power of this individual to disrupt her world. The safe, sane world she had so carefully tried to create in the aftermath of the first case. For the first time, she wished she hadn’t answered that email from Caitlyn’s father. She should have passed it on to the police. It had opened a door that she had stupidly stumbled through.

She looked up and saw that Tristan had flagged down a black car, and Varia Campbell was coming toward her car with John Mercy. Tristan handed the note to Varia. She read it with a concerned face and passed it to John, who instinctively started to look up and down the road. Cars were now streaming past on the road, and Tristan and the two officers were all huddled on the grass shoulder around Kate, who was sitting in her car.

“What time did you get here?” asked Varia, having to raise her voice above the traffic.

“Five minutes ago,” said Kate.

“No. What time did you arrive for the vigil?”

“We parked here just before six thirty,” said Tristan. Kate saw that John had the note, and it was now in a clear plastic evidence bag.

“Did you see anyone suspicious or anyone acting suspicious around you?” asked John.

“No,” said Tristan. “We walked the vigil. It was packed; people were quiet and just walking with candles.”

“Whoever left the note did so within the last three hours,” said Varia, looking up and down the road as more cars roared past. She pulled out her radio. “This is DCI Campbell. I’m still here at the vigil in Topsham. Pull all CCTV coverage available from Pulham Road and everything in the village up to the church between four p.m. and now.”

Varia came to the driver’s door and crouched down beside Kate. She took one of her shaking hands between hers.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re going into shock.”

Varia’s hands were warm, and she wore several beautiful silver rings on her slim fingers. Kate’s own hands were freezing cold, and she was trembling.

“He knows who I am. What I was wearing. He’s talking about my son,” said Kate. “He sent Peter Conway a picture of my son . . . You need to compare the writing with the letter he sent Peter and the other letters found at the crime scenes. It looks similar, but you need to check.”