Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(69)

“Are you threatening to leave?” asked Laurence.

“No. But I am telling you, Laurence, to get off my back and leave my staff alone. I do a good job, and so does Tristan. Now almost all my colleagues have second jobs and do research projects.”

“You listen to me, Kate—”

“No. You listen to me. I’d hate to have to make an official complaint about you harassing me. I’m sure the newspapers would love another juicy story. I’m pretty newsworthy right now.”

Laurence had gone very pale.

“Now come on, Kate, there’s no reason to be like that. I just came to have a friendly word, off the record.”

“There’s always a record,” said Kate. “Oh, and Tristan’s probationary period ends today. If you could get HR to email him with the good news by the end of the day, that would be great.”

Laurence threw the newspaper into the wastepaper basket, went to the door, and pushed at the handle. It wouldn’t budge, and he got more annoyed and pushed against it.

“It opens inward,” said Kate. Laurence was now red in the face, and he yanked the door open and slammed it behind him.

Kate hoped she hadn’t overstepped the mark, but if the past few years had taught her anything, it was that you had to stick up for yourself. She’d much rather be admired than liked.

There was another knock at the door, and Tristan came in. He was holding up his phone.

“Kate, it’s all over the news,” he said. “They’ve just arrested a man in connection with the three copycat murders. The police have taken him into custody.”

He came to Kate’s desk and showed her the footage of a man, with a coat over his head, handcuffed and being bundled up the steps into the Exeter police station. He was surrounded by press and members of the public screaming abuse.

“When was this posted on BBC News?” asked Kate, frustrated that his face was hidden.

“Posted an hour ago. If we go down to the café, there might be an update on the news. It’s five to twelve,” said Tristan.

Kate grabbed her bag, and they hurried out of the office.





37

A hundred and ninety miles away from Ashdean, the Bishop’s Arms pub sat overlooking the Chiltern Hills. It was an ancient thatched building that had been gutted and was now a Michelin-starred gastropub. It sat in one of the most wealthy and affluent pockets of the English countryside, and the Bishop’s Arms was the place to be seen.

On this Monday lunchtime, the car park out front was full, and a row of helicopters had parked on the lawn out back, next to a custom-built helipad.

The red-haired Fan of Peter Conway looked around at the busy bar.

Braying fools, he thought. The men, young and confident, were boorishly shouting over each other, already drunk and flushed in the face. The women were huddled in groups, better behaved and all well turned out and beady eyed.

He had been coming to the Bishop’s Arms for several years, first with his parents, until they retired to live in Spain, and now with his brother.

His brother was fickle and lovable and had tried for years to pursue a career in the music industry, but he was constantly sidetracked by the drugs and partying.

He thought of Emma Newman, and a memory came back to him of her lying naked on her front, her hands tied behind her back, feet bound and pulled up to meet them, and masking tape over her mouth. Her skin had been soft and creamy to the touch, but the taste had been spoiled by the drugs that leaked through her pores.

The television mounted on the wall caught his eye, and he watched in fascination as the news report played out. A man had been arrested for the three murders. His three murders. He felt panic. The man hadn’t been identified. He’d been led into the station with his face covered.

What if this idiot was charged and took the credit before his work was done—before the big reveal?

He looked over at the woman he’d brought as his lunchtime date: India Dalton. She was pretty enough. They’d been introduced, via email, by his sister. India’s father owned a luxury travel agency and was a little too nouveau riche for this crowd, but her good looks more than made up for it.

India was talking animatedly with Fizzy Martlesham, a severe-looking woman with her hair scraped back from her large forehead. The Martlesham family owned vast amounts of farmland around Oxfordshire and were a major supplier of the strawberries consumed at Wimbledon.

He looked back at the screen, downed the rest of his pint, picked up his jacket, and went over to them.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you ladies.” He smiled, taking India by the arm. “But something urgent has come up. You’ll have to excuse us.”

“What about lunch?” asked India. “I so want to try the turmeric-and-raspberry sorbet.”

“Another time. I can drop you back at the heliport, and we’ll reschedule.”

“Shame you have to fly off, quite literally,” said Fizzy, leaning in for an air kiss.

“Please relay my apologies to my brother. He seems to have vanished.”

“Yes. Of course. I saw him heading to the bathroom a little while ago. Oh, and India wants a selfie in front of your helicopter, for her social media account,” said Fizzy with a spiteful glee.

They left the pub, crossing the wet grass to the helipad.

“Could I get a photo, before we take off?” asked India, picking her way carefully in her sandals. She had his leather jacket draped over her thin shoulders.