Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(71)

She typed on her computer and clicked the mouse a few times and swiveled round the screen. “You can see that the road where you parked is covered with a tunnel of trees—even without leaves we’d have trouble getting a clear image. The CCTV we have got from the vigil is difficult to view; because of the limited visibility with it being dark and the hundreds of candles, it screws with the image. And almost everyone there wore woolly hats and had their heads down out of respect. The few cameras we have footage from are set at a high angle looking down, and we can’t see faces.”

“Okay.”

“I’m also in contact with Dr. Baxter. She is sending me all of the correspondence coming in and out of Great Barwell to Peter Conway: letters from members of the public, transcripts of phone conversations with his mother . . .” She rubbed at her face. “I’m trying my best to stay positive, but there are no witnesses to any of the abductions. It’s as if he took them and vanished into thin air . . . I’ve had all the male police officers and support workers in the borough submit to a DNA test. That’s not a decision I’ve taken lightly.”

“I know how horrible that must have been,” said Kate.

“So when you come to my station and act like I’m slacking off—”

“You’re not,” finished Kate.

“Handwriting analysis shows all the notes match: the three left at the crime scenes, the picture of Jake sent to Peter Conway, and the note left on your car. I was about to call you and say that we’ll be continuing with a police presence for you and Jake, reviewed every few days depending on the progress of the case.”

“What about Enid Conway’s autobiography?”

“I’ve already told you I don’t have the resources to police the tourist hot spots of Devon and Cornwall. I’ve asked officers to be vigilant on their beat patrols, and I’ve flagged the areas. Now, I’ve been candid with you. I ask that you share any information with me, if and when you have it.”

“Yes,” said Kate.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a killer to catch.”





39

The red-haired Fan sat in the darkness on the terrace of his London apartment. The air was crisp and the sky clear. He could see out across Regent’s Park to where the city twinkled and shimmered against the dark sky. All his own lights were out, and he sat in the shadows.

His family’s wealth was vast. His father was a retired barrister, and his mother came from money. She was the heir to a vast European shipping firm. Thanks to his parents, he had use of vehicles and warehouse space. He also had an apartment in central London and a house in the country.

He loved London. It was a vast melting pot. It was loud and vibrant, and people didn’t watch you too closely; they were too busy and self-absorbed in their own lives and problems. It was the perfect location to hide out and make his plans.

His apartment was on the top floor of a grand pillared terrace. His family owned the building, and he and his three siblings had been “gifted” an apartment each for their twenty-first birthdays. His two sisters were married with lives of their own—both now lived in New York and let out their apartments. His brother, in a fit of independence, had borrowed against his apartment and then, unable to pay the mortgage, had lost it to the bank.

It was now late, and the planes had stopped flying. There was just the sound of a far-off police siren and very faint classical music. It was peaceful. He would miss it.

He came back inside and went to his office. It was a wood-paneled room with heavy leather furniture, but the wood panels were obscured, and every spare inch of the wall was covered in a collage of newspaper clippings, photos, and printouts.

He took a moment to walk the room, something he never tired of. Every article that had ever been written about the Nine Elms Cannibal case was pasted to the walls, from the first few headlines about the corpses of the dead girls, through to the articles about the hunt for the Nine Elms Cannibal, and then the stories about Peter Conway, star cop, unmasked as a killer, and his beautiful sidekick, Kate Marshall.

He reached out and touched the photos of Peter and Kate and the photos of the dead girls—Peter Conway’s four victims—and then the photos of Kate’s flat, when she’d almost become his fifth victim. He had known about the case since he was a young boy and had seen the stuff in the press, and for many years it was a hot topic of conversation in the family.

His mother and father and his siblings were united in one thing: the belief that Peter Conway was an evil killer who deserved to be locked up. But he’d always felt he was different—he had violent urges and dark thoughts, and he felt that he would never be able to live a normal life. For many years he’d sympathized in secret with Conway, felt kinship with him. It was only in his adult years, when his parents retired to Spain and his siblings scattered to the wind, that he was able to think for himself. His obsession started to develop. He became a true Fan.

He went to his desk, where he’d brought in a copy of the News of the World. He cut out the latest article, a piece about his copycat murders. The photo they’d used thrilled him. It was three circular images connected by arrows: at the top was Peter Conway, next was Kate Marshall, and the third circle was empty with a huge question mark. It contained the words WHO IS THE COPYCAT?

“Me, me, me, me!” he chanted as he carefully cut out the article and applied glue to the back, and then he moved to the wood paneling and pasted it on, smoothing it down so it stuck like wallpaper.