Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(74)

“Carry on living his life and risk getting hit by a bus before anyone catches him,” said Tristan.

Kate sat down.

“That’s depressing. I want us to look at everything again. All the people involved, there must be a link. How is this guy finding the girls? Why has he chosen to copy all these killings around this area and not in London like Peter did?”

“CCTV? Back in 1995 there wasn’t as much CCTV coverage in London. He could probably move around a lot easier without the risk. I’ve never been to London, but I read that there is CCTV everywhere, and there’s that system of cameras that runs the London Congestion Charge . . .”

Kate nodded. “You’re right. Every car coming in and out of London is photographed and its number plate logged. In comparison, Devon and Cornwall is still very rugged, and it’s easier to get lost on the moors and in the surrounding towns. I told you that Varia wasn’t able to pull any CCTV the other night from Topsham.”

“Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s hitting the part of the country you moved to?” said Tristan. “Have you thought of that?”

“Yes. I have, and it terrifies me.”

They were both quiet for a moment.

“I can get in contact with the ghostwriter,” said Tristan. “If he’s willing to talk, do you want to do it over the phone or face-to-face?”

“I’d like to meet him face-to-face,” she said. Kate took a sip of her coffee and looked out of the window. Tristan’s words went through her head again.

Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s hitting the part of the country you moved to?





42

Peter paced his room, impatient. He was desperate to get the next note from his mother. When the knock on the door came, he hurried to the hatch.

“Morning, Peter, I’m here to take you to visit with your mother,” said Winston. He said the same thing every time in a slightly monotone voice. “I’ll pass through your hood, if you could place it on your head, buckle it up, then back up to the hatch . . .”

“Yes, we’ve done it a million times. Just get on with it,” said Peter.

Winston pushed the spit hood through the hatch, and Peter grabbed it and slipped it over his head. The mesh felt cold against his skin, and he could smell his sweat and the acidic tang of his dry saliva. When the straps were done up, he backed up to the hatch and put his hands through, and Winston cuffed him.

Winston’s radio beeped, and he was given the go-ahead to open Peter’s door and take him to the lift.



Enid waited for Peter in the usual meeting room with the green walls and the screwed-down furniture; she drummed her fingers on the bare table, and the bag of sweets was at her feet. She checked her watch. Peter was two minutes late. She shifted in her seat, uneasy. Things at Great Barwell ran with an almost military precision, to the minute. Where was he? She looked up at the security cameras in the four corners of the room.

What’s your game? she thought. Are you onto us?

Enid sat back and crossed her arms, feigning relaxation. But inside her stomach was churning.



The surveillance room at Great Barwell Hospital could rival the CCTV control center in any of the London underground stations. The back wall was covered in a vast screen where the view from every camera, of which there were 167, was displayed in a checkerboard of images; every corridor, doorway, and therapy and interview room was monitored, along with the exercise yards, the visitors’ center, and every major entrance and exit. Six officers were on duty at any one time, and they each worked in front of a smaller screen and were assigned to a different sector of the hospital.

They could communicate with every member of staff on duty via a radio link, and from the CCTV center, they could remotely open and close doors the second there was any kind of trouble.

Ken Werner was the duty manager that day. He sat at the desk nearest the door. He was a veteran of the hospital and had been a member of the staff since the early days, when there was no CCTV and you kept your wits about you. He was surprised when the intercom rang on the entrance door. He switched to the camera outside and saw Dr. Meredith Baxter peer up and wave.

“Morning, doctor,” he said, buzzing her in.

“Hello, Ken. Have you got a minute?” she asked, coming to stand by his desk. She was always fragrant and softly dressed in pastel colors and woolen jumpers. Her hair smelled good too. Whenever he saw her, it made him think how much Great Barwell had changed from his early days as an orderly. Back then it was a brutal asylum, where the staff all wore starched whites. The patients were called prisoners, and you could give them a good kicking if they got out of line, which, Ken thought privately, often worked better than hours of expensive therapy.

“What can I do you for?” he asked.

Meredith flashed him a professional smile. “Can you pull up the video feed for visitors’ room one in G wing? On the big screen if possible, please?”

“No problemo . . .” He tapped at his keyboard, and an image of Enid waiting for her visit with Peter appeared on the huge screen.

“Thank you,” she said. She went close to the screen and peered at the image for a moment, tilting her head. On the screen, Enid crossed her legs and shifted in the chair, checking her watch.

Ken looked down at the row of images in front of him. He could see two patients on their way to a group therapy session. Another emerging from the bathroom on his corridor, flanked by an orderly.