Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(91)

“Oh my God.” Tristan smiled as they slowed and walked back to the car.

“That was so close,” said Kate. They kept looking behind them as they speed walked back to the car, but no one was following.

Kate got the car door open and got in, followed by Tristan. She started the engine, and they pulled away.

She looked over at Tristan, who was clutching the bag with the photo packets.

“What do you think they were doing there so late?” he said.

Kate raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure they weren’t there to count aspirin.”

“Have we crossed a line here, stealing?” he said, looking at her, visibly shaken.

“No. No. Those photos don’t look innocent,” she said.

“What if Caitlyn’s not in any of them?”

“Let’s just breathe and take a moment,” said Kate, her nerves still jangling.

It had been a risky move, and they had almost got caught. Kate waited until they were on the motorway home before she took off her baseball cap.

She hoped they would glean something from the photos.





54

Tristan fell asleep when they were on the motorway, and Kate drank in the peace and silence as she drove. It felt like this was the first time she was able to process everything that had happened over the past few days: Jake’s photo sent by “the Fan” to Peter Conway, the second note left on her car after the vigil. And then meeting Gary Dolman again and him making the link between Peter Conway and Paul Adler. And among all this, she had almost fallen off the wagon and drunk.

She didn’t know if she should feel fear or triumph, having survived the past few days. She felt so much guilt. Guilt that she wasn’t able to protect Jake, guilt that she would now have to rush around and ready the house for his stay at the last minute, guilt that she had put Tristan in a dangerous situation.

Kate wondered if men felt guilt so acutely. They never had to feel guilty for being absent fathers. Paul Adler had his photo collection, and it seemed he was sleeping with at least one of the young girls in his employ. Didn’t he feel guilt that he had a wife at home? She looked over at Tristan, sleeping slumped with his head over the bag of photos. How was he able to just switch off and sleep after everything that had happened? Her nerves were still jangling, and her head was crowded with thoughts, all wanting to be heard.

The road ahead stretched out dark and empty. The only spot of light on the horizon was Jake. He was coming to visit for four days. Four days without Skype calls and having to make the time count. They would have so much time to talk and catch up and have fun.

They arrived back in Ashdean just after midnight. The adrenaline had left Kate’s body, and she was very tired. It was a relief to finally see the twinkling lights along the beach.

Tristan was still asleep when she arrived outside his flat on the seafront. She leaned over and gently shook his shoulder.

“Hey, we’re here,” she said.

He opened his eyes and looked around blearily and then down at the bag of photos. “I didn’t dream it, then?” he said.

“No. And thank you.”

He nodded and smiled, rubbing his eyes. “Okay, so what time tomorrow?”

“It’s reading week,” said Kate.

“That’s so cool. A lie-in.”

“I’ve got Jake coming on Tuesday—well, it’s now Monday, so I should say tomorrow. I have a million things to sort, but do you want to come over in the afternoon and we can look through these photos and plot our next move?”

He nodded and got out of the car.

“Get a good night’s sleep,” he said.

Kate watched until he was through his front door. He waved at her, and she drove home. The police car had gone from outside her house, and she made a note to call Varia in the morning. When she got indoors, she made herself a cup of tea and went to sit on the armchair by the window.

Despite her exhaustion, she took out the packets of photos and fanned them out on the carpet. Each one contained the photos and the negatives in a little pocket in the front. Kneeling down, she started to go through each packet. They were dated between 1989 and 1991. This matched the years that Peter Conway had lived in Manchester. The photos were all of young women and looked like impromptu amateur modeling shoots. The girls were all in their late teens and were small and petite with long hair. They were all taken in the spring and summer months and outdoors in the sunny countryside. The girls slowly disrobing until they were naked, posing with their arms across their bare chests at first, and then fully nude, some lying back in the sunlight on a blanket, others leaning against a tree, back arched with their eyes closed, a performance of fake desire.

At first glance they didn’t look to be in distress, although it was impossible to tell just from a photograph what they were thinking. Did Paul Adler promise them something? Did he pay them? Or were they just caught up in his charm and their wish to please him?

She searched through and found another set of photos, and she recognized the girl as Caitlyn. She went and found the ones that Paul had given her. They matched. It was Caitlyn. The photos they’d taken looked to be from another day. Her hair was shorter, and this time she was in a wooded area. Caitlyn lay naked on a rug and posed, resting on her arm.

The next photo was taken from far away. A naked man with dark hair sat with his back to the camera, and Caitlyn straddled him, her legs wrapped around his waist. There were several photos like this, taken in quick succession.