The Lost Victim, page 15
‘I’m sure there was the police interview with Roland Hacker here, and look, it jumps from page 237 to 239,’ he said, checking the sheets of paper laid out in a row on the herringbone wood floor.
‘Hang on, let me check I didn’t miss anything,’ said Kate. She went back through the third file, which was nearly all done. ‘There’s not a page 238 in here.’ They searched through the papers on the coffee table, but it was all the junk mail Tristan had found in the drawer under the TV.
‘Did you take any of the pages out of the case files?’ asked Tristan.
‘No.’
He looked around. ‘That’s really weird. Can you check the fourth file, in case I’m mistaken and there’s the Roland Hacker police interview there.’
‘It’s late. Shall we just carry on and I can tell you if we find it?’ said Kate. She was feeling tired and fractious.
‘I just remember the interview being in the file the page before these photos of Pancras Road. They’re the only photos taken in the sunshine, and they stood out to me in the case file.’
‘Tristan, let’s carry on. Please. It’s late.’
They went back to work. Tristan photographed the last five pages of the third file, and then they went through all of the fourth file. There was still no page with the interview between Roland Hacker and the police.
‘What did the page say?’ asked Kate, perching on the end of the sofa. ‘It was just him confirming that he was at his parents’ flat on the night Janey Macklin went missing?’
‘Yeah. You asked me if I moved the files onto the floor. Earlier today, before we got the phone call about Doreen and Maxine being back.’
‘Yeah. They were both piled up next to the table leg. When I went to bed, after you, I left them on the coffee table here.’
Tristan looked around the room. ‘You mentioned a couple of times hearing noises.’
‘Yeah. I meant the kind of creaks and noises from other people in this building.’
‘I haven’t seen or heard anyone upstairs, or next to us.’
‘Do you think someone broke in? And took a page out of the case file?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s gone. And it was there. I didn’t imagine seeing it. His name was printed across the top, Roland Giles Quintus Hacker. We both commented on the middle names, didn’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘We still have Robert Driscoll’s police interviews. We just copied them, and Fred Parker’s, Forrest . . .’ Tristan stopped and clicked his fingers. ‘Hang on. Roland Giles Quintus Hacker. What’s Fred’s middle name?’
‘It’s on his interview record,’ said Kate. She went back to the folders and looked through. ‘Paul. Fred Paul Parker.’
‘But he’s now Forrest Paul Parker. That’s how he’s listed on the 192.com records for the house in Barnes?’
‘Yes. Shit. You think if Roland changed his name, even if he changed first and last, he might have kept the middle names?’ asked Kate, suddenly seeing his point. ‘Do you have a middle name?’
‘Yeah. It’s Kevin. I don’t use it; it’s just on my birth certificate. What’s yours?’
‘Glenda. Kevin and Glenda.’
‘We could be in a 1970s sitcom.’
‘Most of us either don’t use middle names or we have them for sentimental reasons. There’s no reason that many people would know Roland’s middle names.’
Tristan grabbed his laptop and sat down while opening it. He pulled up the website for 192.com and logged in. Kate came around and sat next to him as he typed in the name ‘Roland Giles Quintus Hacker’ and the location as ‘Watford.’
‘Forrest mentioned seeing him near Watford on the Tube,’ he added. He pressed enter and a list of names came up. ‘The website gives you the hits closest to the search material, which it did when I checked before, but I didn’t include his middle names.’ He scrolled down the list. ‘There’s a Jon Giles Quintus Chase is coming up at an address in Moor Park.’
‘Moor Park – that’s on the Metropolitan Line, near Watford,’ said Kate, feeling excited despite her exhaustion. ‘Could it be someone else?’
‘It would have to be a lot of coincidences colliding,’ said Tristan. ‘This could be Roland.’
31
Kate made them cups of tea, and they sat in the living room, tired but buzzing from the potential link they’d found to Roland.
‘It has to be him. The middle names. The address he’s registered at is near Watford,’ said Tristan.
‘We also need to be aware that someone could have broken in here and taken the page from the case file, where Roland’s middle names are listed.’
‘I don’t think anyone broke in. They probably had a key. If this place is used as a rental, then any number of people could have keys. Or it was Forrest and Maddie.’
‘I think Roland knows something,’ said Kate. ‘And whoever it is doesn’t want us to find him.’
‘Isn’t it a bit stupid to take the one page out of the police case file?’
‘Yes.’ Kate shuddered. It was now coming up to 1am. She got up and went to the kitchen. Tristan followed. The overhead strip light inside was harsh, and it shone a square out through the door into the tiny courtyard. ‘Have we been locking this with the key and the deadbolt?’
‘I think so, but I can’t be sure,’ said Tristan. ‘Someone could climb out of one of those windows on the back of the building opposite.’ Tristan peered through the glass pane in the back door. Kate leant over and checked the lock and then shot the deadbolt across.
‘There’s also a deadbolt on the front door. If someone has broken in, or used a key, it would have to be through the back door, or when we were out and the deadbolt on the front door wasn’t in use,’ said Kate. ‘Have you been outside in that courtyard?’
‘Yes, a couple of days ago. Just to get fresh air. You said you heard noises?’
‘Yeah. But it could have been you. Someone upstairs – even if you think no one is here, there are three flats above us,’ Tristan said. Kate switched off the kitchen light, and they both stood in the dark for a moment, staring out at the snow which continued to fall. It clung on in chunks to a single old dining chair which had been placed outside the back door. Her phone rang.
‘Shit! That made me jump.’
‘This is Jake calling,’ said Kate, seeing his name on the screen.
‘I’ll leave you be. Say hi to Jake. I’m going to brush my teeth. I need to go to bed,’ said Tristan.
When Kate had finished speaking to Jake, she hung around in the living room waiting for Tristan to emerge from the bathroom. He’d taken a shower, and when he opened the door, steam billowed out from behind him, and he was wearing just a towel.
‘Oh. Sorry. I just had to talk to you before you went to bed.’
‘Is Jake okay?’
‘Yes. He’s fine. Jake’s just bought a flight to London. He’s going to land in Heathrow at ten thirty tomorrow morning. He wants me to go up north with him and see Peter Conway in hospital.’
‘Okay. You said you thought he’d want to.’
Kate nodded. ‘I kind of feel odd about it, and it’s now almost half one. I’m exhausted. At least we’re in London and I don’t have to leave too early.’
‘I can check out the address for this Jon Chase guy, see if it’s Roland.’
Kate nodded. ‘Yes. And I can still ask Peter Conway about Janey, and Maxine. And what Forrest told us. If I can get Peter to confirm he saw them in the Jug.’
‘Do you think he’ll remember? It’s thirty years ago, and he’s in intensive care.’
‘I don’t know. Deathbeds have a strange loosening effect on the tongue. And if I have to see him, I’d rather ask the question and see if it can help our investigation.’
‘What should we do about the missing page from the case file?’ said Tristan. ‘Someone from Varia’s team is coming first thing tomorrow to pick it up.’
‘Maybe don’t tell whoever it is who picks it up. We need to tell Varia. And let’s make sure the deadbolts are on tonight on both doors.’ Kate checked her watch. ‘I need to find a hire car for tomorrow, and pack a bag.’
‘You should get some sleep, too,’ said Tristan.
‘I feel like sleep is going to elude me.’
32
Tristan woke at 7.30 and heard Kate moving around in the flat, making herself a cup of tea in the kitchen, and then he heard the taps in the bathroom.
He stayed in bed to give her time to get ready. They’d gone to bed just before 2 after booking Kate a hire car, and they had spent some time preparing the photos she wanted to show Peter Conway of Janey Macklin, the young Maxine Macklin, Forrest Parker, Robert Driscoll, and Roland Hacker. They also spent some time trawling the internet to find a photo of The Jug as it was back in the 1980s but couldn’t find anything. Then Tristan saw a photo in the case file that they hadn’t noticed before, taken from the Crimewatch reconstruction. They didn’t have access to a printer, so Kate had packed Tristan’s iPad.
At 8, Tristan did some push-ups on his bedroom floor, then went to shower. The bathroom was Arctic, and the chair in the courtyard behind the flats was now just a big bulge under a deep layer of snow.
The doorbell buzzed just before nine, just as Tristan finished his breakfast. When he opened the door, standing outside was a tall, handsome police officer in his early thirties.
‘Hi. I’m DI Sean Bentley,’ he said, flashing his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Tristan Harper and Kate Marshall?’
Kate appeared at the door behind Tristan, holding the carrier bag with the case files. ‘That’s us.’
‘Can I come in for a moment?’ he said, stepping into the communal hallway and closing the main door.
‘Of course,’ said Tristan.
He wiped his feet and came into the living room. His black coat was dotted with snow. ‘Are you aware there’s press outside?’
‘There was a photographer last night,’ said Kate. Tristan could hear the nerves in her voice.
‘Well, you’ve five guys out there milling around with telephoto lenses. I didn’t want to be seen taking police case files from you in clear daylight,’ said Sean, smiling.
‘It would add to the intrigue,’ said Tristan. ‘Do you work with Varia Campbell?’
‘I’m on her murder investigation team. She’s my boss. Thanks for this.’
‘Are you going to be working on the Janey Macklin case?’
‘Looks like it’s being reopened today. Varia’s cutting her holiday short.’
‘You are aware we’re investigating the case, as well,’ said Kate, handing him the bag containing the case files. He took it and nodded amiably. A couple of private detectives sniffing around didn’t seem to faze him.
‘I can’t promise that we’re going to keep you updated, but let me give you my card,’ he added, rummaging in the pocket of his coat and handing one to Kate and one to Tristan.
When he left, Kate went to the blinds and peered out. The snow was melting into a brown slush, and the photographers were lined up on the other side of the road in front of the tiny park. Tristan came to join her at the window.
‘I don’t want to see Peter Conway. I want to stay here, and work on the case,’ said Kate, surprising herself with the emotion in her voice.
‘I’m sorry you keep having to deal with this,’ said Tristan. Kate took a deep breath, turned from the window and gathered together her bag and coat. ‘I don’t think you should get the underground down to Heathrow. Those creeps will be able to follow you. One of them has a motorbike.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. I’ll get an Uber.’
When Kate checked the app, the closest car was just a minute away. Tristan got ready to leave with her, and when the car appeared, it drove around the circle and past the photographers.
‘I’ll lock up. You run for it. Say hi to Jake. And good luck with Peter Conway. Keep in contact. Call me if you need anything.’
‘Thanks. And if you manage to talk to Roland Hacker, record what you can.’
‘Of course.’
Kate opened the front door, and they went into the hallway. She took a deep breath and opened the main building door. The photographers had correctly guessed the car might be for her, and they were already swarming around it. Kate managed to get in the front passenger seat. The driver was an elderly Indian man with a neatly trimmed grey beard.
‘Are you famous?’ he asked as she closed the door and put on her seat belt.
‘No. More like infamous.’
He accelerated away, and the photographers grew smaller in the mirror of her door. There was a gap in the traffic when they reached the main road, so the driver was able to get them moving, and they lost the photographers. It seemed to take an age to travel to Heathrow by car, and despite the worry and tension she felt, she dozed as the car rumbled through the streets of London.
Jake was already waiting for her at a Starbucks in arrivals. He looked tanned and so healthy, with a glow about him in the cold airport terminal. Kate held back for a second to catch her breath after running up three escalators, and she watched her son. He was drinking a takeaway coffee, and he had his earphones in, watching a video on his phone. He was dressed expensively – or it looked expensive to Kate – in a thick fake-fur coat, skinny jeans, and trainers.
As she watched her son sipping his coffee and adjusting a silver band on his wrist, she knew she had to hold on to this image over the next few hours and days. Jake was nothing like his father. Her son was normal and happy, independent and successful. He’d survived everything that had been thrown at him in his short life, and prospered. Kate was disappointed to see he had a small silver case on wheels, which indicated this was a short visit. He turned and saw her.
‘Mum!’ he said, pulling the earphones out of his ears. He got up and gave her a hug. He smelt of aftershave and a little sweat. He was all grown up. A man.
‘It’s so good to see you, love,’ she said, holding on to him for just a moment longer than he did her. ‘How was your flight?’
‘I slept the whole way. Olivia got me a last-minute upgrade to business with one of those lie-flat beds. She has so many air miles.’
‘I thought you looked rested. I didn’t sleep much.’
‘I got you a coffee,’ he said, holding up a second cup. ‘Do you want to drink it here?’
Kate looked around at the terminal. It was quite empty, with just a few people. She spotted a man sitting on a row of benches with his mobile. He was holding it up at an odd angle, slightly higher than would be comfortable, and kept glancing at them.
‘Thanks. Does he look like he’s filming us?’ said Kate, turning away and inclining her head in his direction.
‘I don’t know. Don’t think so.’
Kate could hear how paranoid she sounded. ‘Last night there was a journalist lurking outside the flat we’re staying at in London, and this morning five photographers.’
Jake moved around and stepped in front of Kate to shield her from the man with the phone. ‘I’ve been checking the news. There’s also photographers outside the hospital where Peter’s in intensive care,’ he said. Kate took a sip of the coffee. It was good and hot. ‘How’s the case going?’
Kate needed to explain to Jake that as well as them being there for Peter on his deathbed, she would have to try and question him about Janey Macklin.
‘Let’s go and get the hire car. It’s a four-hour drive.’
Jake nodded and grabbed his suitcase. As they moved away, Kate looked back, but the man didn’t follow. He was absorbed in his phone.
33
It took Tristan forty minutes to get from King’s Cross to Watford Tube station. It felt odd to be alone in London. It was so vast. So overwhelming. It made him feel like his life was so small and insignificant. He’d always admired how Kate carried the burden of her past. She never shied away from it, and strived hard to overcome an impossible situation. She always said that her greatest triumph, cracking the case and discovering that Peter Conway was the Nine Elms Cannibal, was also her greatest failure. Tristan knew she was praying for Peter Conway to die, but he was Jake’s father. He had no idea how she reconciled this every day.
It hadn’t snowed as much, so the roads were clear. Jon Chase was registered as living at Baywater House. It was a good twenty-minute walk from the Tube station, and very quickly, the busy crowds who’d left the train at the same stop thinned out as Tristan found himself in suburban streets and then in an area of council estates and high-rise blocks of flats. Baywater House looked like the roughest and most run-down of the lot, sitting in a square of brown scrub-land with a burnt-out car. A basketball court at one end still had a hoop, but there was so much dog shit and broken glass that a game hadn’t been played in a long time. Several groups of young men stood around in the harsh light smoking cigarettes, and they looked up at Tristan when he walked past. He’d opted to wear a smart suit and had a leather briefcase with him, hoping he looked like an insurance salesman. As soon as Tristan walked through the open entrance into the block of flats, a short young guy with badly bleached blond hair came up to him.
‘Got a cigarette?’ he demanded. A younger guy and a young girl emerged from a doorway to join them. They both looked grubby and had the sunken cheeks and dead eyes of drug addicts.
‘No,’ said Tristan, moving past them to the stairs. He didn’t bother with the lift, knowing it was probably out of order.
‘A quid, then? You can spare a quid,’ whined the girl.
Jon Chase’s flat was on the fourteenth floor, and Tristan figured that if the three kids were begging from passers-by, they wouldn’t want to follow him up so many stairs. He was right, and after two flights of pestering, they lost interest and fell back.
Tristan and his sister, Sarah, had grown up in a grubby tower block, but it had been a palace compared to this. The concrete stairway was filthy, and the smell of neglect, urine, and desperation choked him. As he climbed higher, he saw glimpses through the open squares in the landing of each floor of the city, prosperous and twinkling far off on the horizon. On the tenth floor, someone long ago had lit a fire on the landing, and a vast patch of soot was smeared in black up the wall. He saw a small pool of ash with weeds growing from a burnt beer can.
