The Lost Victim, page 21
‘It sounds like she used a go-between,’ said Tristan. They reached the exit, and he had to wait for a gap in the traffic.
‘And you don’t think this would make the most amazing true crime podcast?’ said Jake. ‘Two serial killers. Multiple suspects. A juicy mystery.’
‘Thomas Black could be bluffing,’ said Kate, still holding her phone in her hand.
‘He’s dying. It could be a confession,’ said Tristan.
‘Do you think he wants to confess?’ asked Jake.
‘If he does, why wait until now?’
‘Maybe he just wants to get a few things off his chest?’
‘I love that you’re still naive.’
‘Mum, I’m not naive.’
‘It’s a good thing,’ said Kate, turning to him and putting out her hand. He rolled his eyes and looked out the window.
They arrived in Thurlow Bay twenty minutes later, and as Tristan pulled onto Kate’s road, he slowed on the uneven tarmac. The soil run-off from the storm was still piled up on the road, and as they passed the caravan site, the car headlights illuminated the huge channel of earth which had been cut out by the rainwater.
‘We’re going to have to deal with that soon,’ said Tristan. He pulled up outside Kate’s front door.
She sighed. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay what?’
Kate turned to Jake. ‘Okay, call your boss.’
‘Seriously? I can call Jeremy?’ said Jake. Tristan looked at her, surprised, too.
‘Yes. We have no income on the horizon, a vast canyon in the caravan site, and I’m not signing that bloody NDA. Not after that phone call from Thomas Black. He might be confessing, he might not, but we should go and see him. Don’t you think, Tris?’
‘Yes. Yes to it all.’
‘Good. Call him, Jake, and tell him about this whole idea of selling the story.’
45
Whilst they waited to hear back from Jake’s boss, Kate and Tristan decided to go back to basics. The next morning they drove to Exeter Cathedral to examine the microfilm archives in the records department.
They requested microfilm of all the daily national and London local newspapers, of which there were many, between 23 December 1988 and 31 January 1989. They split the microfilm and spent the next few hours working through it on the microfilm viewers in the back of the records office.
The black-and-white newsprint whizzed past on the large grainy magnifying screens, and Kate was confronted by just how much had changed in the past thirty years, with lurid stories of the unrest in Northern Ireland, famous men being ‘outed’ as gay, and AIDS being the ‘gay plague.’ The Lockerbie air crash tragedy had happened on 21 December 1988, two days before Janey went missing, and all over that Christmas period, it was still dominating the headlines.
The story of Janey Macklin going missing hadn’t made national news headlines until early January, and even then, it was never splashed over the front pages. The pinnacle of the national coverage of the investigation had been when the Crimewatch reconstruction had been broadcast. In the weeks afterwards, the story remained prominent in Camden New Journal and the Islington Gazette.
‘What the . . . ?’ said Tristan after a long morning of silence. His hand moved back and forward on the wheel on the side of the microfilm machine. ‘Kate, come and look at this.’ She scooted her chair next to him. ‘This is an article from the Camden New Journal.’ They both read the article.
More than two dozen people have been treated for apparent carbon monoxide poisoning at the Astoria in Soho.
Fire engines responded to a call shortly before 7.30pm on Friday (December 23) regarding reports of people becoming ill when the club opened.
Officials from Camden Council say 23 people were treated at the scene for exposure to noxious fumes, and one other was taken to St Thomas’ Hospital for treatment.
They say the source of the carbon monoxide was from a coin-operated drinks machine adjacent to the dance floor.
Camden Council says that the drinks machine has been removed, and a full inspection has been undertaken. An official commented, ‘Emergency services responded to a call at the Astoria nightclub early on Friday evening, where a few patrons had become ill with breathing difficulties. The venue was immediately evacuated, and a full inspection was performed. A coin-operated drinks machine was found to be faulty and immediately removed. All patrons made a full recovery, and we’re glad to say that inspectors determined it’s safe to reopen the Astoria on Christmas Eve.
‘Forrest’s alibi. He told the police, and us, that he went out clubbing at the Astoria on the 23 December, the night that Janey went missing,’ said Tristan.
‘If the police responded to a call at 7.30pm, and evacuated the Astoria, then where was he for the rest of that evening?’
Kate and Tristan then turned their attention to the rest of the microfilm, looking for any mention of Fred Parker and Roland Hacker around the time of the Crimewatch reconstruction, but it seemed that the police very quickly saw Robert Driscoll as their prime suspect, and only he was named in relation to the case.
After another hour of whizzing through the microfilm, Kate found something that made her look twice. It was an article, again from the Camden New Journal, this time from late January, when the reconstruction work was completed on the courtyard out the front of Victoria House. The black-and-white photo showed a local councillor, Mary Morrison, unveiling a tiny plaque on the side of the building to say that the building was dedicated to the original architect, Sir John Moss. It also showed a photo of the pristine new paving in the courtyard and the statue on the plinth. The article itself was fairly dry, but a box of text next to the photo caught Kate’s eye.
‘Tris, look at this,’ said Kate. He scooted his chair over and read the article and the caption underneath.
The statue in the courtyard at Victoria House is named Odgoad, and has been kept in storage and cleaned up by a local youth volunteer group during the Victoria House renovations. The statue is fashioned as an eight-sided dice and is meant to be a symbol of prosperity. It was sculpted by local artist Gaia Tindall (now deceased), using her signature style of cast concrete panels bolted together. Tindall has also produced artworks for Leeds City Council and the art museum in St Helier, Jersey, and many of her works in sculpture and watercolours are held by private collectors and galleries around the world. Fred Parker attended on behalf of the local volunteer group.
Kate thought of the statue as they’d seen it, with weeds growing out of the plinth at the bottom, and the graffiti which read ‘FUCK OSTERITY.’
Kate and Tristan went to get some lunch in the cafeteria next to the records office, and they googled the artist Gaia Tindall.
There wasn’t much online, and as Tristan scrolled through the results, it seemed that Gaia didn’t make much of an impression on the internet. Then he found an article about a photo book she had contributed to, published in 1989 about graffiti in London in the 1980s.
Gaia Tindall had died in July 1988, and her death was mentioned in the short biography at the bottom.
Tindall was born in Birmingham in 1947 and moved to London in 1965, where she set up an artists’ collective in King’s Cross, and worked with several local youth clubs. She was a sculptor and briefly imprisoned in 1971 for possessing cocaine and again in 1985 for her political graffiti. Her sculptures are in several private collections worldwide.
‘Private collections worldwide?’ said Kate through a mouth of sandwich. Tristan googled ‘Gaia Tindall sculptures’ and found a catalogue with a list of ten sculptures held by private collectors in six different countries, but annoyingly, there were no photos or other details.
‘Have you got the Big Issue article with Robert, Forrest, and Roland?’ asked Tristan. Kate wiped her hands and took out her phone. Tristan took it, zooming in on the text. ‘In the article, Robert talks about them working with a local artist on the mural. Look, here he says, ‘We’ve been encouraged and helped by a local artist in making this mural, which represents the people in our borough.’
‘If there was an artists’ collective in King’s Cross, where was it? And on the night Janey went missing, Robert said he was moving some artworks,’ said Kate.
‘Forrest said he was at the Astoria nightclub, but if it was evacuated, did he go somewhere else? Did he meet Robert? And what about Roland?’
‘What about Janey? What if her body was stashed in the pipe behind Reynolds newsagent and then moved four days later. Where else could it have been taken?’
46
On Monday morning, Kate and Tristan were back on the train, this time from Exeter St David’s to Wakefield. They arrived at 11.30am, and the train station was right next to HMP Wakefield prison.
They were met at security by a woman in a boxy suit, who told them that their meeting would be recorded, and then they were shown to a private visiting room, where Thomas Black waited at a table in his wheelchair. Kate was shocked to see how much he had wasted away from the pictures they’d seen of him as a big, strapping, athletic man. He wore a thin sweater and tracksuit bottoms. Every bone in his face and chest protruded through his skin, and his teeth and eyes also seemed too big for his skull. His lips were chapped, and his skin now had a yellow tinge.
‘Good morning,’ he said imperiously. ‘I’m Thomas.’ He spoke with a rumbling growl. They shook his withered hand, and as they did, his sleeve rode up to show black bruises mottling his skin like ink-stains.
‘Thank you for meeting with us,’ said Kate.
‘What happened to your head?’ asked Thomas, pointing to the stitches still in Tristan’s forehead.
‘I fell and hit my head on the corner of a table,’ said Tristan.
‘He’s rather pretty. Do you like younger men?’ said Thomas to Kate.
‘We’re partners in the agency,’ said Kate.
‘How lovely. I was sorry to hear about Peter Conway. You were there for him on his deathbed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going to the funeral?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘When is the funeral?’
‘We’re waiting to hear,’ said Kate.
‘Will you be burning him or burying him?’
‘I believe he wanted to be cremated.’
‘Yes, I assumed it’s going to be a fairly generic burning in the crematorium oven. Where do you think his ashes will be scattered?’
‘We’re not here to talk about that.’
‘Yes. I’ll change the subject. How is your son?’ Kate stared at him, trying not to take the bait. ‘Just last week I read a news story about a lad from California who got amorous with a young lady who didn’t want it, and she ended up choking on her rape whistle. Was it Jake? I hear he’s living in California.’ Thomas grinned and arched the skin above his left eye, where Kate presumed an eyebrow had once been. ‘Do you worry that the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree?’
‘I bet it’s going to be really painful, and drawn out, how you die,’ said Tristan. Kate put up her hand. She was annoyed how easily Black had taken control of the conversation and needled them.
‘Thomas. Let’s start this again,’ she said. ‘Thank you for meeting with us. You have something you want to tell us?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said. He pointed up to a camera in the corner of the room. ‘This is all being recorded.’
Kate glanced at the camera. They were also being watched by a prison guard standing in the corner of the room.
‘You wrote in your letters to Judith Leary that you saw Peter Conway in The Jug in King’s Cross in the autumn of 1988.’
‘Did more than see him. We hung out, as people say these days.’
‘You hung out?’
Thomas nodded. ‘Mooched around. Spent time in each other’s company. Peter was training to be a police officer in Hendon. He was staying in shared accommodation, a real flop-house by all accounts. A couple of times, I invited him to stay at my flat in Golders Green. We went out for a few drinks. A couple of times we picked up girls. Once, there were no girls, so we had fun with each other.’
‘Peter Conway has never said anything about having sexual relations with men,’ said Kate.
‘It was horseplay. I think he only did it once . . . and I had to be the lady. He was too tense, and I couldn’t get my cock up his arse. He did have a lovely body. But you’d know that, Kate, wouldn’t you?’
Kate kept her face neutral, but she could feel her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
‘How do you know where Janey Macklin’s body is buried?’ asked Tristan.
‘Because I saw Peter kill her . . . We picked her up on the street the night she went missing.’
‘How did you pick her up?’ asked Kate.
‘We were in my van. We were just arriving at The Jug. We saw her on the street.’
‘Why would she let you pick her up?’
‘She recognised Peter from The Jug. He’d been nice to her, stepped in when some bloke was being funny with her.’
‘Funny how?’
‘I don’t know all the details, love. I just remember him saying that Janey knew him and she trusted him . . . Am I shocking you, sweetheart?’ he added to Tristan.
‘No.’
‘Pity. Anyway. We saw Janey. Peter got out and said hello. She was standing at the door to The Jug. Freezing cold. And she saw the ice cream van.’
‘You drove an ice cream van?’ repeated Tristan.
‘Yes. An old ice cream van, off brand. I wasn’t Mr. Whippy.’ He chuckled. ‘Imagine, if I was Mr. Whippy? I got the van cheap from a bloke who’d gone bankrupt. The pictures were faded on the side, and it couldn’t play the tune anymore. Peter asked Janey if she wanted some chocolate. He said it was too cold for ice cream but he had a box of flakes in the back.’
‘And she believed him?’
‘She was hungry, poor little bitch.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Tristan.
‘Oh, behave. It’s just an expression. Janey came around to the side of the van, and Peter got the door open . . . It wasn’t planned or nothing, but the road was empty. We saw an opportunity. It was like we were psychic. He hit her over the head, and I dragged her into the van. It was all over very quickly.’
‘What did you hit her over the head with?’ asked Kate.
‘The soft-serve ice cream machine was broken, and it was in pieces. I used a big metal wrench that was sitting on top.’
‘Then what happened?’ asked Kate, feeling sick.
‘We took her back to my flat in Whitechapel.’
‘What’s the address?’
‘Surely you know? Didn’t you teach me as part of your Criminal Icons course at that dead-end shit hole of a university? I heard that some people, some followers of mine, were lobbying to have it included in the Jack the Ripper tours.’
‘Why would they do that? Jack the Ripper was smart enough never to get caught,’ said Tristan.
‘You shut your mouth, you little shit,’ growled Thomas, slamming his hand down on the table and then wincing. Kate turned to Tristan and shook her head. ‘That’s right, listen to Mummy.’
Kate could see Tristan grit his teeth, and then wince at the stitches he still had in his forehead.
‘You say Peter Conway knocked Janey Macklin unconscious and took her back to your flat?’ said Kate.
‘Yes. It was December 23, 1988. We picked her up around six or seven, but it might have been a bit later. We used to like starting to drink as soon as we finished work . . . Do you want to know what we did to her?’
‘Is it relevant?’
‘Well. Relevant to Janey dying. We broke her skull, but she didn’t die right away.’
‘Where did you bury her body?’
Thomas took a deep breath. ‘Kensal Green Cemetery. North London.’
‘You buried her in the cemetery yourselves?’ said Tristan. He turned to Kate. ‘He’s wasting our time.’
‘No. I’m not,’ he said, tapping on the table with a long yellow fingernail. ‘Malcolm Newton. He died December 18, 1988. He’s buried in Kensal Green Cemetery. Janey Macklin’s body is buried in the same grave, under his coffin,’ said Thomas, sitting back triumphantly.
‘And how did you manage that?’ asked Kate.
‘I knew a gravedigger, dear. He had a very particular fetish. He liked snuff films. You know what snuff films are?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew someone in snuff films – well, not in them. He worked on acquiring them. I used to get this gravedigger copies of the films on video. Do you know much about the snuff industry?’
‘I came across them working in vice in the Met. Very few are genuine,’ said Kate.
‘That’s the problem with snuff films. I knew some people who made the real deal. And I used to get him drugs as well. He liked to get high watching them. Anyway. He owed me one. So, when Janey came to her demise in my flat, we had to move quickly. Malcolm Newton’s funeral was on Boxing Day, so Christmas night, we drove Janey’s body over to Kensal Green and waited until he’d dug the grave. He buried her a few feet deeper than the coffin. We wrapped her naked in a blue tarpaulin. You’ll find her there.’
Kate looked across at Tristan, who was writing all this down.
‘Why are you telling us this now?’
‘In return for telling you this, I’ve been assured that I can move to a hospital for palliative care. I don’t want to die here.’
Kate looked up at the prison guard, who was staring ahead impassively.
‘You’ll get to choose where you die. Unlike your victims.’
‘Dig. You’ll find her.’
Kate looked at what was left of Thomas Black after he’d been ravaged by disease, and she felt physically sick.
47
‘He’s telling us Janey Macklin’s body is buried under the coffin of a man called Malcolm Newton. He died December 18, 1988, and he’s buried in Kensal Green Cemetery,’ said Kate. They were hurrying across the railway bridge back into Wakefield station, opposite the prison, and Kate was on the phone to Varia Campbell.
