The Lost Victim, page 5
‘What happened after Robert Driscoll was released in 1997?’
‘Nothing. As far as we know, the police never reopened the case. Whoever is responsible for Janey’s disappearance is still out there.’
8
Betty offered them another cup of tea, but Kate saw it was approaching 5pm, and they had a train to catch.
After such a productive day, the journey home was a nightmare. They took a wrong turn on their way back to King’s Cross St Pancras station and ended up in a busy piazza filled with bars and restaurants. When they reached the underground, it was heaving with people wringing the last out of the holiday cheer, and they only just made it to Paddington to catch the last fast train back to Exeter St David’s. Kate wanted to talk to Tristan, but the carriage was packed, and they hadn’t reserved seats, so they ended up standing separately in the hot carriage for most of the journey.
Tristan dropped Kate off at home shortly before nine, and they agreed to catch up the next morning. When he’d driven away, Kate stood by the dark caravan site for a moment, and breathed in the cold fresh air. The stars were bright in the sky, and the silence was punctuated by the soft roar of the waves breaking far down on the beach. She was glad it was dark and she couldn’t see the flood-damage trench running through the campsite, which still needed to be dealt with.
The door to the garage was open, and Jake and Olivia were gathering wood from the woodpile and putting it in a basket. Olivia’s nose was bright red from the cold, and Jake’s hair was windswept and soaked with salt spray.
‘Hey, Mum. We were just going to light a fire on the beach.’
‘I could do with some fresh air after the train journey I’ve just had.’
‘How was London?’ asked Olivia.
‘Good. It was an interesting day. Jake, could I talk to you?’
‘Sure,’ he said, dropping a piece of wood into the basket.
Olivia looked up at Jake. ‘I’m actually a little chilled. I think I’ll skip the fire, and take a hot bath.’
Kate was pleased that she seemed to sense the mood. ‘There’s clean towels in the airing cupboard on the landing,’ said Kate.
‘Okay. I’ll keep my phone on. Call me if you need anything,’ said Olivia, reaching up on tiptoes to kiss Jake. ‘I made pasta, Kate. We left you some,’ she added.
‘Thanks, love,’ said Kate.
‘I think you make her nervous,’ said Jake when Olivia had gone inside.
‘She said that?’
‘No. I can sense it.’
Kate liked Olivia, but she felt pleased the girl was a little intimidated. Power was everything in the game of future mother-in-law, especially when it’s your only son.
Kate grabbed a bottle of fire lighter fluid and a couple of old newspapers off a shelf and slung them into the basket. They each took a handle and carried it out of the garage, alongside the house, and down the sandy slope to the beach. On the other side of the dunes was a concrete ring, which had washed up during a storm a couple of years back. Kate had it dragged up the beach, and they now used it as a fire pit.
They worked silently to build the fire, clearing away sand accumulated on the old ashes and unburnt wood. They were both flushed and sweating by the time the fire caught and the beach and dunes were bathed in the glow of the flames.
Kate knew they had a good blaze when it felt too hot to be so close. Jake went and fetched a couple of rusting deckchairs from inside the dunes. She removed her gloves and sat back, holding her bare hands towards the heat.
‘I think I know what you want to talk to me about,’ said Jake.
‘Yeah. What do you think about this approach we’ve had to investigate this missing young woman? Peter Conway could be involved.’
‘What do I think? It’s a job for your agency.’
‘It’s more than just any old job, Jake. It’s Peter Conway.’
‘Do they want you to talk to Peter?’
Kate was pleased he didn’t say Dad.
‘Yes. I don’t know if he’d talk to me.’
Jake smoothed over the sand with his feet, and seemed to consider this. ‘Mum. Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Did you love him, Peter?’
Kate sighed.
‘I knew Detective Chief Inspector Peter Conway as one person. My boss. Colleague. A decent, if sometimes difficult, policeman who was popular and handsome. Is it important to you that I did love him?’
‘No. I don’t expect you to. Olivia’s family don’t think I should carry any shame being the son of a serial killer.’
‘That’s good of them.’
‘They didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Do you feel shame?’ asked Kate, curious and nervous at him talking about this.
‘Not when I’m there, in California.’ Ouch, thought Kate, but she let him carry on. ‘Olivia thinks who my father is is very interesting, almost like an asset. Like I’ve been born with this rare life experience. Her family are fascinated by it all.’
‘What if you two ever get married? Will they want to invite him to the wedding?’
‘Very funny. And we’re just having fun. Well, it’s more than fun. It’s just nice. Has she said anything to you?’
Kate laughed. ‘No. Don’t worry.’
Jake smiled. ‘I like her, and I like living in LA. The American positivity and the attitude that you can do anything with your life and be anything is incredible. I’m only an intern at this huge talent agency, and there’s this agreement, almost like an unspoken agreement, that if I work hard enough and put in the hours and learn, I can someday be a writer or a film producer. Can you imagine if I tried to do that here in the UK? The first question would be, What school did you go to? And if I didn’t go to the right school, I’d have to be let into the club in another way. I’d have to be a “northern writer” or a “working-class writer”, whatever the fuck . . . Sorry, whatever the hell that means.’
This made Kate feel very sad.
‘Are you writing anything now?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘Yes. But don’t panic. It’s not some Daddy Dearest.’
‘You know, someone will ask you to write that book at some point.’
‘I’d have to be really desperate to do that. No. I’m writing a science-fiction screenplay.’
‘Really? Can I read it?’
‘When it’s ready. Maybe.’
Jake was silent as the fire crackled. He got up and threw on another log, and they watched in silence for a moment as it spewed a shower of sparks up into the dark sky.
‘When did you last speak to Peter?’ asked Kate.
‘Beginning of December. I call him once a month. He gets thirty minutes. He’s not great – he’s having major problems with his teeth.’
‘The irony.’
‘I told you he was beaten up pretty badly by another prisoner last January?’
Kate nodded, staring into the flames. Peter Conway had been hospitalised after the attack. He’d ended up with a fractured eye socket, cheek, and jaw, and he’d had to have six teeth removed. ‘And then his mum died at Easter. My grandma, I suppose.’
‘That woman was many things; she wasn’t fit to be called your grandmother,’ said Kate.
‘It’s okay. I agree. Sorry I used the g-word.’ Kate felt a flash of anger at the subject of Enid Conway. If ever there was a mother-in-law you didn’t want, it was her. ‘He said you sent flowers.’
‘It took a great deal of control not to write yippee on the card.’
Jake laughed.
‘When I talk to him on the phone, it’s weirdly normal. I don’t think about what he did. He’s just, like, a nice—’
‘—old man?’ finished Kate.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Stop saying sorry. Don’t you dare be sorry,’ said Kate, putting a hand on his. ‘There’s no proper, correct way through all of this. Having him as your father. That’s why I wanted to ask if it’s okay if I pursue this investigation. The facts of the case and the horrific things Peter did will, most likely, be dredged up again.’
‘Have you spoken to Grandma – your mum, Grandma – about this?’ asked Jake.
Kate’s mother had come to stay for Christmas Day, then travelled back to Whitstable to spend Boxing Day with Kate’s brother and his family.
‘Not yet.’
‘You should. Grandma deserves to know and to give you her opinion.’
‘Yes. Grandma loves having her opinions,’ said Kate.
Jake jokingly waggled a finger at her. ‘Don’t be cheeky, Catherine,’ he said, imitating Kate’s mother with surprising accuracy. The fire was burning hot and fast. Jake got up, chucked on another log, and then returned to his chair, shifting it closer to Kate.
‘You should take the investigation, Mum. If there’s another girl’s death he’s responsible for, you’ll be the one to work it out. You’re a bloody good private detective.’
‘Thanks, love.’
He leaned over and rested his head on her arm. ‘Love you, Mum.’
‘Love you, too.’
9
Kate had a long sleep, and woke up just before midday. Jake had sent her a message to say he’d gone to the cinema with Olivia. It was a bright, clear day, and after a long drink of water, Kate pulled on her wetsuit, hooked her goggles over her arm, and left the house through the kitchen door, which led to a small terrace and a sandy path down to the beach.
The remnants of the fire she’d made with Jake were now covered in sand, the tide was out, and the beach was littered with plastic debris, seaweed, and a collection of smooth white cuttlefish bones. Jake used to love finding them when he was little because he thought they looked like tiny surfboards. She dropped her towel a few metres from where the surf broke onto the shore, and she stepped into the water. In the summer, she swam in her swimming costume, but her wetsuit kept her warmer in the winter. There was still that awful moment, though, the slight delay before the cold water infiltrated her wetsuit. The six-inch scar on her abdomen, the souvenir left by Peter Conway on the night he attacked her, was always the first place to feel the sting.
At this time of year, the sea pushed more sand onto the shore, and the shelf was steep underfoot. Taking a deep breath, she put on her goggles and dived under a big wave. The feeling of total immersion in the cold water always woke her up and made her feel alive. Kate swam out strongly to where the waves stopped breaking, and the swells of water moved underneath. Despite a good night’s sleep, she felt tired and floated on her back, looking up at the slate-grey sky. A flock of cormorants passed overhead, their black wings and graceful long necks standing out against the sky. She turned over and dived down. In the summer months, on a clear day with the sun shining, she could see down to the black rocks on the sea bed. Today, however, the water was gloomy and filled with the silt churned up by the rougher sea. She hung for a moment in the murkiness, listening to the strange clicks and bangs from the deep.
She thought of what Maddie had said at their meeting yesterday: ‘If we could get hold of a recorded interview with Peter Conway, that would be like gold dust.’
Gold dust.
It was the people who’d never experienced the true horror of a serial killer or a violent individual who valued interactions or trophies from them. Would Peter talk to her? Or Tristan? The only person who had phone access to him was Jake. And did she want to involve him? She looked back at the cliff. Her house sat on the end in blissful seclusion. It was paradise to watch the sea every day and be so close to nature, living on her own terms. It had been a shock to be back in London, amongst the hustle and bustle. The feeling that you had to be somewhere, doing something, or the sand would run out of the hourglass. She had so much sand here, a whole beach at her disposal.
Her fingers and toes were now numb, so she swam back to the shore, rode the breaking waves onto the sand, and then hurried back up to the house, shivering.
After a hot shower and some buttered toast, Kate went to her bookshelves and found the book she was thinking of. No Son of Mine. It was the tell-all autobiography Peter’s mother, Enid, had written back in 2000, and she’d been given a lot of money to write it.
The cover image was a split-pane photograph. On the right was a picture of a sixteen-year-old Enid Conway wearing a long, flowing dress, standing outside the front entrance of an unmarried mothers’ home in Scotland, cradling baby Peter wrapped in a large blanket. His eyes were wide and staring at the camera, while Enid looked down at him adoringly. Through the window directly behind was the blurred image of a nun, staring out at them stony faced.
The other half of the cover was Peter’s police mug shot, taken on the day he gave evidence at his preliminary trial. His eyes were wild and pupils dilated. This was before he’d started on the cocktail of drugs to deal with his schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder.
Kate opened the book. On the title page, the dedication from Enid was there, the ink a little faded:
She’d never understood why Enid had felt the need to sign her surname and her first name.
Kate flicked to the index in the back. There were only two mentions of Peter during 1988 and 1989. The first was when he was accepted to Hendon Police College to train as a police officer, and the second was when he passed out, or graduated, in February 1989.
Kate closed the book and sat back. Peter had spent so much time trying to hide that he was a copper. During the original Nine Elms Cannibal case, he’d made sure there was virtually no link between his professional life and the murders he committed. Why would he have risked everything back in 1988 by pretending to be a police officer, whilst he was in training, to lure victims? Thomas Black wrote that Peter pulled him over for having a faulty brake light, but what if this was a lie?
And what about Thomas Black – what was he doing at the time of Janey Macklin’s disappearance?
10
On the other side of town, Tristan woke late and then had a mad dash to cook a roast chicken lunch for his sister, Sarah, her husband, Gary, and his one-year-old nephew, Leo. After they’d eaten, Sarah sent Gary out for a walk with Leo strapped to his back, which was ominous. It meant she had something she wanted to talk to him about.
‘Tristan. Why didn’t you tell me you missed a mortgage payment?’ said Sarah, getting right to the point as she rinsed and stacked plates in the dishwasher.
‘This is why I want a bank account at another bank. Isn’t snooping through customers’ accounts illegal?’ said Tristan.
‘Not when I work at the bank, as a credit analyst. It’s part of my job.’
‘Why don’t you write me a letter? Or get one of the gorgons who work in your call centre to ring me,’ said Tristan, scraping the burnt potato from his new roasting dish.
Sarah took a deep breath. ‘Why did you miss a payment? Is everything okay?’
‘Everything is fine,’ said Tristan. It was almost true. The run-up to Christmas was always a bit tight with cash. ‘It was an accident, a timing issue with payments coming from the agency. It was only a day late.’ Tristan could feel his hands starting to shake, and he didn’t know if he was angry or scared. Sarah always made him feel stressed when she talked about money.
‘That day-late payment goes on your credit score . . . That’s a very nice roasting dish. Le Creuset?’
Now it was Tristan’s turn to take a deep breath. He put the pan down on the kitchen worktop. ‘It was a Christmas present from Ade.’
‘Where is Ade?’
‘He’s gone away for Christmas and New Year to Australia.’
Sarah tore off a length of tinfoil and tucked it around the remains of the roast chicken. ‘So he can afford Le Creuset pans, if he’s jetting off for the winter.’
‘Do you know how long their stuff lasts, Sarah? Ade has a huge Le Creuset Dutch oven from his mum, which is still good after thirty years.’
‘Well, maybe you can borrow it from him to live in when you miss another mortgage payment and this flat gets repossessed!’
Tristan took another deep breath. Sarah always seemed to live in a state of high alert, thinking the worst and waiting for it to happen.
‘I’m fine for money. We’re just about to take on a new case in London.’
‘London?’ said Sarah. As if he’d said Timbuktu. ‘How is that going to work with you being here?’
‘The client is giving us the use of a flat in King’s Cross.’
‘Who is the client?’
‘A creative agency.’
‘Is that a real thing?’
‘Yes. They’re like a literary agency.’
‘Like a literary agency, but creative. What’s not creative about literary agencies?’
‘Things are changing with streaming and podcasts. Literary agencies do more than just books.’
‘Sounds a bit vague to me.’
‘It’s not vague,’ said Tristan, struggling to hide his frustration. ‘Why don’t you come up and visit?’
‘Me? Come up to London!’
‘Yeah. I can meet you at King’s Cross, and take you to see platform nine and three-quarters, and then push you off it.’
‘Why do you think everything is a joke?’
‘The agency is making money. We have several lucrative government contracts . . .’ Sarah opened her mouth to speak. ‘Let me finish! And they pay quarterly. That’s why November was a bit quiet. For payments.’
‘Tris. I could get you an overdraft.’
‘I don’t want an overdraft.’
‘That’s what I thought. Listen. A colleague at work is looking for a place to stay, short-term, in Ashdean. I told him you had a spare room that you rented out.’
