The Lost Victim, page 6
‘I don’t want another lodger. Not after Glenn.’
Glenn had been Tristan’s lodger for a year, a glowering, moody chap who cast a grim atmosphere over the flat when he was in, and he’d left hair everywhere. Tristan had vowed not to have another housemate while he could afford to live independently.
‘Adam isn’t weird. He’s from a very well-to-do family. And he’s not at all hairy. The bits of him that I’ve seen.’
Despite their argument, Tristan laughed. ‘Why would a well-to-do guy with minimal body hair need to rent a room in my flat on Ashdean seafront?’
He stepped out of the way to let Sarah rinse a handful of knives and forks in the sink.
‘He’s going through a messy divorce. They’re waiting for their house to sell so they can split the assets. He’s willing to pay a lot more than Glenn paid. And it could be perfect if you’ll be up in London for the next few months.’
‘I don’t know how long and if we’ll be up in London. We’re still waiting for the contract.’
Tristan regretted it the moment it came out of his mouth.
‘Oh. This London job isn’t definite? Then you should seriously think about it.’ Sarah wiped her hands on a tea-towel and rummaged in her purse on the end of the kitchen counter. ‘I promised Mum I would look after you, as your older sister.’ She went to the fridge and slid a business card under the turtle fridge magnet, which kept the local Indian takeaway menu in place. ‘Give Adam a call. You could make a few grand without really having to do anything.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Good. What are you doing for New Year?’
‘Probably going to The Boar’s Head. What are you doing?’
‘I have a fifteen-month-old and a full-time job. I’m going to be in bed by nine thirty.’
When Sarah and Gary left with Leo, who was asleep on his dad’s shoulder, Tristan went to the spare room he used as a workspace. He looked around at the neat desk with his laptop, the squishy armchair, and the filing cabinet. His steadily growing collection of true crime and crime reference books half-filled the low bookcase. The window looked out over the beach and the promenade – he preferred to sleep in the bedroom at the back, which was quiet. They had the agency office in Thurlow Bay, but he loved having this space at home.
He sat down at the desk and logged in to the agency network. Kate had just uploaded all the Thomas Black letters and created a file for the case. There was also an email from Fidelis at Stafford-Clarke with a contract.
He started to type up the notes he’d made at Stan and Betty’s flat, and something made him stop and take a closer look.
Kate rang a little while later. ‘Did you see the contract?’ she asked.
‘Yes. It looks good. I’ve just found something odd. Stan said that Robert Driscoll hung out with two guys called Roland Hacker and Fred Parker. I haven’t been able to find anything online about Roland Hacker, but Fred Parker, he changed his name to Forrest Parker when he became an actor,’ said Tristan.
‘Maddie’s boyfriend is Forrest Parker. The guy who wrote the article in Real Crime magazine.’
‘It’s the same guy. He’s an actor, and he’s represented by Charkham Murray Associates, which look like quite a posh actors’ agent, and they have some big-name actors on their books,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t seem to have done that much work recently, but he went to Cambridge University, which, as we know, means a lot. And then he went to RADA, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. On the council tax register dated last year, he’s registered as living at the same address as Maddie, which you would expect if he’s her partner.’
He had Forrest’s acting head shot on the screen. Forrest had a very high forehead and thinning hair. He had pretty, delicate features and pursed lips, which might have been called rubious when he was younger, but he looked to be in his late forties now, and the intense stare coupled with the pursed lips and his head at an inquisitive angle made him look quite camp and waspish.
‘How did you make the link?’ asked Kate.
‘He’s got a Wikipedia page. It says he was born Fred Parker, and that he grew up in the Golden Lane flats. I think he might have written the Wikipedia article himself, because he’s bigging everything up. It’s mentioned that the flats are a ‘Grade One listed building.’ He’s also the same age as Robert Driscoll.’
‘Is that why he wrote the article for Real Crime – because he knows about the case?’
‘Possibly. And why didn’t Fidelis and Maddie tell us about the link when we met with them?’
‘This case has just got all the more interesting,’ said Kate.
11
The New Year came and went, and 2018 became 2019 with little fanfare. Jake and Olivia left to fly back to Los Angeles on 2 January, and the next day, Kate and Tristan set off for London.
They arranged to meet Maddie outside a flat in Percy Circus in the early afternoon. Kate was surprised at just how central to King’s Cross they were, only a few hundred metres from King’s Cross station. Percy Circus was a circle of smart white Georgian townhouses built around a garden surrounded by black railings, which must have been beautiful and lush in the summer months, but now the large trees were bare. Despite being so close to everything, it was tranquil on this sleepy January afternoon. The sun was shining, but the air was very crisp and cold, and despite it being later in the day, there was a layer of frost on the windows of cars parked on the street.
Maddie waited for them by the black railings outside number 34. There was something very whimsical about how she was dressed, in pink UGG boots; a multicoloured, long, baggy duffel coat; and a big squashy handbag in the same duffel material over her shoulder. She wore a pink beret at a slightly jaunty angle on her head. Her long honey-blonde hair was plaited in pigtails, and her nose was bright pink from the cold.
‘Hello! It’s lovely to have you here,’ she said, opening her arms wide to hug each of them. It felt completely at odds with why they were there, and Kate assumed Fidelis wouldn’t have been so touchy-feely. ‘Happy New Year!’
Kate and Tristan both wished her a happy New Year in return.
‘This will be your accommodation,’ said Maddie.
‘Is it this whole building?’ asked Tristan as he tilted his head to look at the four stories above them, all with white sash windows.
‘Goodness, no! You’ll be in the ground-floor flat. This entrance is shared by four flats.’
Maddie opened the door to a tiny, musty-smelling hall with no windows. A light flicked on. A door was to the left, and a small enclosed staircase led to the upper flats. Kate noted that there was something rather exciting about having a small flat for their use.
The front door opened into a small hallway with scuffed herringbone parquet floor. Straight ahead was a bathroom, and then a door at the end led into a living room with bare walls and high ceilings. The furniture was all IKEA and a little shabby. There was a big television, and one wall was packed with hundreds of DVDs.
‘It’s not a palace, but there are two double bedrooms, a good kitchen, and because you’re on the ground floor, you also have access to a small courtyard through the kitchen,’ said Maddie, adding, ‘If either of you smoke, then you’ll need to do it outside.
‘Fidelis apologises she can’t be here. She’s in contract negotiations with an author.’
The doors to the kitchen and bedrooms led off the large living room. Kate and Tristan poked their heads through each; it all looked a bit tired, but clean. Tristan tried a door next to the DVD shelves in the living room, but it was locked.
‘That’s our Airbnb cupboard, as we jokingly call it,’ said Maddie. ‘We keep all supplies in there – bedding, toilet paper, and the like.’
‘Does Forrest work with you running the Airbnb?’
‘Yes. He’s a Superhost . . . and a super host,’ she added with a laugh. She beamed at them, but Kate thought underneath the smiles, Maddie was a little twitchy.
Her glasses had steamed up, and she took them off to clean them with a grubby tissue. Without her glasses, Maddie looked like a blind little mole. She slipped them back on, and normal service resumed.
‘Would you like a coffee? I don’t have to be back at the office for an hour.’
‘Yes, it would be good to have a quick chat,’ said Kate.
‘Right,’ said Maddie, then she recovered her composure and went to the kitchen.
Kate and Tristan each chose a room. They were similar sizes and had the same view. As Kate put her bag down and pulled out her phone charger, she stared out over a dingy little square of concrete backing onto the building behind, which was a warren of windows and gutter pipes. She was suddenly glad she had so much space back in Ashdean – views out over the sea, and acres of beach.
Maddie was waiting for them with three steaming mugs of instant coffee. The living room window looked out over Percy Circus, and Kate could see a chunk of the frost outside thawing in the gaze of the rising sun. Maddie still had her coat on.
‘I’ve just put the heating on. There’s a folder on the kitchen table with all the instructions for the appliances, et cetera. And the Wi-Fi password.’ There was an awkward little silence. Kate and Tristan sat on the sofa opposite Maddie. Kate took a sip of the black coffee and tried not to recoil. ‘Where do you think you’ll start? Did you have the chance to read Thomas Black’s letters with Judith?’
‘We did,’ said Kate.
‘Interesting, aren’t they? I do think that Thomas is remarkably intelligent and manipulative. And the fact that his path crossed with Peter Conway, who could have abducted Janey . . .’
Kate could see Maddie was keeping her voice light, but her eyes shone keenly, and maybe she was a bit afraid? Kate couldn’t quite read her, and she tried to frame the next question as informally as she could.
‘Why didn’t you tell us about Forrest being a friend of Robert Driscoll?’
There was a crashing silence. Maddie stared at them, caught in the glare of Kate’s question.
‘Oh.’ She gave a tinkly little laugh, like broken glass. ‘He wasn’t . . . Robert’s friend, per se.’
Tristan took out a printed article from the Big Issue magazine, and held it up.
‘Forrest’s Wikipedia page mentions that his name was Fred Parker, and that he grew up on the Golden Lane Estate. We dug a bit deeper, and we found this article from March 1988. Fred, Robert Driscoll, and another lad called Roland Hacker all went to the same youth club on Old Street. They’re all named in this article about a spray-painted mural they helped to design.’ Tristan took out a photocopy of Forrest’s acting head shot photo from the early 1990s, and put it next to the Big Issue article on the coffee table. The article showed a colour photo of Robert, Fred, and Roland standing in front of the mural.
Maddie put up her hand. A look of panic danced across her face, and then it was gone.
‘Just hold on a moment here . . .’ She hesitated and then flashed her smile, which was a blaze of everything but happiness. ‘I . . . We at Stafford-Clarke are the client. I don’t think it’s your job to investigate me – us. Myself and Forrest have been together for almost seven years. We’re actually engaged to be married.’
‘You do understand that we have to ask questions?’ said Tristan.
‘Yes. I just didn’t expect to be ambushed.’
‘Is this an ambush? Forrest is also directly connected to Judith Leary, who knew Thomas Black. Why mention one connection and not the other?’
‘Because, Tristan. It really isn’t relevant. Forrest had nothing to do with Janey Macklin. He was horrified. He walked away from that friendship when Robert was arrested. That’s all far, far, far away in the rearview mirror.’
Kate stared at Maddie and felt shocked at her naivety or her denial – she wasn’t sure which one it was.
‘In light of this, we need to talk to Forrest.’
‘Of course. I’m sure that would be fine. He thought you would want to talk to him anyway about the piece in Real Crime magazine.’ Maddie stood up abruptly and rummaged in the pocket of her coat. ‘I should really be getting back to the office. These are your keys. The main entrance, front, and the back door leading out into the courtyard.’ She placed two sets of keys on the table. ‘I’ll ask Forrest to call you. As I say, he’d be happy to talk to you, whenever. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
A moment later, the front door slammed. Kate and Tristan sat in shock for a moment, and then both got up and went to the window. They watched Maddie emerge from the outer door and cross the road with her head down. She was already on her phone, speaking animatedly to someone. She looked like a completely different person. Strident and sure of herself.
‘What the hell was that?’ said Kate.
‘I think that meeting went as sour as this coffee,’ said Tristan, holding up his cup. ‘How did she think we wouldn’t find out about Forrest?’
‘Thank God we’ve signed the contract. I think we need to arm ourselves with more information. Take a trip to the Golden Lane Estate. Pay Robert Driscoll a visit.’
12
The midafternoon sun slanted down through the gap in the four walls above the exercise yard at HMP Wakefield, dubbed Britain’s ‘Monster Mansion.’ Peter Conway stepped through the secure doors, moving slowly, leaning heavily on the walking stick he had to use.
He was due to see the dentist the next day, but he hadn’t been able to eat or sleep because of the pain in his infected gums, and his body was weak for it. The two guards accompanying him had helped him walk down the corridor from his cell.
Since his hospitalisation, he’d noticed the shift in how people treated him; he would be fifty-nine in a few weeks, and in this frail state, weak and toothless, he felt like a lion who had lost his roar. He was no longer taken to the general exercise yard for his daily dose of fresh air, and he was now in a smaller yard he had never seen before. Another inmate, the child-killer Thomas Black, was sitting in his wheelchair.
Despite the weak sunshine, Thomas Black wore huge shades over his eyes with a woolly hat. Black had been a big, muscular man, both on the outside and during his first ten years of incarceration. In the past two years, his body had been ravaged by cancer, and he was now unrecognisable. He glanced at Peter as the door was closed, shutting them in the courtyard for thirty minutes. The only view was a square of clear blue sky high above them, which had to be viewed through a thin mesh net. An orderly was stationed to watch them through a window.
The thought of being incarcerated for the rest of his life no longer terrified Peter. It was the knowledge that he would get old and die in prison. There was a level of celebrity and notoriety being a high-profile prisoner. You were feared. You were treated differently – not better, but differently. You had respect. Everyone was a little tense around you. But now, Peter could see he was sliding into old age and wasn’t going gracefully. He remembered one of his colleagues, back in another era when he was a police officer, talking about growing old: ‘You have your thirties, your forties, and in your fifties, you either turn to vinegar or wine. It’s up to you.’
‘Is this where they send us, before the knacker’s yard?’ said Peter, hobbling over to Thomas.
‘This is the knacker’s yard. We just don’t know it yet,’ said Thomas. ‘They’ve taken my bladder and bowels. And from what I’ve heard, they’ve taken your teeth.’
‘They’re taking the rest tomorrow.’
Thomas flashed a Halloween Horror Night smile.
‘Got the shit kicked out of you good and proper by Henry Yates, didn’t you?’ Thomas was making a hissing sound as his shoulders shook.
‘Is that a stage three or a stage four laugh?’
‘Stage four. Everything I do makes a little bit of pee come out, but I have a bag to catch it.’ He wiped his finger under his sunglasses and recovered his composure a little. ‘You should thank me. I was the one who called for the guards.’
‘You waited a few minutes and watched before raising the alarm.’
Thomas broke down, hissing again. ‘You made the mistake of not staying up on your feet. Whatever happens in a fight, staying on your feet will stop you from getting your face rearranged.’
‘How long have you got left to live?’
‘Six months, they say.’
Thomas looked like he had less time than that, and you could never describe him like fine wine. He was vinegar to the core.
‘I’ll make a note in my diary,’ said Peter. There was a beat of silence. He looked around at the pathetic yard, and it seemed almost a joke for him to start walking in a circle. It was so small that he’d look like a dog getting ready to lie down. Thomas adjusted his woolly hat and squinted up at him keenly. Peter knew everyone’s story. How they got caught. Thomas Black had been stopped by the police over a set of faulty brake lights. They found a half-dead young girl wrapped in a tarpaulin in the back of his van. He’d been forty-two.
There were always hysterical pieces written in the newspapers, saying that the worst of the UK’s serial killers were kept in a life of luxury in prison – fed better than hospital patients with access to their own televisions. While that may be true, it was in old age that serial killers got their comeuppance. Peter could see it was happening to him. He was turning sour, his body withering and shrinking. Black was now an old biddy, too frail to be feared. What would happen to him when he could no longer walk? When he was at the mercy of carers to wipe his bum and feed him? That’s what terrified him.
Thomas reached up and with a skeletal hand dotted with black bruises like ink-stains, he removed his giant sunglasses. He smacked his dry, cracked lips and glanced at the window, where the orderly was working at a screen, disinterested in the two elderly monsters.
‘Here. Come closer,’ said Thomas, holding out his hand.
‘I’m not pulling your finger,’ said Peter. Something about Thomas made him feel ill, like the skin off the top of the custard hanging off a saggy carcass. He licked his lips again. His tongue was like a dried-up lizard.
