The Lost Victim, page 8
‘What do you think really happened to Janey?’ asked Tristan.
‘Well. That letter is interesting. Thomas Black saw Peter Conway chatting up young girls in The Jug. Janey and her sister were there every week. She could have been one of his victims.’
‘Has Forrest really not been in contact with you about this? You were friends.’
‘No. I told you, we’re not in contact no more. That was a long time ago. Fred, Forrest, has gone off; he has a new life. He was always ambitious. I don’t know. I’ve learned not to second-guess things in life anymore. What if Janey ran away and got lucky, met some guy, and she’s living it up somewhere, lying on a beach? Stranger things have happened.’
‘Or we find Janey’s body,’ said Kate.
Robert smiled.
‘And if you do, I might finally be vindicated.’
15
It was dark, and the flat in Percy Circus was freezing when Kate and Tristan arrived back. They’d picked up some groceries and two takeaway pizzas on the way home, and they sat in the kitchen, in their coats, eating, whilst the flat warmed up.
‘My God, that was good,’ said Tristan, popping the last crust in his mouth and closing the box.
‘You’ve finished? You inhale your food,’ said Kate. She was still on her second slice.
‘And I’m still hungry.’ Tristan got up and unpacked the bag of milk, teabags, bread, and butter they’d bought. He opened the fridge. ‘Someone left behind lingonberry jam,’ he said, taking out a jar.
‘Let me guess, they bought it at IKEA?’
‘I could just eat an IKEA hot dog.’ He put the stuff away and checked the cupboards. ‘They’ve left us olive oil, out-of-date spices, and a bag of half-eaten penne pasta.’
‘I’m not going to eat all of this,’ said Kate, pushing her pizza box towards him. ‘Have some. I don’t work out like you do.’
Tristan came and sat back down and took a slice. ‘You swim every day,’ he said, biting into it.
Kate swallowed and took out her phone. ‘Which reminds me, I looked up where I can go swimming,’ she said, scrolling. ‘Pancras Leisure Centre is just on the other side of the train station. They’ve got a big pool, and a gym.’
‘Do you want to walk over there, when I’ve finished this?’
‘Okay.’
‘I feel like I should be seeing London, when I’m here. It’s so buzzy and alive compared to Ashdean.’
Kate’s phone chimed in her hand. ‘I just got an email back from Varia Campbell.’
‘Telling us to take a hike?’
Superintendent Varia Campbell had been a police officer in the Devon and Cornwall police, and Kate and Tristan had helped her out in the past. She’d moved to London and been promoted to superintendent in the Met Police. Kate had emailed her a couple of days ago, when they first knew they’d be working on the Janey Macklin case.
‘No. She’s going to see if she can get us access to the Janey Macklin case file. It’s in storage at her nick in West End Central.’
‘Bloody hell, that’s good of her,’ said Tristan. ‘Where is West End Central Police Station?’
‘Charing Cross, but she’s asked to meet us in a coffee place nearby . . . Oh. And I’ve had a strident email from Forrest Parker.’
‘Maddie must have bent his ear when she got home,’ said Tristan, getting up and filling the kettle.
Kate continued to read on her phone.
‘Whenever someone uses the phrase as per, you know that they’re seething inside. He starts the email with, As per your conversation with Madeleine . . . He’s her fiancé and calls her Madeleine? And we all have to call her “Maddie” and be forced into some kind of fake intimacy.’ Tristan laughed. ‘Okay, well, he does want to meet. I would be happy to meet with you at a time convenient to us both, but regrettably, I am out of town until’ – Kate scrolled down – ‘January 7. He’s asking us to send him suitable dates.’
Tristan switched on the kettle.
‘I just don’t buy it that Robert and Forrest are no longer in contact,’ he said, coming back to the table and sitting down. ‘Maddie was at pains to say it this morning before she stomped out in a huff, and then Robert said the same thing. I’d understand if Forrest had moved far away, but he lives in Barnes in West London, and Maddie said that he’s a Superhost for this flat when it’s rented out as an Airbnb. It’s less than a mile from here to Golden Lane.’
‘Yeah, but people can be weird. One of the lecturers who works at Ashdean Uni has a sister who lives in the town, and she hasn’t spoken to her for twenty years.’
‘Why?’
‘The sister slept with her husband.’
‘Fair enough. This awful thing happened, and Robert was found guilty for murder, and I understand that Forrest didn’t want to have anything to do with him when he went to prison, but Robert was then acquitted. And Forrest’s mother lived in the same block as Robert and his mother.’
‘Robert said that Forrest’s mother died while he was in prison, and he tried to get permission to go to the funeral but it was denied. And what about the flat Forrest – Fred – grew up in? Golden Lane is made up of council flats and ex–council flats slap-bang in the middle of London. Either Forrest inherited a council tenancy when his mum died, or his mother bought the flat through the right-to-buy scheme in the 1980s. Either way, wouldn’t a poor actor want to keep hold of a central London base?’
‘Or he sold it in the 1990s when his mum died?’ said Tristan.
‘To go where? This is central London,’ said Kate. Tristan looked at her blankly. ‘When I lived in London as a copper back in the 1990s, it was a bloody nightmare to find a place to live, even on a decent wage.’ She looked in the pockets of her jacket, found one of the little free Tube maps they’d picked up that morning, and unfolded it on the table. ‘Look, we’re in Zone 1 here in the centre by King’s Cross, and so is Golden Lane, and then it goes Zone 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 as you get further out of London. Most people who live in London want to be as near to Zone 1 as possible; it’s where everything is. And I’d think even more so for actors; all castings, theatres, TV companies would be in Zone 1 or 2. Why would Forrest graduate from drama school as an actor and then move?’
‘To steer clear of Robert?’
‘But Robert would have still been in prison. He didn’t get released until 1997. Do you think Forrest had such strong morals that he’d give up a central London base because his former friend the murderer lived two floors down? This is London. People don’t have the same attitudes like in Ashdean. There isn’t a small-town mindset. I lived in my flat in Deptford for four years and I rarely spoke to a neighbour.’
‘He could have sold the flat when Robert was acquitted in 1997.’
‘Yes, but when Robert was acquitted, he was found innocent. And Robert and Forrest have both said that they severed contact in 1988. Why wouldn’t they reconnect? It doesn’t add up. And what about the third friend, Roland Hacker, who’s cut himself off from everyone and no one knows where he is?’
16
It was coming up to 8.30am the next morning, and Darren Twigg had spent the past fifteen minutes locked in a cubicle in the staff toilets at HMP Wakefield, cradling a flip phone in his hand.
He’d been a dental anaesthesiologist in the prison service for the past four years, and he was a good one, too. He was only twenty-six and knew he was about to cross a line. He’d heard that plenty of the prison guards took bribes from the outside to smuggle stuff in and out for prisoners – drugs, mobile phones, and weapons – but he was medical staff. It felt different.
A posh woman had approached him two weeks ago, offering three grand to smuggle a mobile phone to Peter Conway, the Nine Elms Cannibal. It had seemed like a lot of money at the time, but now he had the phone in his hand, he was having second thoughts. He’d made the mistake of googling Peter Conway. He’d found gory crime scene photos on a Reddit forum. It was something about Conway biting his victims and Darren working in dentistry that horrified him. A picture swam back into his mind. A girl’s body with bite marks so deep in her back that her spinal cord was exposed.
The posh woman had told him she was a journalist and had lied unconvincingly, saying that the phone wouldn’t be used for criminal purposes. What did she think it was going to be used for? Ordering pizza?
The consequences if he were to get caught would be dire. He’d lose his medical licence. No. He wasn’t going to get caught. He would do this just once, and he could pay off a chunk of the gambling debts which kept him awake at night.
Medical staff were rarely searched in the prison, but he’d still panicked that morning when he’d arrived at the staff entrance. He’d breezed through, though, which made him feel even guiltier.
Darren put the phone into the pocket of his blue medical scrubs and wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. He flushed the toilet, left the cubicle, and checked his reflection at the sinks. He was a tall, thin lad with hair dyed blue and lip- and nose-rings. He had seven grand’s worth of payday loans at a crazy interest rate. He’d been paid a grand, with the next two owed on completion. It would take the heat off him with the bank. And what had the journalist said? Once a channel was open, things could stay lucrative. He shook the thought away.
Darren’s colleague, the dentist Gemma Thurlby, was waiting for him in the surgery room.
‘Morning. Happy New Year. Did you have a nice Christmas?’ she asked briskly.
‘Yeah. Happy New Year. Did you?’
‘Wonderful, thank you,’ she said without offering more information. The dentist surgery at Monster Mansion was grim, with a stained grey carpet, yellowing paintwork, and water stains blooming up one wall. There were four panic buttons dotted around the room, and also an adaptation to the dentist’s chair fixed in the centre of the large room so it looked a little like an executioner’s chair, with a loop on each armrest for handcuffing and restraining a prisoner.
Darren stared out the window at the car park, and the tall furnace chimney belched black smoke against the grey sky.
‘We still need to prep. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes,’ said Gemma. Her tone indicated he should already be prepping.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said. He swallowed. His mouth was dry.
Gemma sat typing at her computer in the corner, and Darren went to work preparing the IV and propofol for sedation. He then laid out five scalpels, scissors, a selection of tooth probes, tartar scrapers, and a small round dental mirror. They gleamed on the silver tray. He added suture material for stitches and sterilised needles.
Darren jumped at the loud buzzing sound. He followed Gemma to the small video screen on the wall. Two tall, broad prison guards stood on either side of an elderly hunched-over man with his hands cuffed in front of him.
‘Is everything ready?’
‘Yes.’
Gemma pressed the entry button, and the two guards led Peter Conway inside.
The first guard eyed Gemma and Darren. He was small but very broad and muscular with huge pale-blue eyes, which seemed to burn with anger. Darren had seen him before and had privately nicknamed him ‘Psycho Eyes.’
‘Morning,’ said Gemma briskly.
‘Morning,’ said Darren.
‘Darren, your hair. It’s different every time I come ’ere,’ said Peter. His voice was croaky and a little hoarse. Darren was surprised Peter remembered his name. His hair had been blond during the last visit, two weeks ago.
‘I fancied a change,’ he replied. His voice was trembling. Psycho Eyes remained stationed at the door. The second guard was well over six and a half feet tall and equally muscular, with his red hair trimmed into a greasy bowl cut. Darren had named this one ‘Ginger Lurch.’ Peter seemed so frail and elderly. His grey hair clung to his head in wisps, and Lurch held his arm and supported him as he eased into the dentist’s chair. What bad things could this old guy possibly do with a phone?
‘Looks like that stuff you can put down the lav to keep it extra clean,’ said Peter.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Gemma, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
‘His hair,’ said Peter. ‘What’s it called?’
‘BlueLoo,’ growled Psycho Eyes. His face remained passive.
‘Darren. That’s an unfortunate name,’ said Peter. ‘You never hear of a Prince Darren? A King Darren? Or a superhero called Darren?’
‘Right, let’s have a look inside your mouth,’ said Gemma firmly.
‘I’ll be here,’ said Lurch. ‘No funny business, Peter.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Peter. ‘I’m gonna be knocked out, so I won’t have to look at Darren’s ugly mug.’
‘That’s the pot calling the kettle black,’ said Lurch with a toothy smile. Peter smiled and then winced. Darren felt anger flash inside him. He wanted to come back at Peter and say, Careful what you say to the man who’s got the pain medication. But Gemma did things by the book, and she always insisted they treat the rapists, murderers, and paedophiles with courtesy.
Gemma activated the chair as it simultaneously reclined and lifted Peter level with her stomach. Prisoners on the high-security psychiatric wing wore their own clothes, usually tracksuit bottoms and a sweater, and today, Peter wore a blue tracksuit and an old pair of New Balance trainers on his feet. Where his thin wrists were bound tightly in front of him, the veins on the backs of his hands stood out, shiny.
‘How have you been over Christmas, Peter?’ asked Gemma, in the same breezy, forced tone a hairdresser might ask where you’ve been on your holidays.
‘Apart from having to drink my Christmas dinner through a straw? Fucking marvellous.’
‘I’m afraid that when I see you is out of my control.’
‘Enough of the chit-chat. Are you gonna pull ’em out?’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Darren scooted around so he was close to Peter’s head, the wheels of his stool rattling on the carpet. Peter’s pupils contracted as Gemma pulled the dental operatory light from above, angled it down, and began to examine his mouth. His eyes were brown, and his face was an odd mix of handsome with a good bone structure, even in his emaciated state. There was something else there, too, swimming below the surface: menace. The smell of pus and infection was overpowering.
Darren felt the flip phone in his right pocket. The empty pocket of Peter’s tracksuit bottoms gaped open. Gemma worked methodically, probing inside his mouth.
‘Christ!’ Peter snapped. Gemma moved her hands back. ‘Go easy.’
‘I’m being gentle, but I do need to examine you. Four of the teeth are now dead, and the surrounding gum is badly infected. I think it would be best to extract them all.’
Peter contemplated her with his brown eyes, both soft and menacing. ‘I hope you’re gonna knock me out?’
‘Yes. Darren will give you a general anaesthetic.’
‘Go on then, Super Darren. Knock me out,’ said Peter.
Darren quickly prepped the propofol for the IV and rolled up Peter’s sleeve, exposing a pole-thin arm. His hands were trembling, but he hit the bull’s-eye the first time with the needle, coaxing the IV into a vein. Peter winced but didn’t complain.
‘Okay, if you can count back from ten . . . ,’ Gemma said. Darren hooked the IV bag up onto a stand, and when he turned around again, Peter was unconscious.
The officers seemed to relax a little. Darren covered Peter with a cape and a dental bib, and using these as a cover, he took the small flip phone from his pocket and quickly pushed it into the open pocket of Peter’s tracksuit bottoms.
When Darren moved around to the other side of the chair to switch on the suction, he saw Psycho staring at him.
17
Peter Conway woke up in his cell a couple of hours later with a mouth full of what felt like cotton wool and a terrible dull ache in his jaw. There was drool all down the front of his sweater. He heaved himself into a sitting position and rested his head against the wall.
There was a tap on his door, and the hatch opened. Lurch – he was called Lurch by most people – was on the other side.
‘How are we doin’, Pete?’ he asked.
‘Whadyioufsthink?’ he tried to answer. He worked the two strips of cotton wool out from under his gums and spat them into his hand. They were soaked with blood.
‘You’ve got painkillers there. I left them on your table with your profesis. Dentist says she gev you dissolvable stitches. You’ve ’ad five teeth out.’ Peter nodded, gratefully. ‘You were lucky to be unconscious. I watched ’ellraiser last night, and that dentist working on you was way more gory.’
Peter chuckled and then winced, and put up his hand to say thanks. Lurch closed the hatch. Peter got up off the bed and tottered unsteadily over to use the commode. It was only when he pulled down his tracksuit bottoms and sat down that a flip phone fell out of his pocket and clattered onto the stone floor.
Darren left HMP Wakefield just after lunch. He had to get to Kingfisher Young Offenders Prison by 2pm. He was still shaken. Maybe Psycho Eyes hadn’t seen him put the phone in Peter’s pocket. He might have dodgy eyesight or just have been zoned out. He looked like that a lot.
Darren got into his car and was just putting on his seat belt when Psycho Eyes got into the passenger seat and closed the door.
‘Drive. Drop me at the bus stop.’
Darren’s heart was pounding. They were silent until they passed through the prison security barrier.
‘Have you done it before?’ asked Psycho. Darren swallowed, and he felt a flash of white-hot panic. ‘Don’t say “done what?” You know what I’m talking about. I saw you plant the phone in Peter Conway’s pocket.’
They pulled up at a traffic crossing as the lights turned red. A stream of pedestrians, all pissed off and grey faced, passed the car. A big drop of rain exploded on the windscreen, followed by another and then another.
‘It was the first time.’
