The lost victim, p.17
The Lost Victim, page 17
‘The victim was stabbed sixteen times in the chest, arms and neck,’ said Megan. ‘But you would know that. There’s no weapon. You confirm that the front door was locked when you arrived?’
‘Yes. Do you know when he was killed?’
‘No, but rigor mortis has only just set in, so it was in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours. There’s no key in the door on the inside. Did you remove it?’ asked Megan.
‘No. I didn’t. Whoever killed him locked up and took the key when they left.’
‘Oh, you think so, do you? Let’s leave the theories up to me. I need a formal statement from you, and I need you to surrender any skeleton keys you have.’
‘I’m carrying bump keys,’ said Tristan. ‘They are completely legal to own.’
‘Are you a Locksmith?’
‘No, but I was trained by one. I’d also like to put on the record that my intent was not to break in for criminal purposes. I am a private detective, and I had cause to open the door.’
‘You should have called the police first.’
‘If you contact DI Sean Bailey and the office of Superintendent Varia Williams, they will confirm who I am and that I’ve been investigating this case,’ said Tristan, now feeling annoyed with Megan, the jobsworth. He took out his phone and tried to call Kate again, but the call went to voicemail.
36
Peter Conway lay in a small room with the blinds tightly closed. A single lamp cast a soft glow over the walls. His thin arms were hooked up to wires, and his face was swollen and misshapen. He wasn’t wearing an oxygen mask, and his mouth was flopped open, and he was breathing loudly. There was a curved line of black stitches high on his right temple.
‘You can sit either side of the bed,’ said the nurse. Kate took the chair nearest to the door, and Jake moved around to the other side of the bed.
‘What’s happened, exactly?’ he asked.
‘He had five teeth removed, which were badly infected. He’d been taking antibiotics, to minimise the risk of having the teeth extracted, but after the procedure, he contracted a bacterial infection, which has led to sepsis or blood poisoning. It’s affected his liver and kidneys. He also has pneumonia. He had a nasty fall in his cell a few days ago, which we’ve stitched up, but it’s all contributing to a weakened immune system.’
‘Is he asleep or unconscious?’ asked Kate.
‘He’s been in and out. I’ve been holding his hand.’ Kate looked at the nurse and then back at Peter. ‘He’s my patient. I don’t judge what he’s done before he ended up here,’ she added, reading Kate’s mind. She went to a machine connected to the IV in his arm, and she pressed a button. ‘He’s getting morphine for the pain, and we’re managing it well now. I don’t think it will be long. I’m just outside if you need me. He might want some ice. Just put a tiny piece in his mouth.’
She closed the door. Jake hesitated and then reached out and took Peter’s hand. Kate sat back. This was a little too close for her.
‘Peter. It’s Jake and Kate,’ he said. Peter opened his eyes. This was the closest Kate had been to him since he’d attacked her.
‘Jake,’ he said. ‘Kate.’ His voice was slurred. He smiled.
‘How are you?’
Peter took a deep breath.
‘Not long now,’ he said. His tongue poked out of his mouth, thin and dry, like a piece of grey meat. Jake saw a cup of ice on the nightstand beside the bed. He picked up a tiny piece and put it on Peter’s tongue.
Kate shuddered, and she got up and left. She paced up and down outside the room for a few moments. She thought of all his victims. None of them had any comfort or reassurance before they died. They were all killed in the most horrific way, and died experiencing pain and terror. It didn’t feel right that they were sitting around as he was given pain medication to make him comfortable, and Jake was holding his bloody hand and giving him chips of ice for his dry mouth. Kate saw the nurse was watching her.
‘Tough time?’
‘Yes.’ Kate didn’t want to have to explain anything to anyone else.
The male police officer appeared with her bag. ‘Angie just left this for you,’ he said. Tristan’s iPad stuck out of the top.
‘Thank you.’
She was reminded why she was here, took the iPad out, and opened the cover. She found the pictures of Janey and Maxine, steeled herself.
Peter was talking to Jake when she went back into the room.
‘I always wanted to go to Los Angeles . . . ,’ he was saying, speaking slowly but clearly. He seemed to be alert and awake. ‘Catherine,’ he added when he saw her come back in. ‘I always called her Catherine . . . when we worked together.’
‘Yes, it’s Catherine,’ said Kate. She saw a catheter pipe snaking its way out from under the blankets to a clear bag hanging under the bed. She imagined seizing the pipe and yanking it out of his urethra. Might that make him understand just a tiny fraction of the pain he had caused? Kate sat back in her chair next to the bed. ‘Do you know I work as a private detective?’
Peter frowned. ‘’Course I do. I’m not forgetful. I mean, I remember . . . Jake was just telling me that he lives in America and he’s working as a writer.’
‘I work for an agent who represents writers,’ said Jake.
Peter frowned and coughed. He brought his hand up to his mouth, and the IV in his right arm lifted with it. He looked at it for a moment. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘We do just as much work but only make fifteen percent.’
Peter smiled and chuckled. The sound, like a cross between a baby and an evil goblin, made Kate shudder.
‘Can I ask you to look at a photo?’ said Kate.
‘Is it of Jake when he was little?’ asked Peter, and his face lit up. ‘I never got to see many pictures of you when you were growing up. Did I?’
‘No. This is a photo of a young girl called Janey Macklin,’ said Kate, and she opened the iPad and held up the school photo of Janey.
Peter peered at the screen. ‘Who is it?’
‘She lived in King’s Cross. Her mother used to take her to The Jug pub, on Pancras Road,’ said Kate. She scrolled through the iPad to the next photo, which was of Janey and Maxine together wearing their dance leotards.
‘Two of them,’ said Peter, rolling his tongue around his mouth. ‘The Jug pub . . . Oh, yes.’
He was silent, and Kate watched his face as he studied the photo.
‘Do you recognise them?’
‘Liked to play together. Games together. I spoke to them, did I?’
Kate saw Jake holding Peter’s hand.
‘This girl, Janey Macklin, she went missing in 1988 just before Christmas,’ said Kate. ‘You would have been training to be a police officer in Hendon at the time . . . What do you mean “games together”? They played on the Space Invaders machine in the corner of the pub. The type you put money into. Five-pence pieces . . .’ Kate knew her questions were too leading, but she was desperate now to make him answer, to find out information before he fell asleep or unconscious.
‘They used to go there with their mother, bit of an old . . . slag,’ said Peter. He looked over at Jake and repeated the word slag with a nasty smile.
Kate scrolled through to the photos of Robert, Roland, and Forrest.
‘Do you recognise any of these young men? They would have been around at the same time, in The Jug.’
Peter’s eyes widened, and he blinked and looked away from the glow of the screen.
Kate scrolled back to the school photo of Janey, and she held it up again. ‘Peter. I really need you to look at this, and tell me what you know about this girl?’
‘Too many colours. The world is too bright these days,’ he slurred. He squinted at the screen. ‘Oh.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the one. The one from our plan. The body buried in the graveyard.’
Kate sat up and leaned closer. ‘What body?’
Peter turned to Jake. ‘You’re my boy?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jake.
‘Peter! What body buried in the graveyard? Please, it’s important . . . And whose plan?’
Peter gripped Jake’s hand harder. ‘I love you, boy. Not sure there’s . . . been much love in my heart, but . . . I do . . .’ Peter closed his eyes.
Kate scrolled back to the picture of Janey and Maxine.
‘Peter. Peter! Peter!’ she said, raising her voice. She leant out to shake him, but Jake put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Mum. Don’t shout.’
Kate sat back. Peter breathed in and out. Kate held the iPad up to his face, hoping if he opened his eyes he might say more. The blue background from Janey Macklin’s school photo reflected on his wrinkled and hollow face with its half-circle of black stitches on the temple. Peter took a deep breath, and there was a long moment before he exhaled. Kate closed the iPad and felt an overwhelming frustration.
‘Mum. Is he . . . ?’
Peter didn’t inhale, and they watched and waited for a long moment, and then he wheezed and sucked in air, his chest rising.
‘Should I get the nurse?’
‘No. You hold his hand,’ said Kate. ‘I’ll go.’
When Kate came back into the room a few seconds later, Jake looked up at them. ‘He’s not breathing.’ The nurse went to check on him. ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’
‘We’ve been doing all we can, Jake,’ said the nurse.
Peter inhaled, then gave a shuddering exhale, but this time the pause went on and on.
Peter Conway had been pale and drawn, but it was only as the life drained away from him that Kate saw the colour leave his face.
‘He’s dying,’ said Jake, choking back tears. Kate moved around to him and put her arms around his shoulders. ‘His hand, it’s . . . getting cold.’
The last of the colour and the life of the Nine Elms Cannibal drained away, and they were left with what looked like a waxwork. An odd emptiness descended over the room. It was as if, even on his deathbed, Peter Conway had generated a towering presence, but now he was gone.
Taking his secrets with him.
37
Tristan finally left the crime scene at Baywater House just after 5pm. Constable Megan Levitt had spoken to DI Sean Bentley, and seemed rather annoyed that Tristan was telling the truth. After he’d signed an official statement, he was free to go, but he was left to walk back to the station by himself. He took the Tube to King’s Cross St Pancras station, feeling demoralised. Kate was still not answering her phone, and he wondered what was happening with Peter Conway. The snow was melting, and the pavements and roads were covered in a grimy grey slush. The temperature seemed to drop rapidly, and during the short walk from the station, the brown slush on the roads was turning to ice. When he arrived back at the flat, the photographers were gone, and the circle was quiet.
He let himself into the flat and switched on the heating, standing in the harsh light of the living room. Tristan felt far from home, and he was still in shock from finding the body. He needed a friendly face to talk to, and would have given anything to put on some jeans and a sweater and go down to The Boar’s Head for a pint with his friend Ade. Even seeing his sister and Gary would be nice right now, he thought.
Tristan took a shower, dressed in sweats, and came through to the kitchen. He found the bottle of schnapps and poured a glass, dropping in a cube of ice. He sat on the sofa with the TV off, staring into the middle distance. He was experiencing delayed shock. If someone had killed Roland, it had to be linked to the case. He didn’t have much of any value in the flat, and there was no evidence of drugs, which could rule out a burglary. He took a long drink of the schnapps – it wasn’t too bad with ice – and it warmed him up and soothed his nerves. His phone rang, and he saw it was Kate.
‘Finally. You’ve picked up your phone,’ he said. It came out angrier than he intended.
‘Peter Conway died this afternoon,’ she said without preamble.
Tristan sat up and felt the room spinning. The alcohol had hit him hard on an empty stomach. ‘Bloody hell. Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. It was very peaceful, which is more than he deserved. That’s why I’ve been out of contact.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you . . . I feel like I should give you my condolences.’
‘It’s okay. It’s a weird one. I thought I’d feel a release when he died, but I just feel a bit empty.’
‘What about Jake?’
‘I don’t think he knows how to feel.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘We’re still here at the hospital. There’s tons of press outside, and they want to get us out through the back entrance before the news is released to the media. Wakefield prison is quickly drafting a short press release, which they want us to see before the news is sent out.’
‘Why are they quickly drafting it?’
Kate gave a dry laugh. ‘They want to make the evening news, and the morning’s papers. That’s why they want to get us out now.’
‘The photographers are gone from outside the flat.’
‘They’ll be back.’
‘Did you ask Peter about Janey?’
‘Yes. I showed him photos. He recalled seeing Janey and Maxine, and he said something that could be everything or nothing. He said, That’s the one. The one from our plan. The body buried in the graveyard.’
‘Bloody hell. What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. The inconsiderate bastard then died.’
‘Talk about a cliffhanger,’ said Tristan.
Kate snorted. ‘I shouldn’t laugh.’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘How did it go with Roland? I’ve got so many missed calls from you, but I thought I’d just call.’
Tristan told her about finding the body, and dealing with the police afterwards.
‘Oh my word. Are you okay?’
‘I will be. Still a bit in shock, really. I’m drinking that old bottle of schnapps someone left behind. They’re going to check dental records to ID the body, after I told them about him being Roland Hacker, or Jon Chase, as he’s now known. I found a bank statement in the flat, dated almost a year ago. It showed a payment of £300 from Forrest into Jon Chase’s bank account. I took photos of it, and the crime scene.’
‘Tristan. That’s incredible. If Roland was killed, then . . .’
‘Did he know something? Where does this leave us now with Peter Conway? Did he seem out of it on all the meds?’
‘Yes. But with him, I’d think that the meds would make his tongue looser, not the other way around.’
He heard Kate sigh.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me,’ said Kate.
‘It’s okay. You have a good excuse. Are you staying up there when you get out of the hospital?’ asked Tristan.
‘I don’t want to stay here tonight, and I don’t think Jake does, either. When we’re finished here, we’re going to drive back to London. We’ll be back very late, and I have a key. Do you realise we’ve got our first feedback meeting on Thursday morning with Fidelis and Maddie at Stafford-Clarke?’
‘We’ve got plenty to tell them. A lot of it they probably don’t want to hear, or Maddie won’t want to hear about Forrest.’
‘Yes.’
They were both silent on the phone.
Tristan took another drink of his schnapps. ‘Text me when you’re close – I might still be up.’
‘Don’t wait up for us. Get some sleep. You sound exhausted. We can pick up on everything in detail tomorrow morning.’
‘Okay. Drive safe.’
When he came off the phone, he poured himself another schnapps and drank it in the dark. He kept seeing the wide-eyed, blood-soaked stare of Roland sitting dead in his underwear in a lonely top-floor flat, so he forced himself to get up, and he went through to the bedroom to put his phone on its charger. When he sat on the end of the bed, a crashing tiredness came over him, and he lay back, pulling the corner of the rug over him. He fell asleep instantly.
When Tristan woke up a few hours later, disorientated, it was dark and his head was spinning. He lay for a moment trying to work out where he was, until he saw the dim light shining through the window that looked out at the tiny courtyard behind the flat. His bedroom door was ajar, and he heard a rustling noise out in the living room. The noise came again, papers turning in the silence, soft footsteps on the wooden floor. Tristan sat up. He saw through the gap in the door where a figure stood by the bookshelves in front of the living room window. He stared for a moment, thinking it was Jake or Kate, but as he watched, the figure moved in the shadows, reaching up to the shelves where the DVDs were kept.
Tristan got up from the bed and moved closer, quiet in his bare feet. He stood in the doorway to the living room, and watched as the figure left what they were doing at the bookshelf and moved across the room. The light was dim, but it looked like the cupboard door next to the kitchen, which had always been locked, now stood open. The figure moved to the door and then vanished inside.
What the hell? thought Tristan. He moved into the living room and felt a freezing draft coming from the open door. When he reached the door, a soft glow emanated from inside, and as he drew closer, the cupboard seemed to be very deep, and the light was coming from low down. Is that a staircase? thought Tristan.
Suddenly he heard footsteps, and the figure reappeared from inside and came rushing at him. Before Tristan could react, he’d been tackled and knocked down. He landed with a heavy thud on the wooden floor. The figure straddled him and, with lightning speed, had their hands around his throat. Tristan could tell from the size and the strength and the smell of perspiration that this was a man.
Tristan had been using one of the small dumbbell weights he’d brought with him as a doorstop for the kitchen, and as he reached around, he felt his hand close over it. He wasn’t able to bring it up with a great deal of force, but he was able to hit the man in the chest and knock him off. He fell back with a yell.
Tristan sat up, coughing, and tried to lift the weight so he could heft it as a weapon, but he fell back and the weight hit him in the face, knocking him unconscious.
