‘If you see any weird jellyfish washed up, will you send me a picture?’
‘Of course.’
Jake looked down and picked at the white ‘M’ of his Manchester United shirt. It was coming away from the fabric.
‘Cool. Have you heard of geocaching?’
‘No. What is it?’
‘It’s really cool, people bury stuff, like a coin or a badge or some object, and it’s buried with a log book and a GPS tracker, and you get an app for your phone, and you join up and then you can go around and find these things and dig them up. And you, like, log it on your profile online. I’ve got the app on my phone, and there are loads around Ashdean, and the coast. Can we go geocaching when I come for half term?’
‘Of course!’ Kate’s heart swelled at the thought that Jake was excited to come and stay in October.
‘And it’s free, which is really cool.’
‘How do you spell it?’ asked Kate. Jake spelled it out for her and she wrote it down. ‘Have you done any in Whitstable?’
‘Yeah, my friend Mike is into it. His mum likes hiking, unlike Grandma who won’t stray far from a tarmac surface ’cause of mud on her shoes.’
Kate wanted to smile, but she kept her face neutral and changed the subject, asking him what he’d been doing.
‘I’ve been to school, been to football.’ He shrugged and blew out his cheeks. ‘Boring stuff really . . . even more so because someone won’t let me join Facebook.’
Glenda was listening in the background, because she slammed down a spoon and turned to the camera, pointing her finger at Jake. ‘I’ve told you what I think about Facebook, and I don’t appreciate you trying to go behind my back!’
‘Calm down, Glenda . . . I’m just talking to Mum.’
‘And don’t you start that. I am your grandmother, not some friend down at the skate park.’
Jake rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t have any friends called Glenda, especially ones who’d be seen dead with a name like that at the skate park.’
Kate could see her mother go bright red, and about to burst. ‘Jake, don’t talk to Grandma like that,’ she said. ‘And don’t roll your eyes at me.’
‘I’m going to be fifteen next year and she’s ruining my life. Everyone is on Facebook, all my friends! There’s a guy in the year above who found a job working at a festival through a post on Facebook, so you could be damaging my future career!’ he shouted. He got up and stormed off. They waited a moment and Kate heard a door slam.
‘His future career,’ said Kate. ‘He knows exactly what buttons to push.’
Glenda pulled out the chair and sat down at the table. ‘He’s turning into an argumentative teenager.’
‘When did he start calling you Glenda?’
‘Last week, when we disagreed about what time he had to come home. “Calm down, Glenda” is his new favourite phrase.’
‘Does he call Dad Michael?’
‘No, your father still gets to be Granddad. I’m always the bad cop.’
‘Where is Dad?’
‘He’s playing snooker with Clive Beresford. He sends his love.’
‘Clive Beresford sends his love?’ said Kate, unable to resist teasing.
‘Catherine, don’t you start.’
‘Shouldn’t we be happy Jake is becoming a normal moody teenager?’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
Kate raised her eyebrows, but let it slide.
‘Mum, we should let him join Facebook.’
‘But—’
‘Hear me out. If we don’t, then he might set up some anonymous profile that we don’t know about. Tell him he can join, but we have to know his password. We also have to be friends with him.’
‘I have to join too?’ said Glenda.
‘Yes. And I’ll join. Then we can monitor things, and we can also hoick him off it if there’s anything we don’t like.’
Glenda thought about it. ‘What if you-know-who, or his bloody mother, gets in contact with Jake?’
‘Peter and Enid are banned from all communication with him, Mum, including social media and email.’
‘What if he finds something?’
‘We can’t ban him from looking at the internet for the rest of his life,’ said Kate.
Glenda took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.
‘This scares the shit out of me too, Mum.’
‘Language, Catherine . . . ’
‘We have to be smart. Banning things never works. It often makes things worse. We have to practise our surveillance techniques. We monitor him online.’
Glenda smiled. ‘You’re probably better at that than me.’
‘I don’t know. You did break the lock on my diary when I was twelve. Not that I was writing anything salacious.’
Glenda shook her head, conceding defeat. ‘Okay, fine . . . but I need your full support on this. I’m not being the bad guy and the one who takes him away from Facebook.’
‘If we want him to come off, I’ll be the one who tells him,’ said Kate.
‘It will have to wait until tomorrow. I’ve got this bloody Battenberg cake to make for the WI fundraiser, and I haven’t got a clue how to set up a Facebook profile.’
‘You’ll have to stand over him while he does it. I can get my assistant to look at Jake’s profile when it’s done, and I’ll set up a profile tomorrow,’ said Kate.
‘Do you want to tell him?’ asked Glenda. ‘I can get him from his room.’
‘No. You tell him. Be the good guy.’
‘Thank you . . . oh bloody hell, my jam!’ said Glenda, leaping up. ‘Bye, darling!’
‘Speak to you tomorrow, and give Jake a kiss from me,’ said Kate, and she ended the Skype call.
It was always uplifting to speak to Jake, but there was a horrible emptiness when she ended the call and was suddenly alone. It was silent, and she heard the wind keening around the house. She went back out to her car, retrieved the box file with all the information about Caitlyn, brought it in and made herself a sandwich and a glass of iced tea.
She’d been very abrupt with Tristan when she’d dropped him home, and she gave him a call after she’d eaten.
‘Is this a good time?’ she asked.
‘I’m just running a bath,’ he said. ‘Hang on.’ She heard the squeak of taps being closed and a splash of water.
‘I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say thank you for your help today. I didn’t expect things to take such an odd turn.’
‘I know. What’s going to happen now? It looks like the bird has linked Emma Newman’s death at the wrecker’s yard to Kaisha Smith’s.’
Kate thought about it, and she didn’t feel so enthusiastic as Tristan. She didn’t want to be part of another case so closely linked with Peter Conway.
‘The police have it now, and they have my address if they want to talk to us . . . ’ It was frustrating for Kate to be on the other side of policing, and to be kept in the dark. She was curious, and horrified, but she had to focus on what she could do, and that was finding out what had happened to Caitlyn.
‘We’re not in trouble, are we?’ asked Tristan.
‘With who?’
‘The police.’
‘Why would we be in trouble? We weren’t trespassing. Admittedly, it was a little weird to explain what we did, but I was the one who climbed up the cars . . . Not my most elegant hour. And we had justification for doing it. And we handed over the evidence immediately.’
‘Do you think they’ll call us in for an interview, at the station?’
‘No. We’ve given a statement. They might ask us to elaborate on it, but that would be over the phone, or they might want to visit informally. If they ever catch who it is, we might be called to the trial . . . ’ Kate’s voice faltered. She hadn’t thought that far. She changed the subject. ‘Are you in tomorrow morning? I’ve got two lectures in the afternoon.’
‘Yeah, I’ll be in. I’m interested to get cracking on the Caitlyn Murray case,’ said Tristan.
&nb
sp; He still sounded a little nervous, but Kate didn’t press him on it. Malcolm and Sheila had wanted to discuss payment with Kate, but she and Tristan had agreed they would do this for free, and asked if they could use the case in the future for one of the cold case modules in the Criminology course. They didn’t feel they could take a penny from the grieving pair, and they could use work hours to do the research, just as they did when they were preparing other cold case material for lectures. It was a bit of a stretch to justify using university resources, but Kate thought ultimately it would help all parties involved.
She ended the call with Tristan but she felt wide awake, so she opened the box Caitlyn’s parents had given her and started to look through everything inside.
CHAPTER 17
The day at Great Barwell Psychiatric Hospital started early when the breakfast bell rang at 6.30 a.m. Peter Conway’s allotted time to visit the shower and shave was 7.10.
The small bathroom at the end of his ward always made him think of the boarding houses he and Enid stayed in during his childhood holidays: scuffed wood partition walls, draughty air, the drip of water in ancient porcelain sinks and toilets, bare bulbs, the clinging smell of boiled food.
He stood naked in front of the spotted mirror, scraping at the foam on his face with the cheap plastic safety razor, and looked at his body properly for the first time in months. In his glory days he had been broad-shouldered with strong arms, a thin waist and muscular legs. Now he had run to fat. His hairy white belly protruded and hung over a thatch of pubic hair. His arms were puny and pouches of fat sagged under his armpits, and his legs were now skinny, like two Woodbine cigarettes poking out of the packet, as Enid liked to say. His penis was flaccid. Asleep. And, like the rest of his body, numbed by a cocktail of mood-dampening drugs.
He had used the gym for a few years, but since the nose-biting incident, he had lost his gym privileges. He was let out twice a day into the exercise yard, but it was a godforsaken little snatch of outdoor space.
‘How you getting on there?’ asked Winston, poking his head around the doorway to look through the grille. A grille with a small square hatch at waist level had been installed in this bathroom so that Peter could be watched at all times, but Winston always gave him privacy, something he was grateful for.
‘The best I can with a crappy blade,’ said Peter. He scraped the last of the foam off his chin. He rinsed the razor in the sink. When he turned on the tap, Winston appeared again and Peter handed him the razor, handle first.
‘Thank you, Peter.’
Winston was powerfully built with big muscles, and for the first time Peter compared himself and saw how he could be easily overpowered, even without Winston’s mace, baton and Taser.
As Peter pulled on his clothes, he dared to think, to dream about leaving, and he wondered exactly how he would be broken out, or if it was possible. He might need to run, or climb, and what a tragedy if his flabby weak body gave out on him and caused the plan to fail. He felt frustrated that he hadn’t heard any more from his mother. She hadn’t answered the phone the night before, which was unusual. He thought back to their last meeting. Did he say something wrong to make her angry? He shook the thought away. Prison gave you acres of time to obsess about what was going on outside the gates. Paranoia crept up on you very easily. He would give anything to have an email account. The joy of instant communication with the world. He had listened to the news reports several times about the dead girl, Kaisha, but they were frustratingly scant on details. There would be more on the internet, so much more.
He slipped the spit hood over his head and did up the buckles, then backed up to the hatch in the grille. Winston reached through and cuffed his hands together. Peter pushed his wash-bag through the grille, and only after Winston had searched it and was satisfied did he open the grille. They stepped out of the bathroom and briefly into the kitchenette opposite while another inmate was taken past them to the bathroom.
They carried on along the hallway where a row of windows looked out over the exercise yard. A lanky, pale man with thinning brown hair was pacing up and down, agitated and beating his chest. Peter didn’t know his real name – everyone called him Bluey. He was a schizophrenic, and prone to paranoia.
‘I’m not coming in. I’m not!’ he was shouting, pacing the tiny yard. His T-shirt was torn.
They turned the corner into Peter’s corridor, and saw that a group of eight orderlies – six big strong men and two strong women – were waiting at the door leading to the exercise yard.
‘You need to come inside. You’ve had your fifteen minutes,’ one of them was saying through a hatch in the door.
‘FUCK YOU!’ shrieked Bluey, his voice ragged. ‘NO! NO! NO!’ He carried on walking in a circle, beating at his chest and screaming. Peter’s room was past the door to the exercise yard, at the other end of the corridor. Winston’s radio beeped. He put out his hand in front of Peter.
‘Okay to hang back there with Peter, Win?’ crackled a voice through the radio. Winston took it off his belt.
‘Of course. Peter, please can you stop there for a minute.’
Peter nodded, watching as Bluey paced round and round, slapping himself in the head and pulling at his hair.
He tried to remember having that energy, that feeling of rage, and he dug deep inside his chest, but it was as if he was stuffed with cotton wool. There was nothing. The tiny exercise yard was surrounded by ten-foot walls and razor wire, and it had netting above it. There was a dead pigeon caught up in the netting, its wings and feet tangled. Despite the chill, a couple of flies crawled over its eyes.
‘How long has that pigeon been there?’ asked Peter.
‘Two days. They have to get rid of it today or it’s a health hazard,’ said Winston, looking between Peter and the other orderlies, keeping an eye on everyone. Bluey was still screaming, and he threw up. Next, he charged at the door, smashing his head into the reinforced glass.
The orderlies moved into formation outside the door, in two rows of three plus one at each end. The door opened as Bluey charged at them. They moved swiftly, caught him and flipped him over onto his back. Three held him on each side, gripping his legs, arms and torso. One cradled his head, keeping it locked in position, and the other held on to his feet. They carried him away, still screaming.
They would now take Bluey to his room and lay him on the bed, all eight of them crammed in and holding him down. A nurse might administer some sedative, and then, one by one, they would exit, in smooth fluid formation. The person holding his head would run out last, and the door would be slammed shut. It had happened to Peter on several occasions, back before they got his meds right. He admired Bluey’s fight, even after all these years. When the hallway was clear, the radio beeped and they moved off again.
‘How often do you exercise?’ asked Peter.
‘Two, three times a week,’ said Winston.
‘Weights?’
‘No resistance, just using the body.’
‘Do you think you could help me, give me some exercises?’
They reached Peter’s door.
‘Patients aren’t allowed to exercise in their rooms.’
‘I’m banned from the gym. That exercise yard is a health hazard, with dead pigeons and Bluey’s puke. Just some tips on exercises . . . ’ Peter looked up at Winston. Winston had huge brown eyes, the eyes of an old soul.
‘I can get you a printout, but you need to keep it on the d-lo, Peter. You didn’t get it from me.’
‘Sure. Thank you.’
The nurse appeared with the medication trolley. There were rows of small plastic cups, each with a name written on it in marker pen.
‘How are we this morning?’ she trilled as if they were out shopping and had just bumped into each other. She was an unfortunate-looking woman, well and truly beaten by the ugly stick – fat, with a hooked nose, a weak chin and myopic bug eyes magnified by huge glasses. Peter wondered what she had to be so cheerful about, doling out pills to crazy p
eople all day long. ‘Let’s see, Peter, Peter, here we are,’ she said, handing him a tiny plastic cup filled with pills. He tipped them back into his mouth, took a small cup of water from her and took a gulp, tipping back his head to swallow.
‘Open wide for me,’ she said. He showed her the inside of his mouth, and she peered inside. ‘That’s lovely. You have a lovely day, and you too, Winston!’
She trundled off, the wheels squeaking on the trolley.
Winston opened the door to his room, and they went through the ritual of uncuffing and unbuckling the hood, then he was left alone.
He spat the pills out into his palm, dropped them into the toilet in the corner of his room and flushed.
He hoped Winston would give him those exercises, but he didn’t want to wait. He dropped to the floor and started to do press-ups. His body protested, but he carried on, determined to get fighting fit.
CHAPTER 18
Kate woke at 7.30 to a beautiful sunny day. The sea was still and clear, but the sandy bed had been churned up by the storm, making the visibility low when she dived into the water. There was also a glut of seaweed that she had to swim and then wade through. When she came out of the water, she pulled on a robe she’d left on the sand and took a walk along the beach, where a long line of detritus ran close to the water.
She was determined to find something she could photograph and send to Jake. She walked past the row of houses at the top of the cliff and the small caravan park and stopped at the rock pools that had been exposed by the low tide. The black rock was like razor blades and in places a soggy blanket of vivid green seaweed clung to it. Kate was thrilled to find a strange bloated fish with short spiky fins lying beached next to a deep rock pool where the sun sparkled off the water, and below in the depths an eel swam in lazy circles. The bloated fish was the size of a dinner plate and had huge expressive eyes. She snapped a photo with her phone and sent it in a text to Jake.
He wrote back instantly:
GROSS! I miss the beach there did Grandma tell you? I can join facebook!!!
Kate texted back that he would have to give them his password, but she didn’t get a response.
Nine Elms: The thrilling first book in a brand-new, electrifying crime series (Kate Marshall 1) Page 11
