Myra answered the door carrying two steaming mugs of tea.
‘Hold these,’ she said, handing them to Kate. ‘Let’s go down and get some air.’
She pulled on a long, dark winter coat and stepped into a pair of Wellington boots. Her face was heavily lined, but she had clear skin and a head of white hair, which glowed luminously under the light in her hallway. Kate had never asked Myra her age, nor had it been offered up. Myra was a private person, but Kate figured she must be in her late fifties or sixties. She must have been born before 1965, which was the year Myra Hindley and Ian Brady were captured for the Moors Murders – not many people had wanted to name their daughter Myra after that.
They came out of the door and past the terrace overlooking the sea, where three rows of empty picnic tables sat in the shadows. A crumbling set of concrete steps led down to the beach, and Kate followed slowly after Myra, concentrating on not spilling the tea.
The sound of the wind and the waves grew louder as they reached the bottom of the steps where a couple of rusting deck chairs nestled in the dunes. The chairs creaked in unison as they sat. Kate sipped gratefully at the hot sweet tea. Myra took a box of Mr Kipling’s mini Battenberg cakes from her coat pocket.
‘Why did you want to drink?’ she asked, her face serious. There was no judgement coming from her, but she was stern, and rightly so; six years of sobriety were not to be taken lightly. Over cake, Kate told her about the day’s triple whammy: the Peter Conway lecture, the email she’d received, and then the post-mortem.
‘I feel responsible, Myra. The father of this girl, Caitlyn. He’s got no one else to turn to.’
‘You don’t know if she was abducted by Peter Conway. What if it’s a coincidence?’ said Myra.
‘And then this young woman tonight. Jesus, the way she was lying there, like a beaten-up piece of meat . . . And the thought that it’s all starting again.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I want to help. I want to stop it from happening again.’
‘You can help by talking and sharing what you know, but remember that recovery never ends, Kate. You have a son who needs his mother. You have yourself to think of. Nothing is more important than your sobriety. What happens if you go back to an off-licence and you don’t drop that bottle of whisky? And you go to the counter, and you buy it, and then you relapse?’
Kate wiped a tear from her eye. Myra reached out and took her hand.
‘Peter Conway is locked away. You put him there. Think of how many lives you saved, Kate. He would have kept on going. Let the police deal with this. Let Alan do his job. And as for this missing girl – what do you think you can do to find her? And how can her parents be sure she was killed by Conway?’
Kate looked down at the sand and smoothed it under her feet with the edges of her boots. Speaking to Myra had calmed her. The adrenalin was no longer surging through her body, and she felt exhausted. She checked her watch. It was almost 11 p.m. She turned and looked out to sea, at the row of lights from Ashdean twinkling in the darkness.
‘I need to get some rest, and get myself out of these jeans. They stink of booze.’ Kate could see Myra’s concern, but she didn’t want to have to promise she would leave the cases alone.
‘I’ll come with you, and help you put them in the washing machine,’ said Myra. Kate was about to protest, but nodded. She’d done some crazy things when she was drinking, and the smell of stale booze had tipped her over the edge in the past. ‘And we’re going to the early meeting tomorrow,’ Myra added sternly.
‘Yes,’ said Kate. ‘And thank you.’
CHAPTER 7
Peter Conway walked down the long hospital corridor at Great Barwell Psychiatric Hospital, flanked by two orderlies, Winston and Terrell.
The long years of incarceration and limited activity had given Peter a paunch and skinny, under-developed legs, which poked out of his slightly too short bathrobe. His hands were cuffed behind him, and he wore a spit hood. It was made of a thin metal mesh, and covered his whole head. A thick reinforced panel of plastic at the front moved in and out as he breathed. His grey hair was wet from the shower, and it snaked out from under the hood, hanging over his shoulders.
It had been a year since Peter’s last violent episode. He’d bitten another patient during group therapy, a manic depressive called Larry. The disagreement had been over the subject of Kate Marshall. Peter carried a huge number of emotions towards her – rage, hatred, lust and loss. Before this particular group session, Larry had found an article in the paper about Kate. Nothing huge or significant, but he had taunted Peter. Larry threw the first punch, but Peter had finished it by biting off the tip of Larry’s fat little nose. He’d refused to consent to his stomach being pumped to retrieve the missing piece, and he now had to wear cuffs and the spit hood when he was outside his cell, or ‘room’ as the more progressive doctors liked to call it.
There had been several incidents over the years where Peter had bitten an orderly, a doctor and two patients, and various bite guards and even a hockey mask à la Hannibal Lecter had been used on him. Biting for pleasure and self-defence were two different things in Peter’s mind. Tender female flesh had a delicate, almost perfumed quality to be savoured like a fine wine. Male flesh was hairy and gamey, and he only ever bit a man in self-defence.
Peter’s solicitor had successfully appealed against the use of such restraints, citing the Human Rights Act. The spit hood was used by the police during arrests to protect them from bodily fluid exposure, but it was the only acceptable solution for Peter which was agreed by the hospital, courts and his solicitor.
Peter’s room was at the end of the long corridor. The doors were made of thick metal, with a small hatch which could only be opened from the outside. Yelling, banging and the occasional scream seeped out, but to Peter and the orderlies on the usual morning walk to and from the shower it was background noise, like the tweeting of birds in a field. Winston and Terrell were both huge, imposing men, over six feet tall, and built like brick shithouses, as Peter’s mother liked to say. Despite it seeming like a leisurely stroll back from the bathroom, they both wore heavy-duty leather belts and carried mace.
Patients on the high-security wards were kept separate from each other, in single occupancy rooms, and they rarely had contact outside. The hospital corridors were monitored by an extensive network of CCTV cameras, both for security and to choreograph the daily movements. Peter knew he needed to be back in his room in the next few minutes to allow the next patient access to the shower.
He had occupied the same room for the past six years. When they reached the door, Peter stood against the wall opposite the door, watched by Terrell, as Winston unlocked it. When the door was opened, Terrell undid the straps on the back of the spit hood and Peter went inside. The door was closed and locked.
‘I’m going to open the hatch, Peter. I need you to back up and put your hands through,’ said Winston.
Peter felt the draught as it opened and he pushed his hands through. The cuffs came off, and he pulled his arms back through and started to work on the spit hood. He pulled it off and handed it through the hatch.
‘Thanks, Peter,’ said Winston, and the hatch closed.