Nine Elms: The thrilling first book in a brand-new, electrifying crime series (Kate Marshall 1)

by Robert Bryndza

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Would you ever go back to the police?’ asked a young guy sitting on his own in one of the corner seats.

  ‘Not now. I always wanted to be a police officer and I feel my career was cut short. Catching the Nine Elms Cannibal was my greatest triumph. It also made it impossible for me to continue my career in the force.’

  He nodded and gave her a nervous smile.

  ‘What about your colleagues? Do you think it’s unfair that many of them were able to stay anonymous and carry on with their careers?’ asked another girl.

  Kate paused. She wanted to answer, Of course it was fucking unfair! I loved my job, and I had so much to give! But she took a deep breath and went on: ‘I worked with a great team of police officers. I’m glad that they still have the opportunity to be out there, keeping us safe.’

  There was a moment of hushed chatter, and then the student with the pink hair raised her hand again.

  ‘Erm . . . This might be too personal, but I’m intrigued . . . You have a son with Peter Conway, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kate. There was a shocked murmuring from the students. It seemed that not everyone knew her business. Most of them had been three or four years old when the case was playing out in the press.

  ‘Wow. Okay. So, he’s now fourteen?’

  Kate was reluctant to talk about him.

  ‘He was fourteen a few months ago,’ she said.

  ‘Does he know about his past? Who his father is? What’s that like for him?’

  ‘This lecture isn’t about my son.’

  The pink-haired student looked at her two companions on either side, a young guy with long mousy dreadlocks and a girl with a short black bowl cut and black lipstick. She chewed her lip, embarrassed, but determined to find out more.

  ‘Well, do you worry that he will be, like, a serial killer, like his father?’

  Kate closed her eyes, and a rush of memories came at her.

  The hospital room felt like a hotel suite. Thick carpet. Flock wallpaper. Flowers. Fresh fruit fanned out on a plate. A gold embossed menu on the bedside table. It was so quiet. Kate longed to be on a normal maternity ward, like any other normal mother, cheek to jowl, screaming in pain, seeing the joy and sorrow of others. Her waters had broken in the early hours of the morning at her parents’ house, where she had been staying. She’d welcomed the contractions, the short sharp pains cutting through the dull feeling of dread that had nibbled insidiously at her over the past five months.

  Her mother, Glenda, was at her bedside. Gripping her hand. More out of duty, tense and fearful, showing no joy at the prospect of her first grandchild. One of the tabloid newspapers was paying for the private room. It had been a last resort, ironically, to try and gain some privacy. In return for footing the bill, the newspaper would have an exclusive photo of mother and baby, taken at a time of Kate’s choosing, through the window of the hospital room. For now, the blind had been pulled down, but Kate noticed how her mother kept eyeing it, knowing that a photographer was waiting on the other side, in the office building across the street.

  Kate hadn’t known she was four and a half months pregnant on the night she cracked the case. Her internal organs had been sliced up badly, and the attack left her in intensive care with complications and a serious infection for several weeks. By the time she could make the choice to have a termination, the pregnancy had gone beyond the legal limit.

  It was a long and painful birth, and when the baby finally fought his way out, his first scream was chilling to Kate. She sat back, exhausted, and closed her eyes.

  ‘It’s a boy, and he’s healthy,’ said the midwife. ‘Do you want to hold him?’

  Kate kept her eyes closed and shook her head. She didn’t want to look at him or hold him, and Kate was grateful when they took him away and the crying ceased. Glenda left her bedside for a few hours to get some rest in the nearby hotel, and Kate lay in the dark. She felt she was in an alternative reality. The baby had been forced upon her by fate. She resented it, and she resented everyone. And it was a boy. Boys become serial killers, not girls.

  She fell into a restless sleep, and when she woke up the room was dark. A cot had been placed by the bed. A soft gurgling sound drew her towards it. In her mind the baby had been born with horns and red eyes, but she found herself looking down at the most beautiful baby boy. He opened his eyes. They were a startling clear blue, and one had an orange burst of colour, just like hers. A tiny hand reached up. She put out her finger and he grabbed it, giving her a gummy smile.

  Kate had heard how the maternal instinct kicked in, and it was like a jolt to her body, a switch being flicked. An overwhelming wave of love crashed over her. How could she think this tiny, beautiful baby was bad? Yes, he shared Peter Conway’s DNA, but he shared hers too. They both shared the same rare eye colouring, and that had to count for something. Surely it meant that he was more like his mother than his father? She reached down and gently picked him up, feeling how his warm little body fitted perfectly in the curve of her arm, how his head smelt, that heavenly smell of tiny baby . . . her baby.

  Kate came back to the present. The students were staring at her with concern. The silence in the lecture theatre was thick and heavy.

  She clicked the projector round to the final slide, and a news clipping flashed up of Peter Conway being led in handcuffs into the Old Bailey court in London. Above it was written:

  KILLER CANNIBAL JAILED FOR LIFE

  ‘This is something we’ll debate during the course. Nature versus nurture. Are serial killers born, or made? And to answer your question . . . I want to . . . no, I have to believe it’s the latter.’

  CHAPTER 2

  After the lecture, Kate went up to her office. Her desk was beside a large bay window looking out over the sea. The campus building sat right on the edge of the beach, separated by a road and the sea wall.

  The tide was far in, and waves rolled and smashed against the wall, shooting up a stream of spray into the sky. It was a cosy office, with two cluttered desks next to a battered sofa, and a large bookshelf covering the back wall.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Tristan, sitting at his desk in the corner and sifting through a pile of post. ‘It must be tough, to keep reliving it.’

  ‘Yes, sometimes it’s like Groundhog Day,’ said Kate, pulling out her chair and sinking into it, relieved. They’d grabbed coffee on their way up, and as she took the plastic lid off her cup she wished she had a miniature whiskey to add to her Americano. Just one little Jack Daniel’s, warm and soothing, to round off the hot bitterness of the coffee and take all the feelings away. She took a deep breath and pushed the thought of alcohol away. It’s never just one drink.

  Everyone on the faculty knew the story of Kate and Peter Conway – including Tristan – but this was the first time she had talked about it in detail in front of him. She refused to be a victim of her past, but once you were a victim in the eyes of others, it stuck.

  ‘I can’t think that many students who take Criminology have a lecturer who actually caught a serial killer,’ he said, blowing on his coffee and taking a sip. ‘Pretty cool.’ He turned and booted up his computer and started to type.

  Tristan hadn’t looked at her differently, nor did he want to delve deeper and ask her questions. He wanted to carry on as normal, and for this she was grateful. One of the reasons she liked having a male assistant was that guys were much more straightforward. Tristan worked hard, but he was laid back and easy to be around. They could work in comfortable silence without having to make conversation. She turned to her computer and switched it on.

  ‘Have you heard anything back from Alan Hexham?’

  ‘I emailed him on Friday,’ said Tristan, scrolling through his emails. ‘He hasn’t replied.’

  Alan Hexham was a forensic pathologist Kate had been working with for the past three years. He came in once or twice a semester as a guest lecturer on her cold case classes.

  ‘Try him again
. I need him to confirm for next week’s lecture on forensic protocols at a crime scene.’

  ‘Do you want me to call him?’

  ‘Yes, please. His number is in the contacts folder on the desktop.’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  Kate opened her inbox. She didn’t recognise the address of the first email, and she clicked on it.

  Clearview Cottage

  Chew Magna

  Bristol

  BS40 1PY

  25th September 2010

  Dear Ms Marshall,

  I’m sorry for writing to you like this, out of the blue. My name is Malcolm Murray, and I’m writing to you on behalf of myself and my wife, Sheila.

  Our daughter, Caitlyn Murray, went missing on Sunday the 9th September 1990. She was only sixteen years old. She went out to meet a friend, and never came home. For reasons I’ll explain, we are convinced that Caitlyn was abducted and murdered by Peter Conway.

  Over the years we have become more desperate, first, working with the police, and then when the case went cold, we hired a private investigator. All to no avail, and it seems that our darling girl just vanished off the face of the earth. Last year we felt we had reached rock bottom when we went to visit a psychic, who told us that Caitlyn had died and she is now is peace, but that her life ended shortly after she went missing in 1990.

  Earlier in the year, I bumped into Megan Hibbert, an old schoolfriend of Caitlyn’s, who emigrated with her family to Melbourne a few weeks before Caitlyn went missing. This was back in 1990, before the Internet, so Megan hadn’t been as exposed to the Peter Conway case (and Caitlyn went missing five years before the Nine Elms case made headlines).

  I got talking with Megan, and she remembered Caitlyn saying she had been out on a few sly dates with a policeman. Megan says she saw Caitlyn with this man, and described him as similar to Peter Conway. As you know, Peter Conway served as a detective inspector for Greater Manchester Police from 1989 to 1991, before his move to the London Met.

  I recently wrote to the police with this information, and they duly reviewed the case file and updated Caitlyn’s details on their missing persons website, but they say it’s not enough information for them to re-open the case.

  I write to you and ask if you would consider looking into this?

  We both now believe that Caitlyn is dead. We just want to find our little girl. I hate to think that her remains lie forgotten somewhere in a ditch or a drain. Our wish now is to give her a proper Christian burial.

  We would, of course, pay you. My mobile number is written below. You can also email me back.

  With best wishes, in hope,

  Malcolm Murray

  Kate sat back in her chair. Her heart was thumping loudly in her chest, and she looked over at Tristan, certain he must hear it too, but he was on the phone leaving a message for Alan, asking him to call back to confirm his lecture appearance.

  She drained the last of her coffee, wishing more than ever for a dash of Jack. There had been rumours, and stories in the press, that Peter Conway might have killed other women. And over the years the police had pursued lines of investigation, but come up with nothing. This was the first she had heard of the name Caitlyn Murray.

  She looked out of the window and across the sea. Would it ever be over? Would she ever be able to escape from the shadow of Peter Conway and the terrible things he did? She read the email again, and she knew she couldn’t ignore it. There was a part of her that would always be a police officer. Kate pulled her chair closer to her desk and started to write a reply.

  CHAPTER 3

  Thirty miles away from Kate’s office, the rain was lashing down as forensic pathologist Alan Hexham hurtled along a winding country road in his car, the hills and vast craggy landscape appearing in flashes through the dense trees. His mobile rang as it slid around on the passenger seat, next to a Sausage & Egg McMuffin. He grabbed the phone with his free hand, but seeing it was an Ashdean number he cancelled the call and threw the phone back on the seat. He picked up the McMuffin, unwrapped it with his free hand and took a bite.

  Alan hadn’t expected to be on duty today, and his mind was still foggy after a late night at the morgue. Now that he was in his late fifties, he couldn’t burn the midnight oil like he used to.

  The rain fell harder, reducing his view to a blur, and he switched the wipers to full power. His phone rang again, and seeing it was one of his team he picked up, speaking through another mouthful,

  ‘I’m there in five minutes . . . Where are you? . . . Jesus, put your fucking foot down. This rain is pissing away forensic evidence.’ He ended the call and chucked the phone down as the road narrowed to a single lane and wove between two high rock faces where the hills converged. He switched on his headlights in the gloom, praying that he wouldn’t meet another car coming in the other direction. He sped up as the rocky face on either side dropped away and the road widened out to two lanes.

  Alan saw a squad car parked next to an opened gate in a low drystone wall. He parked behind it and a buffeting gust of air slammed the car door into him as he got out, whipping his shoulder-length grey hair across his face. For a brief second, he heard his mother’s scolding voice: You won’t get far with that hair, you need a haircut, Alan, a short back and sides! He took one of the elastic bands he kept around his wrist and tied it back, still feeling defiant even though she was long dead.

  He could see two police officers waiting inside the squad car. They got out and joined him at the gate. They both looked to be in shock. The woman, PC Tanya Barton, he had worked with before, but the young man with pale, almost translucent skin was new to him.

  Alan towered over the two young officers. He had always been tall, but he had filled out over the years and was now a broad, imposing bear of a man, with a weather-beaten face and thick beard showing as much grey as his hair.

  ‘Morning, sir. This is PC Tom Barclay,’ said Tanya, having to yell to be heard over the wind and rain. Tom held out his hand.

  ‘I need to see the scene,’ shouted Alan. ‘Rain and forensic evidence don’t mix!’

  Tanya led the way through the gate into a field. They hurried across a mix of thick gorse and grass, in places littered with the bones of sheep, keeping their heads down as the wind roared around their ears and the grey cloud seemed to press down on them. The land banked sharply towards a river which had been swelled by the storm. Brown water surged over rocks, taking with it large branches and floating rubbish.

  The body lay amongst rocks and gorse on the riverbank, and Alan could see it was already in an advanced state of decay. There was severe bloating and the skin was marbled with patches of yellow and black. The body lay on its front with a long mane of filthy, straggly hair. There were six open wounds over the back and thighs, and in two places, flesh had been bitten away, exposing the spine.

  Something about the way the body was lying set off alarm bells for Alan. He moved around to the head to see if it was male or female, and he felt the food in his stomach shift. The face was missing. He was used to blood and guts, but sometimes the violence of an act seemed to linger in the air. It looked as if it had been torn away, leaving just a part of the bottom jaw and the jawbone with a row of teeth.

  He moved closer, pulling on latex gloves.

  ‘Did you touch the body?’ he shouted. The wind changed direction, blowing the smell of putrid flesh at their faces. The two young officers winced and took a step back.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Tom with his hand over his mouth.

  Alan gently lifted the torso and saw that the body was female. She lay on her left side with her head on her shoulder, one arm reaching out. He could see something bunched around the bloated neck. With his free hand he lifted the head, resting the heel of his other hand on her hip so that she wouldn’t roll down the riverbank into the murky torrent. A piece of thin rope was tied tightly around her neck, encased in the remains of what had been a plastic drawstring bag. As he lifted her head higher, the rest of the rope was pulled up ou
t of the mud, and he saw the knot at the end. A small ball of intersecting turns.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ he said, but it was carried away by the wind. He turned back to Tanya. She looked the less likely of the two to puke her guts up. ‘I need my phone. It’s in my left coat pocket!’ he shouted, keeping hold of the young woman’s head and indicating the pocket. Tanya hesitated and then reached over and rummaged gingerly in the folds of Alan’s long coat. ‘Quickly!’ She found the phone and held it out to him. ‘No. I need you to take a photo of this rope round her neck and the knot,’ he said, keeping hold of the head. ‘PIN number is two, one, three, two, four, three.’ With trembling hands, she unlocked the phone, stepped back and held it up. ‘Closer, this isn’t a holiday photo. I need a close-up of the rope around her neck and then the knot!’

  As Tanya took photos, Alan noticed that there was also a Chinese symbol tattoo on the victim’s lower back. A corner of it had been bitten away. The remainder of the tattoo had bloomed out and distorted with the bloating of the skin. Alan gently let go of the young woman’s head, and got up. He was relieved to see the forensics van pulling into the field at the top by the gate. He removed the gloves and took his phone from Tanya. He scrolled through the photos, finishing on a close-up shot of the rope and the muddy knot. He pinched the screen and zoomed in on the knot. He wouldn’t have recognised it as a monkey’s fist if all the other pieces of the crime hadn’t been in place – the bites, how she was posed, the torn-off face.

  He looked up at the two young officers. They were watching him intently.

  Alan put his phone away, and pushed thoughts of the Nine Elms Cannibal to the back of his mind. He concentrated on preserving as much evidence as possible from the crime scene.