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

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘That’s the problem,’ agreed Kate. ‘Maybe I should just pony up another twenty and ask that old man to show us exactly where . . . No, he said by the Bob Marley.’ She looked behind them. Bob Marley’s eyes stared mournfully out at them. She turned back and peered more closely at Tristan’s phone. ‘Shit. Look.’ She took his phone and zoomed in on the photo to the top of the pile of cars on the right. Then she looked up at the pile of cars to the right of where they stood. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘What?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘In the photo there’s a crow perching on top of the right-hand pile of cars. See? I remember reading in the original police report that forensics had a real problem with it. They would shoo it away, but it kept landing back on the top car. They were worried it would try and peck at the body . . . Anyway, look – there’s a crow on the top of that car, in the photo, and there in front of us.’ She pointed up at the topmost car on the right-hand side.

  There was a crow perched on the roof of an old yellow Mini, attached to the front bar of a roof rack.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Tristan, peering with her. Kate whistled but it didn’t move. They clapped their hands and the sound echoed around the yard.

  ‘Obviously, it’s fake,’ said Kate. ‘But who put it there? Bit of a coincidence.’

  CHAPTER 14

  They stood in the wrecker’s yard for a few minutes, staring at the bird on top of the pile of cars. Its feathers moved in the wind, but it was still.

  ‘Should we call the police?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘And say what? Come quickly, there’s a stuffed bird stuck on top of a car in a scrapyard?’

  ‘Yeah. We would sound crazy.’

  He took a photo with his phone and they studied the image, zooming in on the crow.

  ‘It looks like it’s tied on with something,’ said Kate. ‘There could be DNA on it. If it’s been out in the elements it’s a very slim chance, but still. An opportunity. Are you good at climbing?’

  ‘No. I’m really scared of heights.’ He looked at her and gave a feeble smile. ‘Like, shit-my-pants scared.’

  Kate paced around the tower of four cars. They had their doors and windows missing. She could use them like steps. She thought back to her years in the police, and to the number of times she had scaled scaffolding, trees and high walls. It had been a while since she had been physically fit. Sure, she swam, but it was a different kind of fitness, and she never did great distances, just a ten-to-fifteen-minute dip each morning.

  ‘Should we call the old man?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Did he look nimble enough to scale a tower of cars?’

  ‘No. Shit, I’m sorry,’ he said. He appeared agitated just at the thought of climbing.

  ‘It’s okay. Have you got any plastic? An old plastic bag?’

  Tristan rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a carrier bag, handing it to her.

  Kate and Tristan moved to the pile of cars, and she grabbed the first, a large green Rover. She shook it. It felt solid and the glass in the windows was missing.

  ‘Here,’ said Tristan, grabbing a couple of old tyres from the mud. He heaved them over and stacked them by the car door. ‘A step.’

  Kate stood on the tyres – they boosted her up a few feet – and she was able to hook one foot up on the sill of the open window.

  ‘Careful in those wellies,’ said Tristan, wincing.

  ‘Don’t pull that face. I’m only on the first car.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Kate saw the second car was a people carrier, and the gap between its passenger window and the Rover’s window below was large.

  ‘Tristan. Can you give me a boost?’

  ‘Sure, um . . . ’

  With a lot of inelegant heaving, where Tristan had to put both hands on her butt and push her up, she made it so she was standing on the window opening of the second car. It seemed a hell of a long way down to the mud and twisted metal below, and there were still two cars to go. Kate was glad of her thick leather gloves as she gingerly held onto the window frame of the second car, which still had shards of glass from where the window had broken.

  ‘You okay?’ Tristan said, wincing again.

  ‘Yeah, just getting my breath back.’

  The third car was a low sports car, whose bonnet had been crushed and obliterated on impact. As she pulled herself up, she avoided looking at its interior. The white leather was grubby with dirt, bird droppings and a spatter of blood across the headrest.

  ‘Okay?’ Tristan called up. He now had his eyes closed.

  ‘Yes!’ she lied. He looked so small down below. It reminded her of when she’d climbed a high diving board on holiday once. Her brother Steve had jumped off it with no problem, but she had taken one look at the treacherous drop and the tiny square of blue water below, and gone back down the ladder. ‘Come on, you can do this,’ she muttered to herself. She gripped the sill of the passenger door in the fourth car, a Mini which had suffered a rear impact, crushing the back up like a concertina. As her feet left the sports car and she pulled herself up, the door of the Mini creaked and swung open. Kate was caught unaware, and she swung out with it, her feet suddenly dangling in the air.

  ‘Shit!’ she cried. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Oh my God!’ shouted Tristan. He rushed to the bottom car, jumped up on the tyres and started to climb. Kate’s gloves slipped a little on her sweaty hands and she felt her grip loosen.

  ‘Tristan, get out of the way! I could fall on you!’ The Mini didn’t have another car on top to keep it steady – it started to rock, and the door began to bend on its hinges. Kate managed to get both arms hooked through the window, and she swung her legs to try and get them hooked too. ‘Oh fuck,’ she squealed, feeling drool in the corner of her mouth and her arms starting to shake. It had happened so fast, and here she was, dangling in mid-air with a ten-metre drop between her feet and the thick mud. After all that had happened in her life, was she going to die in a scrapyard?

  ‘Are there any blankets in your car? To break your fall?’ Tristan was saying, his voice shaking. He was rummaging in the boot of her car.

  Kate swung her legs, feeling her underused stomach muscles burning, and managed to get her left foot into the window of the Mini.

  ‘I’m okay!’ she said. She pulled herself up the inside of the car before scooting around so that she was sitting on the passenger seat. She peered out.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she repeated, feeling her muscles relax as she got her balance.

  ‘You sure?’ Tristan asked, looking up at her.

  Kate took some more deep breaths and nodded, thinking how unfit she was, and how her puny arms had struggled under the extra weight of her body. She took a final breath and stood up in the footwell with her head sticking out of the car, shuffling and twisting around so that she had her back to the drop. It meant that her heels poked out over the edge of the footwell and mud rained down off her boots. Luckily there was a roof rack on the car. She tested it with one hand, while holding on with the other. Feeling it was firm, she gripped it with one hand and was able to get a good look at the crow.

  It was a little weather-beaten, and its feathers had been soaked by the rain and were ruffled. She pulled out her mobile phone and took a few pictures of it, then she reached around to her pocket and pulled out the carrier bag.

  ‘It looks like it’s a real crow, packed with something, like stuffing. I think it’s a taxidermy job,’ shouted Kate. The talons were fixed to the roof rack with cable ties. She looked around in the car and saw some shards of glass from the front window, which had smashed and covered the front seats. Carefully she bent down and picked up a piece, then started to work on the cable ties. It took several minutes of sawing at them before they broke apart. There were two on each of the claws, attaching them to the roof rack. The air was cold and her hands were sweating. She had to be careful not to cut herself.

  Finally, the crow came loose. Kate put her hand inside the carrier bag and used it to pick up the crow. She re
versed the bag, so the crow was now inside.

  ‘Here, I’ll catch it,’ said Tristan, standing below. She aimed and dropped the bird. He caught it. Then she started the slow, awkward climb down, which was easier than going up had been.

  When she reached the ground, they went to the car and sat for a few minutes, drinking cans of Coke and eating the chocolate bars they’d bought from the service station. Kate was shaking, but she couldn’t tell if it was from fear, elation or the fact she had used muscles which had been dormant for years.

  ‘It’s a big bird,’ said Tristan, opening the bag and peering inside. ‘There was a kid at my school whose father did taxidermy. They were well off. This kind of shit is expensive. He said once his dad stuffed a Great Dane for its owner when it died. Cost eight grand. He made glass eyes to match, even fake balls . . . It was a boy dog.’

  ‘Yeah, I got that,’ said Kate.

  ‘The stuffing is expensive and the cleaning, and then they sew everything up . . . ’ Tristan was turning the bird upside down when Kate saw something.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing to the bird’s backside. ‘You said they sew everything up.’

  Kate brushed off her hands; carefully, she moved the body of the bird around in the bag until it was facing down and its backside poked out of the bag.

  ‘It’s got something sticking out of its arse. Looks like paper,’ said Tristan. Just a couple of loose stitches were tacked into place to keep it in. Kate picked at the stitches, managing to tease them open. She pulled out a long piece of paper, rolled up and encased in sandwich wrap.

  ‘A note?’ asked Tristan, trying not to get too excited. Kate put the carrier bag down and unwrapped the cling film. She knew she should call the police and hand it in, but her curiosity got the better of her.

  The paper was thick and tightly rolled. It was a handwritten letter. It was all in capital letters and written with black ink.

  NINE ELMS IS WHERE I BEGIN. EMMA IS THE FIRST, BUT SHE WON’T BE THE LAST.

  UNTIL NEXT TIME.

  A FAN

  ‘Jesus, the victim is named,’ said Tristan. ‘That note has been up there, I mean up on top of the car, for the past two months? This is like, actual evidence?’

  Kate nodded. She had that old feeling back, the thrill of the chase, or breaking through in an investigation. But, of course, it wasn’t her investigation.

  ‘I’ll hold them. I need you to take photos of the bird and the note,’ said Kate.

  Tristan pulled out his phone and took pictures of the note and the bird.

  ‘Now we have to call the police,’ she said.

  Her hands were still shaking, but now it was with excitement.

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘They’ve sent local plod,’ said Kate when she saw a police squad car come bumping down the muddy track towards them. Tristan and Kate were parked in a lay-by on the track, just outside the gates of the scrapyard.

  ‘How do you know they’re local?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘They always send local uniform police to check on something. Cat up a tree.’

  ‘Bird up a car . . . Sorry, not funny,’ Tristan said, but Kate smiled. The police car came to a stop a few feet from them, and its blue lights and siren activated and sounded once. ‘Are we in trouble?’

  ‘No,’ said Kate. ‘She just accidentally knocked the button. It’s by the steering wheel.’

  The driver switched them off, and she got out slowly and placed her peaked cap on her head. To Kate, she seemed so young, with creamy smooth skin and long red hair tied back. An older man got out of the passenger side and placed his hat over his buzz-cut grey hair. They made their way over.

  ‘Wait in the car,’ said Kate. She got out holding the bird in the bag.

  ‘Morning. I was the one who called you,’ she said.

  The woman looked suspiciously between Kate and Tristan, still sitting in the car. Kate briefly explained what they had found, holding up the bird and the note which was now in a thin clear plastic bag they'd found in her car.

  ‘I believe this is a piece of evidence in the murder case of a woman called Emma Newman. See, the victim is named in the note,’ finished Kate. The two officers were silent. They looked at each other.

  ‘So, you found this stuffed bird, with a note inside?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kate, handing it over.

  The woman took the note in the plastic bag from Kate and scanned it. Wordlessly she passed it over to her colleague. He read it with wry amusement on his face.

  ‘Who is this Emma?’ he said, holding up the note.

  ‘Can you put gloves on? That’s evidence. It refers to the body of Emma Newman, which was discovered at this wrecker’s yard two months ago,’ said Kate.

  ‘And who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Kate Marshall. I was a police officer with the Met in London.’

  ‘Is this your son?’

  ‘No. That’s Tristan Harper. He’s my assistant.’

  The man knocked on the car window and signalled for Tristan to get out. When Tristan came around the car to join them he looked very nervous.

  ‘Assistant of what?’ asked the woman.

  ‘I lecture in Criminology at Ashdean University. Tristan is my research assistant,’ said Kate.

  ‘Can he speak for himself?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tristan, clearing his throat. He seemed nervous.

  ‘I’m PC Sara Halpin, this is PC David Bristol,’ said the woman. Automatically they both flashed their warrant cards. ‘What made you go looking for this?’

  ‘Have you heard of the Peter Conway case?’ said Kate. Both officers looked blank. ‘The Nine Elms Cannibal case in London fifteen years ago?’

  ‘Yes, rings a bell,’ said David.

  Sara raised an eyebrow, indicating that Kate should continue.

  ‘I was the officer who solved that case.’

  ‘Right. And?’

  ‘And I believe that this person, the author of this letter, is copying the murders. The Peter Conway, the Nine Elms Cannibal murders . . . ’ Tristan’s nervousness was now rubbing off on Kate and she knew she was babbling. ‘I’m aware, through a pathologist colleague, that the police found the body of Emma Newman here two months ago, and just a couple of days ago the body of a young woman called Kaisha Smith was found by the river near Hunter’s Tor. It was on the news today.’

  ‘Yes, we’re aware of that,’ said Sara. ‘But what’s the stuffed bird and the note got to do with it?’

  Kate spent the next forty minutes explaining the details of the case, and how they came to find the bird. Tristan showed them the photos he’d taken on his phone. Sara took down a statement, but only because Kate insisted, and it took a long time for them to write it up for Kate to sign.

  The light was fading when the officers finally left, taking their report and the bird and note with them.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Tristan when they were back in the car.

  ‘I hope they take it seriously, and that the bird and the note don’t get shoved into some evidence storage room, or it will take days to be processed to the right department.’

  They came out of the muddy track, passing under the NINE ELMS WRECKER’S YARD sign, and Kate turned left. They were back on the main road speeding towards the motorway. She checked the time and saw it was just gone 5 p.m.

  ‘Shit!’ she said. ‘I said I’d Skype my son at six.’ She put her foot down and sped on towards the motorway.

  CHAPTER 16

  Kate made it back to her house at one minute to six. She dashed inside, sloughing off her coat and leaving it in a heap in the hallway, and went to the kitchen, flicking on the lights. She had to scrabble around to find her laptop under a pile of paperwork on the breakfast bar, and then it seemed to take an age to switch on. When the screen icons finally appeared she opened Skype.

  As an alcoholic, Kate had spent many years being unreliable, missing meetings and showing up late, so being three minutes late
for her regular Skype call with Jake bothered her deeply. She was relieved to see that he hadn’t tried to call her already. She smoothed down her hair, pulled up a chair and pressed CALL.

  Jake appeared in the little box on screen. He was Skyping her from the kitchen table, and behind him Kate could see her mother at the Aga, stirring something in a large silver pan. He wore a Manchester United football shirt, and his dark hair was fashionably tousled.

  ‘Hey, Mum.’ He grinned.

  ‘Hi, how are you?’ she said, maximising the window so he filled the screen.

  ‘I’m good,’ he said, seeing himself in the camera and adjusting his hair.

  ‘Evening, Catherine,’ shouted Glenda without turning around. She was immaculate as usual, with a pristine white apron over her pale slacks and blouse.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ shouted Kate. ‘What’s she making?’

  Jake shrugged.

  ‘I’m making apricot jam!’ trilled Glenda, ‘for a Battenberg cake.’

  Jake rolled his eyes. He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

  ‘I’ve told her you can buy a Mr Kipling Battenberg cake for, like, less than two pounds, but she wants to waste her time.’

  Kate had noticed over the past few weeks that Jake no longer worshipped Glenda in the way he had when he was little.

  ‘I’m sure a home-made one will be much nicer,’ said Kate, being diplomatic.

  Jake pulled a face, making his eyes go crossed.

  ‘If the wind changes you’ll stay like that,’ said Kate and he laughed.

  ‘Did you have a good day, Mum?’

  She didn’t feel like she could or should talk about anything that had happened to her during the day. She was still trying to process it herself. She was just excited to see her son, and still felt guilty she’d only remembered they had a call at the last minute.

  ‘I’ve been working. I went for a swim this morning as usual . . . The sea was a bit rough.’

  ‘Did you see any weird jellyfish?’

  ‘Not this time.’