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

by Robert Bryndza

  He knows no one is coming. He knows he has me all to himself, she thought desperately. And then the pain was so bad that she felt everything fade to black, and she passed out.

  CHAPTER 26

  Tristan went to a friend’s wedding over the weekend, and Kate spent Saturday and half of Sunday catching up on university work she’d missed during the previous week’s investigations. It was tough to refocus her mind on the day job. She had no resources, and had drawn a blank with Caitlyn. She knew she had probably made things worse for Malcolm and Sheila. She should never have agreed to help them and get their hopes up. She heard nothing from Malcolm over the weekend, which made her think the worst.

  Sunday afternoon was brightened by coffee and a walk with Myra on the beach, then a Skype call with Jake. Kate didn’t see Tristan until Monday afternoon, when they met in Starbucks and she brought him up to speed on everything that had happened in Altrincham.

  ‘And Paul Adler insists he didn’t know Peter Conway?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘Yes. I’ve already had Alan Hexham pull files on Caitlyn and Paul. He left the force before Peter Conway joined, although of course that doesn’t mean he didn’t know him,’ said Kate.

  Tristan pulled a face.

  ‘What?’

  He bit his lip. ‘Would you ever consider visiting Peter Conway?’

  ‘No. And he would have to send me a visiting order. And that won’t happen.’

  ‘Has he ever sent you one?’

  ‘Never. Tristan, I’m the reason he’s locked up.’

  Tristan nodded. ‘You’re the badass who caught him!’

  Kate smiled. Her phone rang.

  ‘It’s Alan. I’ll kill him if he’s cancelling his lecture on Thursday . . . ’ She answered the call, and listened. She checked her watch. ‘Okay. We’ll be there as soon as possible.’

  ‘What?’ asked Tristan when she came off the phone.

  ‘Another body’s been found, on Higher Tor near Belstone. A young woman, dumped naked with bites and a bag over her head.’

  When Kate and Tristan arrived at the edge of Dartmoor forty minutes later, the light was fading. They drove through the small village of Belstone, and then they hit the moorland and the road became a gravel track lined with drystone walls. The vast moorland was eerie in the twilight. They drove for a mile or so, and then the rocky hill formation of Higher Tor came into view, just visible against the darkening sky. At its base were a group of police cars and a van.

  There was a gate in the drystone wall, and Kate drove through it and parked the car on a patch of rough ground next to it. A police car was parked on the moor a little way back from the gate. Kate switched off the engine and they got out. The police officer in the squad car was in the middle of eating a Cornish pasty. He looked up when they approached, and wound down his window.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Kate. ‘We’ve been asked to attend by the forensic pathologist, Alan Hexham.’ She hoped that Alan was still in charge of the crime scene, and hadn’t yet handed over control to the police. The officer swallowed and reluctantly put down the pasty, wiping his mouth.

  ‘I’ll need some ID,’ he said. They scrabbled around for their driving licences and handed them through the window. He took the licences, and then closed his window.

  ‘You’re certain Alan asked me to come too?’ said Tristan, as the police officer peered at their driving licences and murmured something into his radio.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a whirr and the police officer’s car window opened.

  ‘I can’t get hold of him. Have you got a warrant card, either of you? I’m just trying to work out why you’re here.’

  ‘We’re not police,’ said Kate. He looked over at her mud-splattered car by the gate and his face became stern.

  ‘You’re not press? Because I can have you for wasting police time.’

  ‘We’re private investigators,’ said Kate. It felt odd to say it out loud. She was a university lecturer, an academic. There was a difference between advising the police and becoming a full-blown private investigator, but the latter made her independent. She wished she had a card. ‘I’m a former DC,’ she added. ‘I worked on the Nine Elms Cannibal case. Dr Hexham asked me and my associate to attend the crime scene because we’ve been sharing information about the murders of Emma Newman and Kaisha Smith. Dr Hexham believes this murder is linked.’

  The officer looked at their driving licences again. There was a burst of static and Kate heard Alan’s voice come over the radio.

  ‘This is Dr Hexham. I requested Kate Marshall attend with her associate, please let them through.’

  ‘Go on then,’ said the police officer, putting the radio down and picking up his half eaten Cornish pasty. ‘You’ll need to sign in at the crime scene.’

  Kate and Tristan set off towards the police cars. On either side of them the moors stretched out with gorse and scrub, now bathed in long shadows in the fading light.

  ‘Do you think it will smell bad, the body?’ asked Tristan, looking at the dark shape of the Tor up ahead.

  Kate looked over at him. ‘I don’t know. You’ve never seen a dead body before?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Do you want to go back to the car?’

  ‘No. No, I’ll be fine,’ he said. He didn’t sound too sure.

  A police cordon was set up in front of the police cars, and they were met by a police officer who signed them in, and a woman from the crime scene investigation team.

  ‘I’ll need you to put on coveralls,’ she said, holding a pair out to each of them.

  Tristan gulped. Kate put an arm on his shoulder. ‘I won’t judge you if you want to go back,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No. No. I’m coming up there with you. Final answer.’

  He steeled himself as they pulled on their coveralls. When they were ready, the CSI officer took them up the rocky slope to the tor. As they drew close, it towered above them and reminded Kate of a stack of pebbles left by a giant. To the right of the tor, a small square forensics canopy had been erected over a circle of rocks.

  Alan was briefing a group of police officers in coveralls, which included Varia Campbell and John Mercy. Varia turned when Kate and Tristan arrived, and her face clouded over.

  ‘Good evening. Thanks for allowing us to attend, Dr Hexham,’ said Kate.

  ‘Good evening. I’ve only just started,’ said Alan, towering above them all in his white coveralls. Kate and Tristan moved closer and saw there was a depression in the circle of rocks. The naked body of a young woman lay on her side. She was filthy and spattered in blood. Three crime scene officers were working around her, two taking soil samples and the third assisting the crime scene photographer.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Tristan. He put a hand over his mouth and gave a loud retch.

  ‘Is he a puker?’ Alan asked Kate. ‘We’ll have contamination to deal with if he pukes next to the crime scene.’

  ‘No. I’m fine, sir,’ said Tristan, wincing and swallowing.

  ‘Maybe a sick bag would be wise,’ said Kate, putting her hand on his back.

  One of the CSIs handed Tristan a paper bag. A couple of the male officers smirked. Kate felt protective of Tristan, but she didn’t say any more. Tristan looked embarrassed enough.

  Alan went on: ‘Right, for the benefit of former Detective Constable Marshall, who has just joined us with her associate, I believe – but don’t quote me – that the cause of death is asphyxiation. We have a plastic bag over the head, and her face and neck are covered in petechial haemorrhages. Note the type of plastic bag and the knot on the twine or rope. A drawstring bag, tied with a monkey’s fist knot. She is posed: on her left side, right arm out, head resting on the forearm.’

  The crime scene photographer punctuated this by firing off a photo. The flash lit up the body in the circle of stones and the rocky side of the huge tor.

  ‘If we can turn her over, please,’ said Alan.

  The CSIs gently turned the body ov
er, face down onto a waiting black PVC body bag. The camera flash went off again, and a gust of wind blew across the dark moor, causing the material of the forensics tent to crackle.

  ‘Yes. And that’s the last piece of the puzzle. You’ll see one, two, three, four, five, six bites on the back; two on the left side of the spine, two on the right, and two on the upper right-hand thigh. One of the thigh bites on the right-hand side is very deep.’ Alan moved closer to the body. ‘Time of death is more recent than for the other victims. I can give you the exact time of death when I conduct my post-mortem, but these look fresh enough for me to have a crack at getting bite impressions back in the lab.’

  Kate looked over at Tristan. He had a hand up to his mouth again. He shook his head and moved off back down the hill. The photographer fired off another couple of shots.

  Alan crouched down next to the girl’s feet. ‘The question is, how did she make it up here? There’s nothing to show she was dragged barefoot, nothing on the heels or toes, no grass or plant fibres. Any more information will come from the post-mortem.’

  The CSIs set to work, bagging up the body and transferring her from the rocky pit into the van. Varia came over to Alan with a clipboard.

  ‘Thank you for letting us attend,’ said Kate to Alan.

  ‘This is number three. I hope people start taking this seriously,’ he replied.

  ‘I take any murder scene seriously,’ said Varia, holding out the clipboard and a pen. ‘And now, Dr Hexham, if you could sign off and hand this crime scene over to me.’ Alan took the clipboard and started to check through the paperwork. ‘When that’s done I’d like you to leave, please,’ Varia added to Kate.

  ‘Who found the body?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Two hikers,’ said Alan, looking up from the paperwork.

  ‘This is Higher Tor? It’s one of the letterboxing tors, I think,’ said Kate.

  ‘Letterboxing?’ asked Varia.

  ‘Yes. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘I can hazard a guess.’

  ‘You haven’t heard of it and Dartmoor is on your beat?’

  ‘I was assigned here a month ago,’ said Varia. She looked impatiently at Alan. ‘Dr Hexham, if everything is good, please sign off.’

  ‘If he’s left another note, I’d check the letterbox,’ said Kate.

  ‘There is no letterbox,’ said Varia, indicating the landscape.

  ‘No. The letterbox is usually built into the rock of the tor,’ said Alan, still reading through the paperwork. Kate could see he was deliberately spinning things out. Varia couldn’t get rid of her until she had Alan’s signature.

  Kate followed Varia as she moved around the tor, past the body which was now in the black bag and being loaded onto a stretcher. Varia took out a torch and shone it on the smooth rock at the base of the tor.

  ‘There it is,’ said Kate, pointing to a small metal door which had been sunk into the rock at the base. Varia pulled on a pair of latex gloves and Kate took the torch from her, training it on the box as she undid the latch and opened it.

  ‘There’s a postcard,’ said Varia, pulling it out. On the front was an image of a famous pub on Bodmin Moor, the Jamaica Inn. Something about it rang a bell in Kate’s head, but she was eager to see what was written. Varia turned the card over. Kate was pleased that Varia wasn’t petty enough to shoo her away.

  SO, BODY NUMBER THREE SHOWS UP, AND FINALLY YOU CLOWNS ARE CATCHING UP.

  I SAW THE NEWS REPORT. AND HOW EXCITING TO HAVE A WOMAN HEADING THE CASE. THE STAGE IS SET. THE PLAYERS ARE ALL COMING TOGETHER.

  I ALREADY HAVE MY EYE ON NO. 4.

  A FAN

  ‘It looks like the same handwriting as the other notes,’ said Kate.

  ‘Get this finger-printed and tested for any DNA,’ said Varia, placing the postcard in a plastic evidence bag and handing it to John, who had joined them.

  ‘If we’re in any doubt he’s copycatting, then this confirms it,’ said Kate.

  ‘There’s no “we”,’ snapped Varia. Her radio beeped in her pocket and she pulled it out. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘The body is in transit. We can have officers bussed in from sunrise tomorrow to do a fingertip search,’ said a voice.

  ‘Copy that,’ said Varia.

  They came back around the tor. An officer handed Varia the paperwork from Alan Hexham.

  ‘That’s my paperwork signed, which means you need to leave,’ said Varia. Kate could see she was trying to stay calm.

  ‘You have my number, if you need anything,’ said Kate, but Varia ignored her and went over to her team. Kate walked back down to the police cordon and handed in her coveralls.

  She found Tristan close to the car. He was shivering. Kate unlocked the doors and they got in. She switched on the engine and put the heater on full. The cold and damp seemed to have got into her bones. They set off back along the track towards Belstone Village, and came up behind the forensic pathologist’s van, which was moving slowly over the rough terrain. Its brake lights flashed on as it stopped suddenly, causing Kate to stamp on the brakes. Their car skidded a little, and came to a stop inches from the back of the van.

  ‘Shit, that was close,’ she said, putting the car in reverse and backing up.

  ‘Rear-ending a pathologist’s van with a body in the back wouldn’t have been great,’ said Tristan.

  The passenger door of the van opened, and Alan Hexham got out. He waved and hurried over to Kate’s window. She wound it down.

  ‘Listen, Kate, one of my colleagues heard over the radio that you tried to get access to the crime scene as a private investigator?’

  ‘Sorry. I only had my driving licence. We weren’t sure what to say.’

  ‘I’m not really keen on the idea of private investigators per se. Lots of them seem to be knicker sniffers poking their noses into marital affairs.’

  ‘Alan. I’m not that kind of—’

  ‘Of course not. What I mean is, you’re the perfect candidate to be a private investigator . . . I just wanted to say you should get some business cards printed. I know they’re nothing more than paper, but they go a long way to making you legitimate. And, if there is any way I can help you, within the bounds of professional ethics of course, you can rely on me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate, surprised.

  ‘What do you make of this DCI Campbell?’

  ‘I don’t know. She doesn’t know the area, but she’s smart, she’ll learn,’ said Kate, eager not to be seen slagging off the lead officer on the case.

  ‘Let’s hope she learns quickly,’ said Alan. ‘Oh, and what’s your associate’s name again?’

  ‘Tristan,’ he said, leaning across Kate and offering Alan his hand.

  ‘Good to meet you,’ said Alan, leaning over and shaking it. ‘And well done. You didn’t puke!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Alan hurried off, throwing them a wave, and got back in the van. Kate waited until it had a head start. Her head was spinning, not only after seeing the poor dead girl and the latest note, but also having Alan approach her and give her his advice. It was a revelation. For so many years she had been the butt of jokes, painted as a corrupt police officer, mentally unsound and a bad mother. Even as a university lecturer she knew her tabloid past had played a part in her appointment, as a way of bringing in fee-paying students. Was there a chance Alan was right, and she could make a go of it as a professional private investigator?

  CHAPTER 27

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ asked Kate when they pulled up outside Tristan’s flat, which was right on the seafront in Ashdean. He’d kept his window open during the journey home and stuck his head out several times to gulp at the fresh air.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be okay,’ he said. He flicked on the light above the mirror. His face was grey. ‘I just feel stupid.’

  ‘On my first day as an officer on the beat, I was called out to an incident where an old lady had been hit across the face with a baseball bat. There was lots of blood and I puked my guts up,’ s
aid Kate.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It was in Catford in south London, by the market. All the market traders were laughing and jeering at me, so don’t beat yourself up about your reaction to seeing a mutilated dead body.’

  He put a hand to his mouth again. ‘I just know I’m going to see her when I close my eyes tonight.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Kate. ‘Pour yourself a stiff drink, and I’m giving you that advice as a member of AA.’

  He smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do you want to come for breakfast tomorrow? We can meet before the ten o’clock lecture and discuss everything.’

  He raised a thumb and grinned. ‘Don’t talk about food. I have to go,’ he said, opening the door and dashing out and up a set of steps to the second floor flat. Kate watched until he made it in, and hoped he wouldn’t decorate the carpet in his hallway.

  When Kate got home, she poured herself a large iced tea and went through to the living room. She sat on the piano stool, trying to work out how she felt. She’d had to harden her emotions over the years. She felt horrified that there was another dead young woman, but there was also a spark in her chest, an eagerness to look into the case and solve the mystery.

  She tapped the glass against her teeth. There was something about that postcard they found in the box on Higher Tor.

  ‘The Jamaica Inn. Where have I heard that before?’ she said out loud. She drained her iced tea, wishing almost subconsciously that it was Jack Daniel’s with ice, but the thought was fleeting, peripheral, then was gone. She put her glass on the piano and went to the bookshelf, moving past the rows of novels, the crime fiction and academic papers. Tucked in at the end of one of the shelves was a hardback with the title No Son of Mine by Enid Conway.

  She pulled it out. The cover was filled with a split-pane photograph. On the right was a picture of a sixteen-year-old Enid Conway cradling baby Peter. The picture was blurred in a nostalgic way, and baby Peter’s eyes were wide and staring at the camera, whilst Enid looked down at him adoringly. Enid was a hard-faced young woman with a shock of long dark hair. She wore a long flowing dress, and behind her was the sign AULDEARN UNMARRIED MOTHERS’ HOME. Through a window was the blurred image of a nun, in full penguin habit, staring out at them.