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

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘How did they know about the note?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘There’s always a leak in every police station,’ said Kate. She was more concerned that the journalist named Jake.

  ‘That’s not going to look good if they got it on camera,’ said Tristan. ‘It was only local news, though.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. They all share the footage,’ said Kate. ‘And now I’ve invited them back into my life, and they have what they wanted. Crazy Kate Marshall. Shit.’

  She slammed her hand on the steering wheel. She felt paranoid and scared. She had been in control of her life, and over the past few years she had found normality again, but now this person was taking it away from her.

  CHAPTER 35

  The next day was a Saturday. Kate woke at seven after an erratic few hours of sleep, and pulled on her bathing costume.

  She had missed her morning swim over the past few days. It was windy on the beach with huge waves, and she had to fight her way past the breakers before she swam out. The water temperature had dropped, making the scar on her belly sting. She swam out, losing herself in the roar of the surf and the cawing of seagulls. After a few minutes, she stopped and floated on her back. The water fizzed and bubbled, and the calm rhythm of the rolling water soothed her.

  She’d spoken to Glenda again last night, and reluctantly told her about the note. Her mother had been concerned, and had already cast doubt on Jake coming to stay for half term. The thought of Jake’s next visit always kept Kate going, something positive to focus on, and to think she might not see him until Christmas hurt. Kate floated on her back for a moment longer, then took a deep breath and dived under the water.

  Strands of seaweed hung suspended like ribbons in the water, rippling lazily with the surf. She swam down deeper, feeling the pressure on her ears and her goggles pressing against her face. The way the light was hitting the water gave the seabed a green gloaming. Kate kicked hard, her lungs bursting as she went deeper and deeper. The currents in the water were now still, the sand undisturbed. She exhaled, and felt her body drop through the water.

  As she sank down the water pressure was hard against her face. Her toes hit the seabed with a soft bump. It was so cold, and she felt a current of water move around her body. She looked up at the ribbons of seaweed rippling and dancing above. Her lungs were starting to ache and there were stars moving into her vision. Her head started to feel light, and she thought of how long it had been since she was drunk. If only she could ‘drink responsibly’ – whatever that meant. Kate wished she could enjoy the floating light-headedness a glass of whisky used to give her. The first drink after a long day was always the best, where she felt her problems recede. She longed for that feeling.

  Any day now, she was going to fall down and take a drink. She had come so close yesterday, at the train station, and had only been stopped by accident.

  Things were starting to spin out of control. There was a police car stationed outside her house. There was a malevolent threat towards her and Jake which would keep them apart until . . . until when? What if this man kept doing it, or worse, just vanished?

  A cold current moved past, shifting the sand around her toes, and it cut across her skin and the scar on her belly. Stars had almost filled her vision and she couldn't blink them away. The pulse in her neck and arms intensified, beating against her skin.

  What about Jake? Think about him. Mum won’t live for ever. There will be a time in the future when you are all he’s got, and in the eyes of the law he’ll be an adult in less than two years. You’re just going to give up? Don’t be so fucking weak! Life is worth fighting for!

  A jolt of sanity woke Kate up. With her feet flat on the sand she pushed upwards, kicking hard, moving up away from the sandy bottom to where the warm water moved and churned, through the ribbons of rippling seaweed, and then she broke the surface, taking a huge breath. The life flooded back into her, with the roar of the waves and the wind, and a wave hit her in the side of the head with a stinging slap.

  She took deep breaths, flexing her numb fingers and toes. She felt the current pulling her back to shore.

  Never give up. Never. Life is worth fighting for. Never drink again.

  She kicked out with the tide at her back and swam towards the shore.

  Kate took a long hot shower, ate breakfast and drove with Myra to the Saturday AA meeting at the church hall in Ashdean. She sat with Myra and listened to the people sharing. Myra got up first to share, telling the room that she had had twenty-nine years of sobriety, but every day was still a fight. She ended by saying, ‘My recovery must come first, so that everything I love in life doesn’t have to come last.’

  When it was Kate’s turn to share, she didn’t hold back, telling the room how she had almost drunk, and how much she yearned to take a drink and numb everything. She knew some of the faces who stared back at her; some were new but she drew strength from the fact that they all wanted one thing. Sobriety.

  When Myra and Kate arrived back at Kate’s house, they saw the police car sitting outside, and the officer inside put his hand up to wave.

  ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ asked Myra.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Just concentrate on today,’ said Myra. ‘You know how it works: one day at a time. All you need to concentrate on is not drinking today. Tomorrow is a way away.’

  ‘You’re full of quotes.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say I was full of shit!’ said Myra with a laugh.

  ‘Well, that too.’ Kate smiled. She leaned over and gave Myra a hug.

  ‘Keep your chin up. If that police officer had seen some weirdo in the bushes, he wouldn’t be waving,’ said Myra.

  ‘They can’t afford to keep an officer out here twenty-four hours for long,’ said Kate.

  ‘I’ll make him a cup of tea and give him a slice of cake, keep his energy levels up.’

  When Kate got back inside the house, her phone rang. She almost didn’t pick up because she didn’t recognise the number, but she was glad she did. It was Malcolm Murray.

  ‘Hello love, I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact,’ he said.

  ‘How is Sheila?’ asked Kate. She explained how she’d arrived at the house just as the ambulance was leaving.

  ‘Well, it’s been terrible. It was touch and go for a couple of days, but then we had a real miracle. A donor became available, and she has a new kidney. It’s going to take her time to recuperate, but she’s off the awful dialysis.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Kate, feeling that something was going right, and then she remembered what she’d driven to Chew Magna to tell them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Malcolm, but we hit a dead end.’ Kate outlined everything that had happened, and how the man in the car Caitlyn had met had turned out to be Paul Adler, who had an alibi. Kate didn’t share her reservations about him – she thought it best to give Malcolm the facts. He was silent for a long time on the end of the phone.

  ‘Well, thank you, love. We both appreciate everything you tried to do. I thought I’d lost them both, Caitlyn and Sheila. Maybe Caitlyn was only meant to be in our lives for a short time. The brightest stars burn out fast.’

  Kate felt a deep sadness for Malcolm and Sheila, and she wished she could do more. She heard herself promise that she would keep looking into it.

  She came off the phone hating that she’d promised too much.

  CHAPTER 36

  On Monday morning, Kate and Tristan were in their office working on the slides and notes for her lecture that afternoon when there was a knock at the door. Laurence Barnes, the dean of the university, entered. He was in his late forties with greying hair. He had replaced Professor Coombe-Davies, who had passed away the previous year, but he didn’t share the same affection with his staff. He was petty and divisive, and liked to rule with fear.

  ‘Kate, I need a word,’ he said, slapping a copy of the News of the World down on her desk.

  ‘I’ll go down and get
the projector set up,’ said Tristan, making to leave.

  ‘No. You stay. This involves you both,’ he snapped, pointing at Tristan to sit. ‘Have you seen this?’

  He turned to a lurid double-page spread about Kate and her involvement in the Nine Elms Copycat Killer case.

  ‘I read the Observer at weekends,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Did you watch the news?’

  Kate’s confrontation with Janelle Morrison, the BBC local news reporter, had made the news over the weekend, and journalists had made the link between the Nine Elms Cannibal and the latest copycat murders.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, this really doesn’t reflect well on the faculty.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photocopy of Kate’s private investigator business card. He placed it in front of her. ‘And neither does this. Running a business from your office. You have your direct number and university email on this card.’

  ‘Where did you get the card?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Varia Campbell, when she was put through to my office by mistake. She says she’s concerned that you are getting in the way of her police investigation.’

  It felt like a punch to the gut that Varia had sold her out to her boss.

  ‘She didn’t seem concerned last week when we spoke to her,’ said Tristan. ‘We were able to give her information about the case.’

  Laurence turned his attention to Tristan for the first time.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Er, we . . . ’ started Tristan, looking to Kate.

  ‘Tristan is my assistant in work, and he has been assisting me privately in an unpaid role,’ said Kate, scrambling to remember the terms of Tristan’s employment contract, hoping that she wasn’t landing him in it.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you a formal warning. And Tristan, your probationary three months will be extended to six.’

  Tristan opened his mouth to protest. He looked devastated.

  ‘Tristan, would you excuse us for a moment?’ Kate gave him a look and he reluctantly left the office. Kate smiled at Laurence and went to the filing cabinet and retrieved a piece of paper. ‘Have you read the UCAS submissions report for the 2011 to 2012 academic year?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. What’s that—’

  ‘Then you’ll see that my Criminology and Psychology course has five hundred applicants for eighty places. You’ll also be aware that when those eighty places are filled, come August, a large percentage of those students who are rejected will be offered the courses in Forensics and Psychology, which I also lecture. That’s a lot of bums on seats, thanks to me. Now, depending on who wins the next election, and it’s not looking good for the Labour Party, tuition fees could increase and university places become a buyer’s market,’ said Kate.

  ‘Are you threatening to leave?’ asked Laurence.

  ‘No. But I am telling you, Laurence, to get off my back and leave my staff alone. I do a good job, and so does Tristan. Almost all my colleagues have second jobs and do research projects.’

  ‘You listen to me, Kate.’

  ‘No. You listen to me. I’d hate to have to make an official complaint about you harassing me. I’m sure the newspapers would love another juicy story. I’m pretty newsworthy right now.’

  Laurence had gone very pale. ‘Now come on, Kate, there’s no reason to be like that. I just came to have a friendly word, off the record.’

  ‘There’s always a record,’ said Kate. ‘Oh, and Tristan’s probationary period ends today. If you could get HR to email him with the good news by the end of the day that would be great.’

  Laurence threw the newspaper into the wastepaper basket, went to the door and pushed at the handle. It wouldn’t budge and he got more annoyed and pushed against it.

  ‘It opens inwards,’ said Kate.

  Laurence was now red in the face. He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him.

  Kate hoped she hadn’t overstepped the mark, but if the past few years had taught her anything, it was that you had to stick up for yourself. She’d much rather be admired than liked.

  There was another knock at the door, and Tristan came in. He was holding up his phone.

  ‘Kate, it’s all over the news,’ he said. ‘They’ve just arrested a man in connection with the three copycat murders. The police have taken him into custody.’

  He came to Kate’s desk and showed her the footage of a man, with a coat over his head, handcuffed and being bundled up the steps into Exeter police station. He was surrounded by press and members of the public screaming abuse.

  ‘When was this posted on BBC News?’ asked Kate, frustrated that his face was hidden.

  ‘An hour ago. If we go down to the cafe, there might be an update on the news. It’s five to twelve,’ said Tristan.

  Kate grabbed her bag and they hurried out of the office.

  CHAPTER 37

  A hundred and ninety miles from Ashdean, the Bishop’s Arms pub sat overlooking the Chiltern Hills. It was an ancient thatched building which had been gutted and was now a Michelin-starred gastropub. The Bishop’s Arms sat in one of the wealthiest and most affluent pockets of the English countryside, and was the place to be seen.

  On this Monday lunchtime, the car park out front was full, and a row of helicopters was parked on the lawn at the back, next to a custom-built helipad.

  The red-haired Fan of Peter Conway looked around at the busy bar.

  Braying fools, he thought.

  The men, young and confident, were boorishly shouting over each other, already drunk and flushed in the face. The women were huddled in groups, better behaved, and all well turned out and beady-eyed.

  He’d been coming to the Bishop’s Arms for several years, first with his parents before they had retired to live in Spain, and now with his brother.

  His brother was fickle and lovable, and had tried for years to pursue a career in the music industry, but he was constantly sidetracked by the drugs and partying.

  He thought of Emma Newman, and a memory came back to him of her lying naked on her front, her hands tied behind her back, feet bound and pulled up to meet them, and masking tape over her mouth. Her skin had been soft and creamy to the touch, but the taste had been spoiled by the drugs that leaked through her pores.

  The television mounted on the wall caught his eye, and he watched in fascination as the news report played out. A man had been arrested for the three murders. His three murders. He felt panic. The man hadn’t been identified. He’d been led into the station with his face covered.

  What if this idiot was charged, and took the credit before his work was done – before the big reveal?

  He looked over at the woman he’d brought as his lunchtime date, India Dalton. She was pretty enough. They’d been introduced, via email, by his sister. India’s father owned a luxury travel agency and was a little too nouveau riche for this crowd, but her good looks more than made up for it.

  India was talking animatedly with Fizzy Martlesham, a severe-looking woman with her hair scraped back from her large forehead. The Martlesham family owned vast amounts of farmland around Oxfordshire and were a major supplier of the strawberries consumed at Wimbledon.

  He looked back at the screen, downed the rest of his pint, and picked up his jacket.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you, ladies.’ He smiled, taking India by the arm. ‘But something urgent has come up. You’ll have to excuse us.’

  ‘What about lunch?’ asked India. ‘I so want to try the turmeric and raspberry sorbet.’

  ‘Another time. I can drop you back at the heliport, and we’ll reschedule.’

  ‘Shame you have to fly off, quite literally,’ said Fizzy, leaning in for an air kiss.

  ‘Please relay my apologies to my brother, he seems to have vanished.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I saw him heading to the bathroom a little while ago . . . Oh, and India would love a selfie in front of your helicopter for her social media account,’
said Fizzy with spiteful glee.

  They left the pub, crossing the wet grass to the helipad.

  ‘Could I get a photo before we take off?’ asked India, picking her way carefully in her sandals. She had his leather jacket draped over her thin shoulders.

  ‘No,’ he said, opening the door of a petrol-blue helicopter. The glass bubble of the cockpit was glistening in the sun. India pouted, petulant, but still took her phone from her bag. He leaned over and put his hand over her phone.

  ‘I said, no. No photo.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you own this magnificent machine. It’s just crying out to be photographed.’ She grinned and pulled her hand away, and went to snap a picture. He grabbed her wrist and twisted. She yelped and dropped the phone.

  ‘I said no fucking photo. When I say no, I mean it!’

  He leaned down and picked up her phone, then opened the door for her. India had tears in her eyes as she clambered inside. He slammed the door.

  At the back of the pub he could see Fizzy smoking. She raised her cigarette, smiling. He waved back, muttering Nosy bitch under his breath.

  He climbed into the cockpit, pulled on his headset and got clearance for take-off. It took a minute for the blades to start spinning, then with a roar they took off, the grass below them flattening and then seeming to drop away. India refused to put on her headset, so he was unable to talk to her over the roar of the engine.

  It was a ten-minute journey back to the Oxfordshire heliport where they’d met up. He left the engine running when they touched down, and turned to her with a smile and a wave. ‘Bye, bye, India.’

  She motioned to him that she couldn’t hear, but he carried on smiling and waving as she jumped out and was met by one of the stewards from the heliport. He watched them move away, their hair flattened by the wind from the whirring blades.