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

by Robert Bryndza

  The chemical smell, that swimming pool stench of bleach and detergent, was pricking his nose and waking him up. This was a setback, but not everything was lost. He smiled as he scrubbed at his teeth, which had also been stained pink. The industrial cleaner made him retch, but he kept on scrubbing.

  As the stain began to fade, he felt back in control again. For his plan to work, he had to be in control of his emotions.

  CHAPTER 48

  It took forty-five minutes for Kate and Tristan to drive to the next location. It was a leafy avenue of posh houses, which became an unmade road with an arched railway bridge, and an underpass. On one side of the bridge was a patch of scrubland which had once been a children’s play area but was now overgrown, and on the other side was a high brick wall, connected to the railway bridge.

  Kate and Tristan walked through the underpass, a long dark, dirty passage which stank of urine. It opened out onto a busy road with houses and a few shops.

  ‘Would you walk down this?’ asked Tristan. ‘Even if there was a shortcut?’

  ‘Not if I stumbled on it, but this looks like a very posh area. The houses are smart. I don’t know. It’s a shortcut that would make the journey to the bus stop a lot shorter,’ said Kate.

  They came back through the underpass, and as they emerged on the other side, a train rumbled and clattered on the tracks above.

  ‘This would be a quiet place to wait,’ said Tristan, when they got to the overgrown playground.

  The last house on the road, just before the tarmac ended, was a grand old building in decay. Kate imagined that it had once been the only house in the area, and surrounded by fields.

  They walked back up the road a little way to get a better look at it. Ivy grew up the walls and around the large bay windows at the front. A lamp was on inside the front room downstairs, which looked very cosy. An old man wearing thick-rimmed glasses was sitting under the lamp in a high-backed chair reading a newspaper. A set of steps led up to a pillared front door with a brass knocker. Kate moved closer to the house and saw something tucked up under the eaves. The man noticed them, put down his newspaper, and took off his reading glasses.

  ‘Look. Up there, under the roof eaves, there’s a small mounted security camera,’ said Kate, pointing. ‘You can’t really see it until you’re up close.’

  The man was now standing at the window, and he waved a hand to shoo them away.

  ‘He doesn’t look happy,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Let’s see if he’ll talk to us,’ said Kate. She waved at the older man, and they climbed the steps to the front door and rang the bell. It chimed deep inside. No one answered.

  ‘What if he’s a ghost?’ said Tristan with a grin.

  Kate rang the bell again. A moment later the door opened. The old man stood in the doorway holding on to a walking frame. His right leg was encased in plaster.

  ‘Are you blind, woman? Can’t you see I’m walking wounded?’ he said waspishly. There was a smell of baking and tea brewing, and warmth flooded out into the chilly autumn air. The old man looked past Kate to Tristan, and smiled. ‘What can I do for you, young man?’

  Kate nudged Tristan in the ribs and he stepped forward and offered their card.

  ‘Hello. We’re private detectives. I’m Tristan Harper and this is Kate Marshall.’

  ‘I’m Frederick Walters.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Walters. We’re investigating the abduction of a young girl, and we believe that she could have been abducted on the road outside your house.’

  ‘Oh my lord! When?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago.’ Tristan went on to explain about the abduction and murder of Layla Gerrard.

  ‘How terrible,’ said Frederick, clutching a hand to his chest. ‘You look very young to be a private detective. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one, sir,’ said Tristan.

  ‘You don’t think it was me who abducted her? I’ve only just got back from a few weeks in hospital.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. The reason we’re calling is that we see you have a security camera on top of your house, looking at the road,’ said Kate. ‘Have the police been in touch? In case it captured anything of the abduction?’

  ‘No. They haven’t . . . ’ He peered up and down the road and turned back to Tristan. He smiled. ‘I was just about to make a pot of tea. Would you like a cup?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Tristan.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ added Kate. The invitation seemed to be directed only at Tristan.

  ‘Do come in.’ Frederick stood back to let them into the hallway. ‘Perhaps you could give me a hand, with the tea?’ he asked Tristan.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Karen. You make yourself comfortable in the living room,’ he added to Kate.

  ‘It’s Kate,’ she said, but he had already taken Tristan off down the hallway. She went into the living room. It reminded her of a house from the 1930s, with heavy wooden furniture and a bar in the corner with a soda siphon. There was a gramophone on a sideboard with an old-style horn, and the front windows were inlaid with lead, with stained glass in the corners. The light cast soft colours over the edge of an oyster-shell-patterned sofa with matching chairs. A modern flatscreen television had been plonked on a low credenza, and she peered behind it and saw an internet modem flashing.

  A few minutes later, Frederick returned with Tristan, and he was asking him about his tattoos.

  ‘Are they only on your forearms?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve got an eagle with his wings spread on my back and shoulders,’ said Tristan, placing the tray on the small table in front of the sofa.

  ‘My goodness, may I see it?’

  Kate gave Tristan a look, but he obliged Frederick and lifted his T-shirt, showing a washboard stomach and muscular pectorals. He turned around to show the spread wings across his back and shoulders. Kate had thought it sounded tacky, but when she saw it, it was beautifully done.

  ‘My, my . . . I think I’ll have to have a lie down when you leave,’ joked Frederick. Kate was grateful to Tristan for playing along, but thought he shouldn’t have to start pulling up his clothes.

  ‘Would you like me to pour the tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, you be mother,’ said Frederick. Tristan pulled his T-shirt down and sat on the sofa. Kate poured the tea and waited until Frederick had eased himself into the armchair opposite, then passed him a cup. She passed one to Tristan, then sat beside him and took a sip from her cup.

  ‘When was the security camera put on the front of your house?’ she asked.

  ‘Four months ago. It was put in for insurance purposes,’ said Frederick, sitting back in his chair and adjusting his glasses. He blew on his tea and took a sip.

  ‘Would you mind if we took a look at the footage for the day the girl went missing?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘What girl?’

  Kate briefly explained again.

  ‘I don’t know how it works. My niece had it put in and she comes to check it.’

  ‘Where do you keep the system?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘The cistern?’

  ‘No. The computer system for the security cameras. Is it in a box?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. It’s in the cupboard under the stairs. Feel free to have a look.’

  Kate and Tristan went into the hallway. They had to move a small table and lamp from in front of the door to the downstairs cupboard, and inside, amongst the dust and old boots and shoes, they found a small box with several green LED lights winking and flashing.

  ‘It looks like it records the video from the camera onto a hard drive,’ said Tristan. ‘It has an app-based security system, which we can log on to remotely.’

  He pulled a piece of paper off the top of the box and held it up to Kate. It had the login details and the password. He pulled out his phone, took a photo of it and put it back.

  They went back and finished their tea, and Tristan asked if they could have a look at the footage. Frederick didn’t understand how it worked, but
said Tristan was welcome to look through it.

  ‘I hope you find the person who abducted this young woman,’ said Frederick, accompanying them to the front door. He seemed sad that his impromptu visitors were leaving.

  ‘Thank you, this could be hugely helpful,’ said Tristan.

  They walked back to the car, and Tristan downloaded the security camera app for his phone.

  ‘I feel bad. He didn’t know I took a photo of the password,’ he said.

  ‘We’re just looking for the footage from one date, and it could help find Layla’s killer,’ said Kate. ‘And you flashed him your abs – I’m sure that’s a mental picture he’ll be dining out on for a long time.’

  Tristan laughed. They set off back to Ashdean and he logged into the app and started to scroll through the video files.

  ‘Okay. I have the footage from the day Layla Gerrard was abducted. The video files are in hourly increments. I’m just downloading the files from three p.m. to nine p.m.’

  When the footage was downloaded, he clicked on it and started to scroll through it at high speed. Kate glanced over from driving. The view from the camera stayed the same: the stretch of road with the overgrown play park and the edge of the underpass. He paused it when a dog walker went past and a postman on his bike. As the light began to fade, a black van appeared in the shot and drove slowly past the camera towards the underpass, and out of shot.

  ‘Shit,’ said Tristan, slowing it down and then winding it back. He played it again and paused the video when the van appeared. On the side was written ‘OMV Security’. It was a black van with tinted windows. Kate had that feeling, a tingling in her belly, which had long been dormant: it was the thrill of a breakthrough.

  ‘What time is that?’ she asked, trying to look at the tiny timestamp in the corner and keep her eyes on the road at the same time. She could barely contain her excitement.

  ‘Timestamp is 5.25 p.m. when the van pulls past . . . ’ He scrolled through the footage. ‘He must have been waiting there out of shot for almost an hour. It’s a dead end at the underpass. He turns the van around and passes the camera in the other direction at 6.23 p.m.’

  He ran the footage back and paused it. The letters OMV showed on the reverse side of the van.

  ‘He must have been waiting at the underpass, grabbed Layla and had her inside when he drove away,’ said Kate.

  Tristan quickly googled the company. ‘OMV are a company who deliver cash to ATMs,’ he said.

  ‘We need to share this with Varia,’ said Kate. The realisation that all they could do now was pass on the information dampened her excitement a little. Tristan took screenshots from both videos of the van, and loaded them up into a new email.

  Just as he sent off the email, Kate had a call. It was from Gary Dolman, the ghost writer who’d worked on No Son of Mine.

  ‘He’s based in Brighton,’ said Kate when she came off the phone. ‘He says we can meet him tomorrow at his house. He can answer any questions we have and talk about writing the book with Enid.’

  ‘I’d be up for that, something to focus our minds whilst we wait to hear back about this security video. Looks like things are moving,’ said Tristan.

  Kate nodded and tapped her phone against her teeth, nervous about the prospect of meeting him.

  ‘What? You don’t want to go?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘I do,’ said Kate. ‘He wanted to talk to me when he was writing the book. I kept saying no, and things got nasty . . . I think I told him to go fuck himself. I was drinking at the time.’

  ‘How did he sound on the phone?’

  ‘Fine. Normal.’

  ‘He was a tabloid journalist, so maybe he’s lost track of how many people told him to eff off,’ said Tristan.

  Kate laughed, but as a member of AA she knew she now had to apologise to Gary and make amends.

  CHAPTER 49

  Gary Dolman lived on Brighton seafront in a small end of terrace house. When he opened the door he was all smiles as he welcomed Kate and Tristan. He was in his early fifties, with a pierced nose and eyebrow, and his silver hair was topped with pink. He showed them through to an office crammed with bookshelves, which had a large bay window looking out to sea.

  ‘I can’t believe after all these years I finally get to meet you,’ he said, indicating they should sit on a large sofa.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate. ‘I owe you an apology for the last time we spoke, when you asked me to contribute to the book. I was very rude. I’m sorry.’

  He waved it away. ‘It’s all good. I know how the press hounded you. If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t happy with how the book turned out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Before we get settled, would you like tea or coffee?’ he asked.

  They both asked for tea, and Gary left the room.

  Kate looked around the office. There were several framed front pages of the News of the World. The first headline concerned a well-known actor who’d been caught snorting cocaine, and the second a supermodel who was photographed taking drugs with a rock singer. The third framed front page had the headline, NO SON OF MINE and underneath it was the now-famous look on Enid Conway’s face as she left the High Court in London after Peter had been found guilty and jailed for life. She wore a smart navy-blue two-piece jacket and skirt, her short dark hair was perfectly coiffed, but her face was streaked with mascara-smudged tears and she pressed a small white square of a hanky to her mouth. The News of the World had been the only newspaper to use a photo of Enid instead of Peter to announce the guilty verdict, and for this reason it had been all the more powerful. Kate went up to look more closely.

  ‘I didn’t know he wrote this headline,’ she said, peering at the small print. ‘I wonder why he gave it up? He was obviously good at his job.’ She heard how the last sentence came out of her mouth with a tinge of bitterness in her voice.

  ‘Let’s be careful. Once a journalist, always a journalist,’ Tristan said.

  ‘Good point,’ said Kate.

  She looked out of the window at the sea, and the twisted burned-out remains of the pier, which seemed to perch on the calm waters like a deformed spider. She felt mixed emotions about Gary Dolman. She had apologised and done her duty as a good member of Alcoholics Anonymous, but she thought back to the time of Peter’s arrest and the court case, and how he had hounded her for comments, quotes and a story. He had accepted her apology, but didn’t he owe her one?

  A moment later, Gary came back to the office, smiling, with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  ‘Right,’ he said, sitting at the chair by his desk. ‘Fire away.’

  Kate elaborated on their phone conversation, and their theory that the copycat killer was using No Son of Mine to inspire where he disposed of the bodies. ‘Have the police been in contact with you?’ finished Kate.

  ‘No. Not yet,’ he said, and dunked another biscuit in his tea.

  ‘I’d expect a call,’ said Kate. ‘I’ve notified them about my suspicions, and how the crime scenes link to Enid’s book – or should I say your book?’

  ‘If you solve the case, No Son of Mine could get a new print run,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Teenage girls are being murdered,’ said Kate coldly.

  He put his hands up. ‘Sorry. I’m just being realistic. Nothing sells a book like death . . . I’ve seen the news, ugh, horrible stuff.’ He shook his head and shuddered, making a big deal of being horrified.

  ‘What made you want to be a ghost writer, and not a writer in your own right?’ asked Tristan.

  Kate looked across at Tristan. She felt the same hostility towards Gary, but showing it could make him clam up.

  ‘I was fed up with the grind of working on a newspaper,’ he said. ‘I got the offer off the back of the reporting I did on the Nine Elms case, and my famous headline. They paid me a hundred grand. I paid off my mortgage. I think that makes me a proper writer.’

  ‘Did Enid ever say, “no son of mine” during the trial, when she was talki
ng about Peter?’ asked Tristan.

  ‘No . . . Did you ever hear her say it, Kate?’

  ‘I didn’t attend the whole trial. I just gave evidence,’ said Kate. She thought back to her four days on the stand, where she was ripped apart and humiliated by Peter Conway’s defence team.

  ‘Of course, and you’d had his baby by the time the trial kicked off? Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was an awkward pause, and Kate fixed him with a glare.

  ‘But you use quotation marks around that headline,’ said Tristan.

  Gary shrugged. ‘That’s journalism. It reflected the mood of the public, and that’s what good tabloid journalism is all about.’

  Yeah, and journalists like you fuck everyone who gets in their way, thought Kate. With a huge effort, she pushed her feelings to one side.

  ‘So how did the idea for the book come about?’ she asked, steering the conversation back to her line of questioning.

  ‘I got to know Enid Conway a little during the trial,’ said Gary. ‘She’d cadge a ciggy now and again on breaks outside the court house. She’d chat about this and that, nothing too revealing, but enough to have a rapport. I’d heard her asking another journalist how much he thought her story might be worth, and it was then that I knew there could be a big market for her story. I went to the publisher with the idea a couple of weeks before the guilty verdict, and they put the book deal together soon after.’

  ‘How many times did you meet with Enid for the book?’

  Gary sat back and rested his empty tea cup on his leg. ‘Six or seven.’

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘Here. Usually the ghost writer goes to the author, but Enid wanted to visit Brighton and stay in the Grand Hotel. The publisher put her up in the hotel for a week. She wanted to stay in the same room as Margaret Thatcher had when they bombed the hotel! But it was already booked, so they gave her the suite next door. We met there a couple of times, and here at my house. It was an interesting gig.’