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

by Robert Bryndza

  CHAPTER 58

  Kate had woken up at her normal time of 7.30 a.m., but Jake slept through until ten. This was another change reminding her that he was now a teenager. He always used to wake up at six in the morning, bright and chatty.

  By the time he woke up she’d pottered around the house, made herself and the police officer who was stationed outside a cup of tea, and spoken to Tristan who was on his way to Jepson’s Wood and promised to call her the minute he heard anything. When Jake finally stirred, they went for a swim in the sea. The weather was beautifully clear and the water calm. He had been excited to use his wetsuit and sea shoes, and they swam out together and spent a happy hour splashing in the surf and diving down under the water wearing their goggles.

  They then went into Ashdean and had lunch, and when they came home Myra joined them for a walk on the beach. Kate loved how good Myra was with Jake. When they reached the rock pools she was able to name all the sea creatures hiding in the gloomy depths, and tell him all about them. He was fascinated.

  PC Rob Morton was now on his third day shift outside Kate’s house, and it was proving to be a long, boring grind. His shift started at 7 a.m. and would go through to 7 p.m. He was grateful for the cups of tea and coffee from Kate and her neighbour Myra, but the shitty food he had ended up eating for the past few days was doing his guts in. Since his girlfriend Danni had left him, he was forced to fend for himself when it came to catering.

  He missed Danni’s packed lunches, and the home-cooked meals, more than he missed her. He looked over at today’s lunch on the passenger seat beside him, a sweaty cheese and onion sandwich from the petrol station. Pricey and shit, that’s what his lunch would be for the third day.

  As he sat with the radio playing, his mind drifted to what he would have for his dinner that night. This kind of long surveillance work wore you down, and all he wanted to do was drive home, have a bath and crash out on the sofa. He was going to treat himself and order in sushi from the new place in Ashdean. He took out his wallet and saw that he only had a tenner. There was a cash machine outside the surf shop and, wanting to stretch his legs, he got out of the car and walked over to it.

  The road was a dead end after Kate’s house, and on the other side of the road were fields. It was the kind of road where not much happened, but he had to keep his eyes peeled, as it was a quiet spot and not overlooked by anybody.

  The screen on the cash machine was misty with a layer of salt, and he had to rub it with the sleeve of his uniform. He put his card in and withdrew fifty quid, seeing that it would charge him five pounds for the privilege. He would have words with the old woman later and ask where that five pounds went to.

  As he was tucking the cash into his wallet, he noticed a small white van had pulled up a little way along the road. A tall, red-haired man wearing walking gear had climbed out and was changing into walking boots.

  Rob got back in his car and watched as the man pulled on a big rucksack and picked up a map. He then started towards him.

  The red-haired Fan glanced around as he approached the police car. He had already walked the length of the beach under Kate’s house and seen her on the sand with Jake and the old woman from the surf shop.

  As he reached the police car, he could see the thin, pasty-faced officer looked miserable sitting inside. He smiled amiably and knocked on the car window. The police officer scowled and wound down the window.

  ‘Hi, sorry to bother you, officer,’ said The Fan. ‘Is this the entrance to the coastal walk to Ashdean?’ In his hand was a folded map of the area, which he held up to the window. His hand moved to the pocket of his shorts, where he felt the outline of a flick knife and a little clump of cotton wool balls.

  The officer ignored the map and turned his head to look behind him. ‘Yeah. That’s the footpath, I think,’ he said, and went to wind up the window.

  The Fan put the map on the edge of the window.

  ‘Officer, I’m crap with maps. Is that the footpath where there’s been a lot of erosion? I’d hate to end up going over the edge of the cliff.’ He pushed the map through the window, forcing the officer to take it in both hands.

  The officer peered at it. ‘Listen, mate, I’m on duty—’

  The Fan reached inside the pocket of his shorts and with a quick smooth movement he took out the flick knife, pushed it into the officer’s right ear and pressed the button. The eight-inch blade shot out and embedded itself in his brain.

  It all happened so quickly. The officer looked up at The Fan in shock, then writhed around and grappled at the hand holding the knife against his head. The Fan twisted the blade in a circular motion, pulling it through his brain tissue. The officer started to fit, gurgle and foam at the mouth. Less than a minute later, he was still.

  The Fan removed the knife and plugged the officer’s ear with cotton wool, propping him up so that from a distance it would look like he was still sitting up in the car.

  He took out a tissue, wiped the officer’s chin and the knife, then retracted the blade, putting the knife back inside the pocket of his shorts. He looked around. The road was still and quiet.

  Now it was time to break into Kate’s house and wait.

  CHAPTER 59

  Tristan stood with Victoria in Jepson’s Wood as the second cadaver dog, Khloe, worked her way across the clearing, her nose hovering across the ground. She stopped in the same place as Kim, sat on her haunches and barked.

  Forensics officers had arrived within the hour. Tristan and Victoria moved closer and watched as three forensics officers cleared away leaves and pine needles before beginning to dig. A few minutes later it started to rain, and a tarpaulin was hastily put up so they could continue. Tristan and Victoria were given an umbrella, and he held it for them both as they listened to the rhythmic sound of spades in soil and the rain clattering on the tarpaulin.

  ‘I’ve never been back here,’ said Victoria, breaking the silence. ‘Not since it happened. Do you mind if I hold your hand? I’m shaking so much.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. He took her hand, which was freezing cold.

  An hour passed as the team dug deeper, the pile of soil beside the hole growing larger. The rain continued to hammer down and the clouds grew thick, casting the clearing of the wood in a heavy gloom.

  The smell of the rain on the soil and plants was fresh. They were digging ever deeper but it didn’t seem like they were going to find a body. Tristan was just thinking they would soon give up when a yell went up from one of the forensics officers.

  ‘We have something! We need a torch!’

  Tristan moved with Victoria to the edge. He could see the hole was around two metres deep, and roots from surrounding trees poked through the edges.

  ‘I can’t look,’ said Victoria, putting her head on his shoulder.

  The forensics officers were red in the face, their blue coveralls caked in the peaty soil. Tristan watched as they started to dig more carefully, scraping away the soil. Then they started to use large coarse brushes.

  A police officer brought over a light on a stand and shone it into the hole. The muddy shape of a skull with teeth was looking up at them from the dark soil. They worked down with the brushes, pulling away the muddy clods of earth, and uncovered a small skeleton, intact.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Tristan, his heart beating fast in his chest.

  Victoria turned and looked into the hole. She gave a sharp intake of breath and began to shake violently. ‘I’ve never seen a dead person before,’ she said.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Tristan. Victoria slumped back and sat down on the wet earth.

  Tristan moved closer as the forensics officers started to clean the bones with a finer brush. He could see there were still wisps of hair stuck to the dome of the skull, and a ragged piece of material. As they reached the feet, a pair of leather sandals was revealed, and what looked like a slim square handbag and strap.

  The sandals and the bag were the first things lifted out of the soil and placed in c
lear plastic evidence bags. Tristan asked to see them, and he took out a photo that Malcolm Murray’s neighbour had sent. It showed a picture of Caitlyn in the clothes she had worn the day she went missing: a thin blue summer dress, with a row of white flowers printed on the hem. Her sandals and bag were both made of blue leather, and had a matching pattern of white flowers.

  ‘I remember her wearing that outfit one day to work,’ said Victoria, peering at the photo.

  ‘Caitlyn’s mother said she was wearing this the day she went missing,’ said Tristan.

  Tristan compared the photo with the leather handbag and sandals in the plastic evidence bags. They were covered in soil and stained a dark brown, but the front flap of the handbag was still intact, and he rubbed at a pattern of flowers indented into the leather.

  This has to be her. It has to be Caitlyn, thought Tristan. He handed the evidence bags back to the officer.

  ‘We’ll have to look at dental records and DNA, but there is a high chance that these are the remains of Caitlyn Murray,’ said the officer.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Victoria. ‘I never thought it could be true . . . I never really thought they did it and dumped her here.’

  Yes! thought Tristan, feeling triumph mixed with sadness. Yes, we found her. He just wished Kate was there with him to see it.

  CHAPTER 60

  Kate was on the beach with Myra and Jake, trying to coax a huge crab out from a rock pool, when her phone rang. She took it from the pocket of her jeans, expecting it to be Tristan with news, but saw it was Alan Hexham.

  ‘Hello, Kate,’ he said.

  The wind had got up, and was roaring across the beach and whipping up the tops of the waves to white. Kate came away from the rock pools and up the beach.

  ‘Hi, I wondered where you’d got to. Is everything okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry. I had to go and work up north for a week. Listen, I’ve got the post-mortem files which I can share with you on Abigail Clarke. I also got something back which I thought would be of interest.’

  ‘Hang on, Alan,’ she said. She signalled to Myra and Jake. ‘I need to take this. I’m going to go up the beach out of the wind.’

  Myra nodded and turned back to Jake who was concentrating on the rock pool. Kate moved closer to the dunes, where the wind was quieter.

  ‘Sorry, go on, Alan,’ she said.

  ‘I was looking over the files of all the victims. Because of the nature of Abigail Clarke’s attack, I can’t find anything to link it to the other young women, even though the police suspect it was the same person. I also noticed a few discrepancies with Emma Newman – nothing major, but I thought I’d tell you before I send it all over. She was eighteen, not seventeen as was first reported. She was reported missing – a woman where she worked made the call – and Emma’s boyfriend at the time was given the wrong name in the police file.’

  ‘The wrong name?’

  ‘Yes. The report has him down as Keir Castle, but his legal name is Keir Castle-Meads. He styles himself as Keir Castle on his social media, and the Okehampton Times wrongly reported his name as Keir Castle, when he was charged for threatening his girlfriend, and given a fine and community service, but when I looked back over the magistrates’ records I discovered he is Keir Castle-Meads. I don’t know if the police made the same error. Although he has no other criminal record . . . ’

  Kate looked over at Myra and Jake. They had their trousers rolled up and were wading out into a rock pool, leaving a rippling wake across the smooth surface. Something clicked in the back of Kate’s mind and she didn’t hear what Alan said next.

  ‘Kate are you still there? I said I’m going to email this all over to you, but you know the drill. Mum’s the word that I’m sharing this with you. Keep it somewhere safe.’

  ‘Yes . . . Thank you.’

  Alan hung up. It hit Kate like a truck, the realisation where she’d heard that name before.

  ‘Myra! Jake!’ she shouted. They turned to her, Jake with a handful of seaweed. ‘I just have to run up to the house. Are you okay for a bit?’

  ‘Fine!’ shouted Myra, waving her away, and they turned back to look in the water.

  Kate ran back through the dunes and up to the house. It was so close, the thought, and she had to keep hold of it. Keir Castle-Meads, Castle-Meads. Castle-Meads . . . In the living room she scanned the bookshelves and found it, a true crime book, one of the better ones which had been written about the history of the Nine Elms Cannibal case.

  She flicked through, finding the photos at the back. Where was it? Castle-Meads . . . Castle-Meads. There were twelve pages of photos at the back, and she found it halfway through. A photo of the lead barrister who tried the Nine Elms Cannibal case: Tarquin Castle-Meads QC. He was a huge man, imposing and pompous with bright red thinning hair in a combover. His jowly mouth and large hooded eyes gave him the serious stare of a bulldog.

  Next to it was a picture, taken on the day of the verdict on the steps of the high court. A triumphant Tarquin Castle-Meads smiling with crooked yellow teeth with his wife, Cordelia, a dark-haired, handsome woman with a high forehead and a grim gaze. Their four children were lined up beside them, all dressed up as if for a day out at church. The children had all inherited their father’s flaming red hair and hooded eyes, which made their faces look odd and almost rubbery. Kate peered at the picture of the four children: Poppy, Mariette, Keir and Joseph.

  Jesus, thought Kate, as she peered at the photo. Keir had an alibi, he was away in the States when Emma Newman went missing, but what about the other son? What if that is the link, and the way in?

  She remembered something else about the family. She flicked through to the index and found a passage about Tarquin Castle-Meads QC. He was educated at Queen’s College, Oxford and he took the bar exam at an early age. His wife Cordelia had helped elevate him into the British establishment. She was the heir to the shipping firm CM Logistics Ltd.

  CM Logistics, thought Kate, holding the book. I see their bloody lorries and vans everywhere. They own warehouses all over the country. She googled the company on her phone and its slick website came up, dominated by a picture showing a fleet of vans and lorries streaking across a vast highway.

  Tarquin Castle-Meads had retired to Spain with his wife, and the kids had been fighting over the running of this multibillion-pound company, Kate remembered this from snippets she’d heard in the press over the years.

  How can I not have seen this?

  Kate was shaking with excitement as she rang Tristan. His phone went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Tristan, call me the moment you get this message. I’ve found the link, the person who is doing these copycat murders. It’s the son of the barrister who put Peter Conway in prison. Tarquin Castle-Meads was the QC who tried the case and won. His sons are Keir Castle-Meads and Joseph Castle-Meads. Keir has an alibi, but I think it’s the other son, Joseph, who is copycatting, and the reason he’s been able to get around so easily is that he has access to huge amounts of money and his family own CM Logistics, the haulage and delivery company . . . They deliver goods and services and they may well have a contract to deliver money to ATMs. It was an ATM van that we saw in the CCTV from the camera on the front of Frederick Walters’ house—’

  ‘What a clever girl you are,’ said a voice. Kate jumped and dropped her phone.

  A tall, red-haired man was standing at the end of the bookshelves. He had the same bright red hair and hooded eyes as in the photo. Keeping his eyes on her, he leaned down and picked up her phone. He put it to his ear, then pressed a number on the screen. Kate heard the computerised voice say ‘message deleted’. He ended the call.

  ‘Joseph Castle-Meads,’ she said. The sight of him standing in her living room was overpowering. He was so tall and he projected so much angry energy that the air around him seemed to crackle. He dropped her phone on the carpet, and ground his foot into the screen.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ he said. ‘Photos don’t do you justice. You look much be
tter in the flesh.’ He advanced on her, and Kate took a step back and felt the bookshelves against her back. His pale skin shone with sweat. Despite his good bone structure and height, he looked feral. He smiled and then punched her hard in the face. Kate felt her nose break and an explosion of pain. She went down with a crash onto the coffee table and rolled onto the floor.

  CHAPTER 61

  Jake enjoyed looking through the rock pools with Myra. Even though she was really old – her hair was white and her face covered in deep wrinkles – she was cool, and funny, and she knew a lot about sea creatures.

  They’d found a long eel floating in the depths of the deepest rock pool, lazily pumping water through its gills, and she’d managed to catch it. She held it up for him while he took a photo and peered at its large eyes and teeth. The only thing he thought gross was when she’d pulled the shell of a mussel off the side of the rock and asked if he would like to try it.

  ‘What? Eat it?’ he’d said.

  ‘Yes! You won’t get fresher. When I was a girl this was the highlight of a trip to the seaside.’

  ‘Eating that thing that looks like snot and earwax rolled together?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Myra put the shell to her mouth, and with a slurp she’d eaten it.

  ‘Yuck!’ he cried.

  She smiled. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’ She pulled another huge mussel from a seaweed-covered rock. It twitched in her grip and he grinned and shook his head.

  ‘I dare you to eat it,’ she said.

  ‘How much do you dare me?’

  ‘I’m not a gambling woman, but for you I’ll bet a couple of Mr Kipling’s fondant fancies?’

  ‘If I eat that, I’ll be barfing up fondant fancies all night!’

  He screamed when she ate it, and Myra laughed and rinsed her hands in the water. The wind was getting up now and Jake could see grey clouds rolling towards them from the horizon.