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

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘Where’s your mother got to?’ asked Myra. Jake looked back up at the house. He shrugged. ‘Why don’t you go and see where she is, and I’ll go back to the shop and see if I can find you a body board to practise your surfing?’

  ‘Okay!’ he said.

  Jake hurried off up the beach, through the dunes and up the sandy cliff to the back door. The house was eerily quiet when he came inside. There were books all over the living room floor and the big china bowl on the coffee table was broken. Then he heard a funny noise by the front door. Like thick tape being undone.

  He moved through the living room and into the hall. Kate lay limp on her back in the hallway, and she had a bloodied nose. Her wrists were bound together with masking tape. A huge red-haired man was bending over her, fastening her feet together with the tape. Jake put his hand over his mouth to suppress a scream. The man stopped and fixed his eyes on him. Jake couldn’t move.

  ‘The boy,’ the man said in a raspy whisper. He smiled, his lips were large and wet and he had huge teeth. He looked like a creepy clown. He stood up and he towered over Jake. He took a flick knife from his back pocket. ‘If you scream, I’ll slice your mother’s tits off and feed them to you,’ he said, his voice low and even. ‘I killed the policeman outside. Pushed this knife into his ear and BAM!’ The huge blade popped out. It was long, sharp and silver. Jake felt his legs start to tremble uncontrollably. ‘So stay quiet and do what I say, okay, Jake?’

  Jake’s top lip wobbled, and he nodded. He started to cry.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ said the man, reaching over. Jake flinched as he stroked his hair with the edge of the blade. ‘You are the golden child. Do you know how much I wish I could be you? And you look like your father, and your mother.’ He ran the edge of the blade down Jake’s cheek. The cold metal brushed Jake’s skin.

  Fear and terror suddenly overtook Jake and he yelled out.

  The man clamped his free hand over Jake’s mouth and pushed him up against the wall, holding the blade against his throat.

  ‘You are making this difficult, you little cunt . . . If you scream, I’ll do what I said to your mother. I mean it, do you hear me?’ he said. His voice was soft and menacing, and seemed to curl around his ears like smoke. ‘Where’s that old woman? Answer me, quietly.’

  ‘She, she . . . she went to her house,’ Jake whispered. He saw out of the corner of his eye Kate stirring a little, her eyes fluttering.

  ‘You have the same eyes,’ said the man, studying his face. ‘The sunburst in your left eye.’

  Jake flinched as the man took the knife away from his throat. The man then put his hand in his back pocket and took out a neat square of cotton. He leaned close. Jake could smell his breath, horrible and acidic. His body shook uncontrollably and he felt his shorts and legs warm with urine.

  ‘Jake. You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve planned for this. I’ve got such a surprise for you,’ he said softly.

  He clamped the cloth over Jake’s mouth and nose, pushing his head back against the wall. Jake smelt sharp, strong chemicals and his vision flooded with red and black, and then he was unconscious.

  *

  Joseph Castle-Meads had parked the van directly outside Kate’s front door. He loaded Kate and Jake into the back. He lingered a moment, crouching beside them. He put his hand to Kate’s face and felt her breathing, then touched Jake’s face. Mother and son together. He’d seen them on the beach, and he envied their close bond.

  His own mother had been a chilly, distant presence when he was growing up. His parents had always been more concerned about their position in society and his father’s legal career than their children. He was packed off to a brutal boarding school at an early age, and forgotten. When he did see his parents he had to fight for their attention.

  ‘Mother, Father. You will both have to sit up and pay attention to me now,’ he said. He gently covered Kate and Jake with a blanket and then closed the van door. Checking that no one had seen him, he set off on the long journey, waving at the dead policeman, still propped up in the driver’s seat of his squad car.

  CHAPTER 62

  In the three days since he had murdered Meredith Baxter, Peter Conway had been kept in solitary confinement. The routine had been the same: food, medication, shower, exercise.

  It had been difficult to keep track of time with no watch or window during the day, but it crawled by, and paranoia had crept in. He was now cut off from updates from Enid. What if the plan fell through? He faced a long stretch in solitary, and then what? A slow slide into a life as a geriatric serial killer.

  He had asked the time at each meal, and when he was let out in the small yard for exercise. Like a dog, he thought, a dog being let out to do his business in the morning and evening.

  On the previous day he had been visited by Terrence Lane, his solicitor, and for twenty minutes he had been taken into the small glass-partitioned visitors’ room in solitary. Terrence had explained that he would be charged with murder, but he may not stand trial as they would push for a plea of diminished responsibility. When their meeting had finished, Terrence got up and gathered his papers.

  ‘I spoke to Enid. She was devastated to hear what you’d done . . . You were on the way to being sent to a category B prison, Peter, better conditions. What are you playing at? This doctor. She was on your side. She was working on getting you a better place to live out your final years . . . She had a small son . . . ’ He shook his head, seemingly reminding himself that Peter was his client, and it wasn’t his place to pass moral judgement.

  ‘Thank you for everything, Terrence,’ said Peter, standing. ‘I wish I could shake your hand and thank you for everything over the years.’

  ‘Going somewhere, are you?’ asked Terrence, pushing the last of the papers back into his bag.

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘I’ll see you next week then,’ said Terrence, and he left the visiting room.

  Peter smiled to himself. ‘A better place to live out my final years . . . Just you wait and see,’ he muttered.

  Enid Conway sat on the end of her bed and looked at the small suitcase which was open and neatly packed. The small plastic carry-on suitcase was blue and unremarkable to look at. Inside she had carefully packed several casual outfits, a couple of smart suits and shoes, and a new swimming costume. There was also a home bleaching kit and some sharp scissors. She planned to go blonde and change her hair. This was one of the things she was so excited about. She had the opportunity to become someone different. She would be June Munro and Peter would be Walter King.

  On the bed beside the suitcase was a tan-coloured money belt. She took the eight-inch packet of 500-euro notes and slipped them into the pocket of the money belt. It was a tight squeeze and the quarter of a million euros only just fit. She checked their passports for the umpteenth time: June Munro and Walter King. There was a little space on top of the notes inside the money belt where she put the passports, then she zipped it up. She tried it on around her waist. It was tight, and dug painfully into her skin. She rearranged her clothes and checked her reflection in the mirror. The belt only protruded slightly under her blouse, like a little extra belly.

  The phone rang and she went downstairs to take the call. It was Peter’s solicitor. Terrence sounded despondent, and gave her an update on Peter’s upcoming assessment to see if he would be fit to stand trial for the murder of Dr Baxter. He also told her that Peter was looking well, and that Great Barwell would be keeping him in solitary confinement for the next few weeks.

  Enid came off the phone elated. They had no clue about the plan. She just wished she could tell Peter that everything was on course. She came through to the kitchen and poured herself a large whisky. Enid Conway didn’t have any friends. She had acquaintances on the street where she lived, but she lived a simple life. She was either at home or visiting Peter.

  Enid couldn’t quite believe that shortly she would walk out of her house and her life for ever. She downed the tumbler of whisky and pou
red herself another. For courage.

  CHAPTER 63

  Tristan left Jepson’s Wood just after dark, when the skeleton had finally been lifted from the soil and placed in a black body bag to go off to the forensic labs.

  He had seen the missed call from Kate, but she hadn’t left him a message. He had tried to call her back repeatedly but there was no answer. He felt guilty running away and leaving Victoria O’Grady, but Kate’s lack of contact, when she was desperate to know the outcome of the police search, worried him, so he drove home as fast as the speed limit would allow.

  When he arrived back in Ashdean and turned into Kate’s road, he was shocked to see blue flashing lights and the outside of her house swarming with police cars.

  Myra was standing in front of the surf shack with Varia Campbell. The car park was filled with police cars. Tristan’s shock turned to alarm when he saw a pathologist’s van. Police tape surrounded Kate’s house. He parked as close as he could get and ran over to Varia and Myra.

  ‘What’s happened? I’ve been trying to call Kate,’ he said. His question was answered as the body of the police officer guarding the house was lifted from the car and placed onto a trolley in a body bag.

  Varia explained what had happened. ‘Kate and her son Jake are missing. We think someone broke into the house. The glass in the front door is smashed and we can see signs of a struggle.’

  Tristan hadn’t met Myra before, but recognised her from Kat’s description of her. Myra’s eyes were red from crying.

  ‘I was down on the beach. First Kate went up and then Jake,’ she said. ‘I thought they were coming back. We were on the beach paddling . . . Then I came up, and found that poor police officer had been stabbed in the side of his head . . . I was only making him a cup of tea this morning.’

  ‘You didn’t see anybody?’ asked Tristan.

  Myra shook her head.

  Tristan looked around at the police cars and the body bag which was now closed and being wheeled to the pathologist’s van. He saw a receipt poking out of the cash machine outside the surf shack. He went over to it and pulled it out.

  ‘The time stamp on this is twenty minutes before Kate called me,’ said Tristan, handing the receipt to Varia.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Kate joked that she was the only person who used the cash machine in the winter. Do you use it, Myra?’

  ‘No. It charges you five quid a time,’ she said. ‘Kate or the police officer might have used it. There’s hardly anyone up at the caravan park.’

  ‘There’s a camera mounted on the front of the cash machine that activates when someone makes a withdrawal. It might have caught something?’ said Tristan.

  Varia’s eyes lit up. She took the cash machine receipt from him and pulled out her phone to make a call.

  CHAPTER 64

  When Kate woke, she felt a hard surface under her back, and her mouth was wet where she had drooled. She put her hand gingerly to her face. Her nose hurt to the touch, and it was badly swollen. A light burned brightly above, and she was shocked to see that her hands weren’t bound.

  She sat up. She was still wearing the jeans, T-shirt and jumper from the beach, and beside her lay Jake. He was very still and pale. He wasn’t wearing any shoes and his feet were still covered in sand.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, feeling him all over. He felt warm, and she put her hand to his neck. There was a pulse. A moment later he coughed and his eyes opened. It took him a moment to remember what had happened. He went to scream and Kate quickly put her hand over his mouth.

  ‘Jake. No,’ she said. ‘Please don’t scream.’

  She felt his hot tears on her hand. He gulped and nodded, and she took her hand away. He huddled against her.

  ‘Mum, what’s happening?’ he said, his chest heaving with silent sobs. ‘Who was that man? Where are we?’

  ‘His name’s Joseph Castle-Meads, erm . . . ’ She didn’t know what else to say. Her mind was still reeling from the revelation that the son of the barrister who tried the Peter Conway case was the copycat killer. She tried to remember what had happened. He’d got into her house. He’d attacked her in the living room. After that was a blank. She felt around in her pockets, then remembered that Joseph had smashed her phone. ‘Do you know how we got here? What can you remember?’

  Through tears, Jake told her that he came back up to the house and found Joseph tying her up in the hallway.

  ‘Did he hurt you?’ said Kate, checking him over.

  ‘No. But he scared me and . . . and I . . . I . . . I wet myself,’ he said, starting to cry again. ‘He put something on my face. It smelt of chemicals, and that’s all I can remember.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Kate, squeezing him tight. She had to keep it together and stay calm.

  Kate looked around. They were in a windowless room with a stone floor. It was small, about ten feet square. A bare bulb burned above them. The walls were white. In one corner was a small Perspex dome containing a CCTV camera. They each lay on a thin sleeping bag, which smelt new and clean. In the corner was a two-litre bottle of mineral water and a bucket with a roll of toilet paper beside it.

  Kate got to her feet. Jake stood with her, still holding onto her hand. Her head was throbbing and her arms and ankles were still dead from where they’d been bound. She felt around the walls and found the outline of a door. They were in a storage room or walk-in freezer. If it was the latter, it was switched off. Why weren’t they bound and tied up? Why were they under surveillance? Did walk-in freezers these days come equipped with CCTV cameras?

  They went to the door and Kate hit it with the flat of her hand but it made little sound. It must have been thick metal. She put her ear to it, but again, nothing.

  Now her senses were coming back, she could smell the metallic, gamey scent of dead meat. She looked around again and wondered if there was an air supply. There were no vents. There were three drains at intervals in the concrete floor. Drains meant sewage, which meant pipes. It was an air supply. Her throat was dry and she could taste the chemicals with which she had been sedated. She looked back to Jake who still held onto her hand and was following her gaze as she looked around. His eyes were wide and he looked so scared.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ she asked. He nodded.

  ‘Mum. This room, it feels like it’s getting smaller,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not. I promise. It’s okay.’

  She went to the water bottle sitting by the bucket. It was still sealed. She twisted off the cap and sniffed it, then poured a tiny amount in her mouth to taste. It was fresh. She took four long gulps and wiped her mouth.

  ‘Here, drink this and you’ll feel a little better,’ she said. She tilted the bottle for him and he took a few gulps. Jake was shivering now, and Kate wrapped him up in one of the sleeping bags.

  Why had Joseph brought them here? Why not just her?

  She searched through her memory for anything that might give her a clue to where they were, or how far they had travelled, but she couldn’t remember anything. For a moment her heart leapt when she thought of the call she’d made to Tristan, but Joseph had deleted the message. And what about Myra? She hoped that Myra hadn’t run into Joseph.

  She held Jake close to her and looked around the room for anything she could use as a weapon. She had to be ready to defend them when he opened the door.

  Joseph had checked the camera before he left, and seen that Kate and Jake were awake. He had been worried the dosage he’d given them was too strong, and that they would die on the long journey, but he was pleased to see they looked okay.

  He left the warehouse shortly afterwards and drove along Nine Elms Lane and the River Thames. The landscape had changed since 1995, and the area was under a huge amount of construction and development. He kept an eye on the cars around him as he drove past construction sites where tall cranes reached into the night sky, and on to Battersea Heliport, where he was keeping three helicopters. They were registered to a shell company which the authoriti
es would have difficulty in tracing back to him. They would trace the vehicles, but it would take a little time, and that was all he needed.

  The heliport was private, and at this late hour it was empty. His heart began to race as he buzzed in at the gate using his keycard, and he was waved through to the loading area by the river, where he parked his car.

  He had used two of the helicopters for legitimate business and for pleasure, and he had registered many flight plans in the past twelve months. The laws governing airspace around London and the M25 were strictly enforced because of the flight paths of commercial jets and other aircraft coming in and out of the city airports. In other parts of the country, the rules were looser, and a small deviation from a flight plan was permitted. Great Barwell Psychiatric Hospital sat ninety miles outside London.

  Joseph had already logged a flight plan that would take him out of London and up towards Cambridge and Great Barwell. He had only one chance at this, but with careful planning he was sure he could pull it off.

  He wiped down the steering wheel and door handles before he left the car. He always wore driving gloves, but this would buy him more time if needed.

  He grabbed a small backpack and locked the car. He went to a red air ambulance helicopter waiting for him on its helipad. He checked it had been fuelled and that everything was in place. Then he climbed aboard. CM Logistics had a vast array of contracts for commercial and private vehicles. They also had a contract for the storage and maintenance of two air ambulance helicopters used by UK hospitals. This helicopter had just been through its yearly maintenance check and would be returning to active service in two days’ time. It had been difficult to juggle the paperwork, but he now had the key element of his plan.

  After checking with the control tower that he had radio clearance, Joseph started the engine, the blades began to turn and the air ambulance was cleared for take-off, rising quickly into the dark sky.