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

by Robert Bryndza

  Kate came out of her reverie and saw them both staring at her.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked, a thought coming to her. ‘Where is this place?’

  Peter began to laugh, and Joseph joined in.

  ‘Where we are, I think, is the most brilliant part of it all.’

  Joseph pulled Jake away from her and Peter grabbed her arm. He dragged her over to the sliding door and pressed a button. He held onto her as the door slowly whirred back. The wind blew inside, whipping Kate’s hair around her head. Her mouth dropped open as she saw they were looking over the River Thames, and at the London skyline twinkling in the night. The chimneys of Battersea Power Station rose up out of the water.

  ‘Nine Elms Lane,’ she said.

  ‘Not just Nine Elms Lane,’ said Peter into her ear. ‘This is the location of the Nine Elms car scrapyard, now owned and redeveloped by CM Logistics. Your sad little bedroom back there sits on the exact spot where I dumped Shelley Norris’s body back in 1993.’

  Kate fought his grip and tried to break free. ‘You’re fucking crazy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, turning her around to face him. ‘That’s what I always thought attracted you to me.’

  The cold wind screamed through the door, and she saw that Joseph was coming towards her.

  ‘Where’s Jake?’ she started to say. There was a clicking sound and she saw Joseph holding a Taser. She looked down and saw two wires hooked into the front of her sweater. A terrible pain jolted through her body, making her rigid, and blackness overcame her again.

  When Kate came to, she smelled the strong scent of ammonia and her eyes shot open. Joseph stepped back with the smelling salts he’d used to revive her. She was lying on the bed, in her old bedroom, wearing a white towelling robe. Peter was kneeling on top of her, trapping her arms down by her side, just as he had all those years ago. He held a long thin knife.

  In place of the fourth wall, Joseph was behind a video camera, filming. To the side of him, Jake was trussed up in a chair, his arms and legs bound with tape.

  Despite his loss of muscle and age, Peter was still strong and he leaned his weight into her, making her cry out. This had escalated fast; she had no time to think. Peter had stabbed her all those years ago, and he was going to do it again. On the floor by the video camera was a bottle of water, a roll of tape and the Taser.

  ‘Are we rolling?’ asked Peter.

  Joseph gave him a thumbs-up. Jake’s eyes were wide and he writhed in the chair. Kate looked at him, desperate to see if he could reach the Taser, but he was too far away and his feet were taped to the chair.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ said Peter. He put the knife between his brown teeth and untied Kate’s robe. When he opened it, she was naked underneath. Kate yelled out and tears filled her eyes at the humiliation.

  ‘No, no!’ she cried.

  Peter traced the tip of the knife across her nipples and down to the scar. ‘They did do a good job sewing it up, didn’t they?’ he said.

  Joseph laughed from where he was watching.

  Peter turned to the camera and noticed Jake had closed his eyes. ‘You open those eyes, boy! Open those fucking eyes or Joseph will peel them open with his knife!’

  Jake writhed and cried under the restraints, but he opened his eyes. Peter lifted up the blade and placed the tip at the end of Kate’s scar.

  ‘Do you remember the pain?’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that the body forgets.’ He went to push the knife in.

  ‘Peter! Wait!’ she cried, trying to stall him.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘You forgot to do something. If Joseph wants this to be authentic.’

  ‘No, I didn’t forget anything,’ he said.

  An idea came to her, and she hoped she would have the strength to see it through.

  ‘No! It’s not right! Stop! It’s all wrong,’ she said.

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Joseph, moving around the camera and towards them. ‘What is it?’

  Peter sat back, digging his knees and legs into her wrists and stomach. The pain was hot and fierce, but she kept her face neutral.

  ‘It’s, er, well, embarrassing.’

  ‘What?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘Peter knows,’ she said.

  ‘I do?’ he said, confusion in his eyes.

  ‘I said something to you on the night, just before you stabbed me. I . . . pleaded with you, for my life.’

  The pain was now unbearable where Peter leant on her wrists.

  ‘Okay, okay, let’s start again,’ said Joseph, moving back behind the camera. ‘Go.’

  Kate tilted her head up in preparation to whisper, and Peter leaned down towards her, putting even more pressure on her wrists. She felt like they were going to break. As he leaned close, Kate saw the skin on his neck, how it had changed in the years from being taut and youthful to crinkled like crepe paper. The tendons were sticking out, and she could see the pulse beating under the skin of his throat.

  ‘You’re going to die,’ he said. He came closer, grinning.

  Kate put her mouth to his ear. ‘You’re going to rot in that mental hospital, you evil bastard,’ she whispered.

  Then she opened her mouth wide and sank her teeth into his throat, biting down as hard as she could. She felt his skin tear and the blood from his jugular pour out. He dropped the knife and it clattered onto the floor. Jake screamed as she bit down harder and kept hold, shaking her head from side to side, biting down like a dog. Peter screamed and pulled back.

  ‘Let go! Help me!’ he cried. He was screaming and crying out, and finally broke free, holding his neck where the blood was gushing. Kate’s face and eyes were covered in blood.

  Joseph held his camera in shock, and he instinctively went to help Peter. Kate leapt off the bed and skidded across the floor, grabbing the Taser. She twisted on her feet, took aim and fired it at Joseph’s neck. He screamed and fell forward, writhing and clutching at the wires.

  Kate didn’t wait a moment longer. She gathered up her robe, picked up the scissors and started to cut Jake free.

  Tristan’s knuckles were white as he gripped the door in the back of the police squad car. The sirens and lights were blaring, and they were flanked by four other squad cars and two ambulances. Varia Campbell sat in the passenger seat with John Mercy driving. Tristan had never been to London before, and this mad dash to the warehouse on Nine Elms Lane was the weirdest, most terrifying introduction. The River Thames flew by on their left-hand side, the dark water reflecting the lights from the cranes above.

  ‘The turning is on the next right,’ said Varia, shouting above the sound of the sirens.

  Two things had alerted them to the location where they thought Kate and Jake had been taken. The cash machine outside the surf shop had caught an image of a tall, red-haired man arriving in a white van whose number plates had been reported stolen. Varia had also received a message from Alan Hexham about Keir Castle-Meads being incorrectly named.

  The white van was caught on a CCTV camera heading into London. The rest had been Tristan. He found the open book Kate had dropped on the floor in her living room, containing the photo of the Castle-Meads family. Once they’d identified Joseph Castle-Meads, reports had come in that Peter had been broken out of Great Barwell, and it had all fallen into place. Tristan had asked Varia to check out the London locations of each murder committed by Peter Conway, and they discovered that the location of the first murder was now occupied by a warehouse owned by CM Logistics.

  They turned off Nine Elms Lane with a screech of tyres and into the empty car park of the huge warehouse. As they pulled up to the loading bay, a large door started to roll back and a woman came running out, barefoot and covered in blood, carrying a teenage boy with his arms and legs tied.

  ‘That’s Kate and Jake!’ shouted Tristan as the squad car came to a stop, flanked by the other cars and the ambulances. Tristan didn’t wait. He jumped out of the car and ran towards them.

  ‘Oh my God, wher
e are you injured?’ he shouted.

  ‘It’s not me. I’m fine,’ said Kate, wiping the blood from her face. She was crying and so was Jake as he clung to her robe. The paramedics from one of the ambulances rushed over to Kate, Tristan and Jake.

  ‘Peter Conway and Joseph Castle-Meads,’ said Kate breathlessly. ‘They’re inside. Peter is injured . . . I bit him.’

  Tristan ran with the paramedics and police officers into the warehouse. He saw the crazy tableau of the bedroom set, with a camera on a tripod.

  Beside the bed, Peter Conway lay on the concrete, holding his hand to his neck, which was pouring blood. In his free hand he had a knife. On the floor beside him was Joseph, barely conscious and tangled up in Taser wires.

  ‘You come any closer and I’ll kill him. I’ll slit him open!’ Peter cried, holding the knife at Joseph’s throat.

  ‘Throw the knife away from your body, or we shoot you,’ came a voice through a loud hailer. Four officers from the armed response team had entered behind Tristan, wearing protective gear and helmets and holding guns. Varia appeared with DI Mercy and they pulled Tristan away and back to the doorway.

  ‘I’ll kill him! I’ll fucking end him!’ Peter cried. He pressed the blade against Joseph’s throat. ‘And then I’ll bleed to death!’

  The line of armed officers moved closer and circled Peter and Joseph, their guns trained on him. The blood was now slick down Peter’s right side, pouring through the fingers of his right hand, still clamped to his neck. The knife began to shake in his left hand. ‘I’m . . . I’m bleeding to death!’ he said, his voice faltering.

  ‘Drop the knife, or we’ll shoot you,’ came the voice from the loudhailer again.

  Peter looked up at the armed response team, and the police cars and ambulances waiting outside the warehouse.

  ‘Fuck it! Fuck you all,’ he said. He pulled the knife away from Joseph’s face and threw it away from him. It landed on the concrete floor with a clatter.

  Joseph started to come round, and attempted to get up, but slipped in the growing pool of blood and landed on his backside with a strangled cry.

  Two of the armed officers broke away from the circle and grabbed Joseph.

  ‘I need help! I’m bleeding!’ cried Peter, collapsing back onto the floor. The third armed officer quickly checked Peter for weapons and picked up the knife.

  When they were satisfied, they called in the paramedics who started to work on Peter, applying a pressure bandage to his neck.

  Varia and DI Mercy went over to Joseph, who was now conscious. ‘Joseph Castle-Meads, I’m arresting you for the murders of Emma Newman, Kaisha Smith, Layla Gerrard, Abigail Clarke, and PC Rob Morton . . . ’

  ‘Turn the camera off!’ Joseph screamed, wild-eyed, as DI Mercy handcuffed his hands behind his back.

  ‘ . . .I’m also arresting you for the abduction of Kate Marshall and Jake Marshall, and for aiding the escape of a known criminal. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,’ finished Varia.

  ‘Turn the camera off.’ Joseph was crying. ‘This wasn’t what was meant to happen!’

  He was dragged away by DI Mercy and two uniformed officers. Peter had gone still and quiet, just staring bleakly ahead. The paramedics working on him had a large pressure bandage over his neck, and an IV line in his blood-caked arm, and they were loading him onto a stretcher.

  Tristan went to the camera on the tripod, and was joined by Varia. They stared at the replica of Kate’s bedroom for a moment.

  ‘Oh my lord. I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Varia. ‘It looks exactly like Kate’s bedroom in the crime scene photos from 1995.’

  Tristan was intrigued to see what was on the camera and put his hand out.

  ‘No, don’t touch it,’ said Varia. ‘I need forensics in here.’

  ‘Sorry, rookie mistake,’ he said, pulling his hand back.

  Varia smiled. ‘Well done. We wouldn’t have found them without your help.’

  Tristan felt his chest swell with pride and relief. He hurried back out of the warehouse and into the car park.

  Kate and Jake stood, wrapped in a blanket, in the car park outside the warehouse. They had been checked over by the paramedics; they were in shock, but they would be fine. Kate felt Jake shivering and she pulled the blanket closer around them.

  They watched as Joseph Castle-Meads was taken past them in cuffs and loaded into the back of a police car. He was shouting and screaming at the police, and didn’t see Kate and Jake. Moments later, two paramedics rushed out of the warehouse pushing the stretcher containing Peter Conway. Peter was lying on his left side. As the stretcher went past, he shouted, ‘Wait! Stop!’

  The stretcher came to a stop beside Kate and Jake. Peter looked up at them with one eye and a bloody face. He held out his free hand, his arm bloodied with its IV line.

  ‘Jake, you should come and visit me. I’m your dad, we’re blood,’ he said. His voice was weak, but his one eye sparkled malevolently. Kate froze, and looked down at Jake who was staring at Peter. A look passed between them, a look of recognition that they were father and son.

  ‘We have to get you to hospital,’ said one of the paramedics.

  ‘Love you, son,’ said Peter, and then he was whisked away to a waiting ambulance. It was only when the ambulance doors closed and it started to drive away that Kate began to breathe again. She looked down at Jake.

  ‘I’m sorry. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘I don’t want to see him again.’

  Kate kissed the top of his head and hugged him close. She wasn’t convinced by what Jake said. However small and tentative, he’d make a connection with Peter, and in a few years she would be powerless if Jake wanted to see his father.

  Seventy-five miles away, Enid Conway sat waiting on a wooden bench at a small pier in the shadow of Portsmouth harbour. It had been a hard place for her to find, accessed down a narrow, unmade road and next to the muddy reed-covered bank.

  At her feet was the small carry-on suitcase. She had to sit bolt upright on the bench, or the money belt containing the passports and a quarter of a million euros dug painfully into her skin. She wore cork-heeled wedge sandals. Again, they weren’t the most practical, but they wouldn’t fit in the case. Beside her on the bench was a small sunhat. The weather in Spain would be hot, even though it was October, and the hat was made of blonde straw, chosen to match her soon-to-be blonde hair.

  She shivered – she’d also dressed for warmer weather, and the cold was creeping up the back of the thin cardigan. She’d been told to expect a small fishing boat at 2.30 a.m., manned by a portly bloke called Carlos with a grey beard, but looking out across the still water of the port, she could see nothing but a large tanker belching out smoke.

  She got up and paced, swearing as the money belt pinched at her skin. She checked her watch. They were an hour late. She’d been told there might be a hold-up, but this was starting to make her sweat, despite the cold.

  Just then she saw a small light appear around the side of the port and start towards her across the water. It was moving quickly for a fishing boat, but she felt immediate relief and excitement. Peter wouldn’t be on the boat – they would rendezvous on a larger boat a couple of miles out to sea. Enid grabbed her case and hat, and checked her money belt was secure. Then she stepped down onto the small wooden pier, making her way carefully along the rotting wood to the end in her cork-bottomed wedges.

  It wasn’t until the boat was almost on her that she realised it was a speedboat, and had POLICE written on the side.

  Enid panicked. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and made a run for it, back along the pier to the bank where she thought she might be able to lose them amongst the acres of tall reeds, but the edge of one of her shoes caught on the uneven wood. She tottered on the edge of the jetty, her arms wheelin
g at her side, then lost her balance and fell into the murky water with a splash.

  ‘You bastards!’ she screamed, as she thought of the money and passports now under the water. She attempted to swim away, swallowing a mouthful of foul-tasting water. A bright light was trained on her, a long pole flopped onto the surface of the water and she was encircled by a large plastic loop.

  She was fished out of the water and dumped into the boat, where she was greeted by two police officers.

  ‘Enid Conway, I’m arresting you for conspiracy to commit fraud and murder . . . ’ said one of the officers. As the other attempted to take the plastic loop off her shoulders, she slapped him across the face. ‘And for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.’

  Enid leaned back, soaking wet, as she was read her rights and handcuffed. Even though she knew it was all over, she refused to let them see her cry.

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  CHAPTER 67

  The churchyard in Chew Magna was beautiful on the crisp November morning. Kate, Tristan and Jake arrived just as the service began and slipped into a pew at the back of the church. It was filled with mourners, and a few journalists and photographers lurked, standing at the back.

  Kate could see Sheila and Malcolm in the front row, flanked by their neighbours and friends. Despite the horror, Sheila looked better than she had at their last meeting when she was hooked up to the dialysis machines. Her skin was pale with a flush of pink, and she held Malcolm’s hand in both of hers.

  Caitlyn’s coffin sat on a plinth by the altar, surrounded by a riot of flowers – roses, lilies and carnations.

  ‘I can see our bunch of flowers,’ whispered Jake in Kate’s ear, and he pointed to the lilies they had sent to the family.

  Caitlyn’s remains had been identified from dental records and DNA taken from Sheila and Malcolm. Kate hadn’t been the one to break the news to Sheila and Malcolm, but she imagined how they must have felt, hearing their daughter had finally been found after twenty years. After all that time, they would finally be able to grieve.