Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(12)

We would, of course, pay you. My mobile number is written below. You can also email me back.

With best wishes, in hope,

Malcolm Murray



Kate sat back in her chair. Her heart was thumping loudly in her chest, and she looked over at Tristan, certain he must hear it, too, but he was on the phone leaving a message for Alan, asking him to call back to confirm his lecture appearance.

She drained the last of her coffee, wishing more than ever for a dash of Jack. There had been rumors and stories in the press that Peter Conway might have killed other women. And over the years, the police had pursued lines of investigation but had come up with nothing. This was the first she had heard of the name Caitlyn Murray.

She looked out the window and across the sea. Would it ever be over? Would she ever be able to escape from the shadow of Peter Conway and the terrible things he had done? She read the email again, and she knew she couldn’t ignore it. A part of her would always be a police officer. Kate pulled her chair closer to her desk and started to write a reply.





3

Thirty miles away from Kate’s office, the rain was lashing down as forensic pathologist Alan Hexham hurtled along a winding country road in his car, the mountains and vast craggy landscape appearing in flashes through the dense trees. His mobile rang as it slid around on the passenger seat, next to a Sausage & Egg McMuffin. He grabbed the phone with his free hand, but seeing it was an Ashdean number, he canceled the call and threw it back on the seat. He picked up the McMuffin, unwrapped it with his free hand, and took a bite.

Alan hadn’t expected to be on duty today, and his mind was still foggy after a late night at the morgue. Now that he was in his late fifties, he couldn’t burn the midnight oil like he used to.

The rain fell harder, reducing his view to a blur, and he switched the wipers to full power. His phone rang again, and seeing it was one of his team, he picked up, speaking through another mouthful.

“I’m there in five minutes . . . Where are you? . . . Jesus, put your fucking foot down. This rain is pissing away forensic evidence.” He hung up and chucked the phone down as the road narrowed to a single lane and wove between two high rock faces where the hills converged. He switched on his headlights in the gloom, praying that he wouldn’t meet another car coming in the other direction. He sped up as the rocky face on either side dropped away, and the road widened out to two lanes.

Alan saw a squad car parked by a low drystone wall, next to an opened gate. He parked behind it, and a buffeting gust of air slammed the car door into him as he got out, whipping his shoulder-length gray hair across his face. For a brief second, he heard his mother’s scolding voice: You won’t get far with that hair; you need a haircut, Alan, a short back and sides! He took one of the elastic bands he kept around his wrist and tied it back, still feeling defiant even though she was long dead.

He could see two police officers waiting inside the squad car. They got out and joined him at the gate. They both looked in shock. The woman, PC Tanya Barton, he had worked with before, but the young man with pale, almost translucent, skin was new to him.

Alan towered over the two young officers. He had always been tall, but he had filled out over the years and was now a broad, imposing bear of a man, with a weather-beaten face and a thick beard showing as much gray as his hair.

“Morning, sir. This is PC Tom Barclay,” said Tanya, having to yell to be heard over the wind and rain. Tom held out his hand.

“I need to see the scene,” shouted Alan. “Rain and forensic evidence don’t mix!” Tanya led the way through the gate into a field. They hurried across a mixture of thick gorse and grass, in places littered with the bones of sheep, keeping their heads down as the wind roared around their ears and the gray clouds seemed to press down on them. The land banked sharply toward a river, which had been swelled by the storm. Brown water surged over rocks, taking with it large branches and floating rubbish.

The body lay among rocks and gorse on the riverbank, and Alan could see it was already in an advanced state of decay. There was severe bloating, and the skin was marbled with patches of yellow and black. The body lay on its front with a long mane of filthy, straggly hair. There were six open wounds over the back and thighs, and in two places, flesh had been bitten away, exposing the spinal cord.

Something about the way the body lay set off alarm bells for Alan. He moved around to the head to see if it was male or female, and he felt the food in his stomach shift. The face was missing. He was used to blood and guts, but sometimes the violence of an act seemed to linger in the air. It looked as if the face had been torn away, leaving just a part of the bottom jaw and the jawbone with a row of teeth.

He moved closer, pulling on latex gloves.

“Did you touch the body?” he shouted. The wind changed direction, blowing the smell of putrid flesh at their faces. The two young officers winced and took a step back.

“No, sir,” said Tom with his hand over his mouth.

Alan gently lifted the torso and saw that the body was female. She lay on her left side with her head on her shoulder, one arm reaching out. He could see something bunched around the bloated neck. With his free hand he lifted the head, resting the heel of his other hand on her hip so that she wouldn’t roll down the riverbank into the murky torrent. A piece of thin rope was tied tightly around her neck, encased in the remains of what had been a plastic drawstring bag. As he lifted her head higher, the rest of the rope was pulled up out of the mud, and he saw the knot at the end. A small ball of intersecting turns.