Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(2)

The lights up ahead turned red, and a small blue Ford stopped in the line of traffic a few feet away. The man inside was a City type: overweight, in his midfifties, and wearing a pinstriped suit and glasses. He saw Kate, raised his eyebrows suggestively, and flashed his headlights. Kate looked away. The blue Ford inched closer, closing the gap in the line of cars until his passenger window was almost level with her. It slid down, and the man leaned over.

“Hello. You look cold. I can make you warm . . .” He patted the seat beside him, and he stuck out his tongue, which was thin and pointed. Kate froze. Panic rose in her chest. She forgot she had her police ID card and that she was a police officer. It all went out the window, and fear took over. “Come on. Hop inside. Let’s warm you up,” he said. He patted the seat again, impatient.

Kate stepped away from the curb. The underpass behind her was dark and empty. The other vehicles in the line had male drivers, and they seemed oblivious, cocooned in their cars. The lights ahead remained red. The rain thrummed lazily on the car roofs. The man leaned farther over, and the passenger door popped open a few inches. Kate took another step back but felt trapped. What if he got out of his car and pushed her into the underpass? “Don’t fuck me around. How much?” said the man. His smile was gone, and she could see his trousers were undone. His underpants were a faded and dingy color. He hooked his finger under the waistband and exposed his penis and a thatch of graying pubic hair.

Kate was still rooted to the spot, willing the lights to change.

A police siren blared out suddenly, cutting through the silence, and the cars and the arch of the underpass were lit up with blue flashing lights. The man hurriedly rearranged himself, fastened his trousers, and pulled the door shut. Activating the central locking. His face returning to an impassive stare. Kate fumbled in her bag and pulled out her police ID card. She went to the blue Ford and slapped it against the passenger window. Annoyed that she hadn’t done it earlier.

Peter’s unmarked police car, with its revolving blue light on the roof, came shooting down the outside of the row of traffic, half up on the grass shoulder. The traffic light changed to green. The car in front drove away, and Peter pulled into the gap. The man inside the Ford was now panicking, smoothing down his hair and tie. She fixed him with a stare, put her police ID card back in her bag, and went to the passenger door of Peter’s car.





2

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Traffic,” said Peter, giving her a brisk smile. He picked up a pile of paperwork from the passenger seat and put it behind his seat. He was a good-looking man in his late thirties, broad-shouldered with thick, dark, wavy hair, high cheekbones, and soft brown eyes. He wore an expensive tailored black suit.

“Of course,” she said, feeling relief as she stashed her handbag and groceries in the footwell and dropped into the seat. As soon as she closed the door, Peter accelerated and flicked on the sirens.

The sunshade was down on the passenger side, and she caught her reflection in the mirror as she folded it back up. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, nor was she dressed provocatively, and she always thought herself a little plain. She wasn’t delicate. She had strong features. Her shoulder-length hair was tied back off her face, tucked away under the neck of her long winter coat, almost as an afterthought. The only distinguishing marks on her face were her unusual eyes, which were a startling cornflower blue with a burst of burnt orange flooding out from the pupils, caused by sectoral heterochromia, a rare condition where the eyes have two colors.

The other, less permanent mark on her face was a split lip, just starting to scab over, which had been caused by an irate drunk resisting arrest a few days before. She had felt no fear when dealing with the drunk and didn’t feel ashamed that he’d hit her. It was part of the job. Why did she feel shame after being hit on by the sleazy businessman? He was the one with the sad, saggy gray underwear and the stubby little manhood.

“What was that? With the car behind?” asked Peter.

“Oh, one of his brake lights was out,” she said. It was easier to lie. She felt embarrassed. She pushed the man and his blue Ford to the back of her mind. “Have you called the whole team to the crime scene?” asked Kate.

“Of course,” he said, glancing over. “After we spoke, I got a call from the assistant commissioner, Anthony Asher. He says if this murder is linked to Operation Hemlock, I just need ask, and I’ll have all the resources I need at my disposal.”

He sped around a roundabout in fourth gear and took the exit to Crystal Palace Park. Peter Conway was a career police officer, and Kate had no doubt that solving this case would result in his promotion to superintendent or even chief superintendent. Peter had been the youngest officer in the history of the Met Police to be promoted to detective chief inspector.

The windows were starting to fog up, and he turned up the heater. The arc of condensation on the windscreen rippled and receded. Between a group of terrace houses, Kate caught a glimpse of the London skyline lit up. There were millions of lights, pinpricks in the black fabric of the sky, symbolizing the homes and offices of millions. Kate wondered which light belonged to the Nine Elms Cannibal. What if we never find him? she thought. The police never found Jack the Ripper, and back then London was tiny in comparison.

“Have you had any more leads from the white van database?” she asked.

“We brought in another six men for questioning, but their DNA didn’t match our man.”