Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(29)

“Back in late July. A young girl, a prostitute, was found dumped over there in the top corner. Poor wee lass. If she was hooking, I don’t know how she got this far out.”

“Did you get anything on CCTV?”

He sputtered a spume of smoke. “This ain’t fucking Harrods. We’re a wrecker’s yard.”

“A dead body? Here?” said Kate.

“I found her,” he said, nodding sagely. “Up by the graffiti of a huge picture of Bob Marley.”

“Who was she?” asked Kate.

“We don’t know. The police questioned everyone, and then it went quiet. She was pretty battered up. Covered in mud, she was.”

“Was she dumped at night?”

“She must have been,” he said. “There’s no one here at night. It’s pretty isolated. Gives me the creeps sometimes when the wind howls through the metalwork.”

“Okay. Thanks,” said Tristan.

“Good luck finding yer necklace.” The old man wheezed and flicked the butt of his cigarette into the mud. “And watch yourself on the metal. If you cut yourself, get a tetanus injection quick.”

They promised they would and went back to the car.

“Good job,” she said, watching until the old man was back in the office before turning to Tristan. “Have you got a data signal on your phone?”

He took it out of his pocket and held it up. “Yeah.”

“Google the crime scene from the first victim of the Nine Elms Cannibal.”

She started the engine and headed toward the back, where the old man indicated.

“Okay, the photo is on Google,” said Tristan.

“If someone’s copycatting Peter Conway, then they would have chosen a part of the yard which resembles the original crime scene.”

“But this is miles away from Nine Elms Lane in London,” said Tristan.

“It’s all being redeveloped in London. The Nine Elms Lane Wrecker’s yard is gone, as is my old station, Falcon Road, which was close by. It’s all going to be posh offices and executive housing.”

They drove past piles of wrecked cars, which were crushed and smashed. On several of the windscreens and on the upholstery inside there was blood spatter. In some cars it was almost brown; in others it looked fresher.

“We’re looking for two piles of cars with a sort of path between them,” said Tristan, pinching his phone screen to zoom in on the image. “The cars are piled four high.”

They came out into a small clearing, and Kate craned her head to look around. Then she saw it, a huge mural of Bob Marley spray-painted across the side of a caravan, its wheels sunk into the mud. With three other piles of cars, it made up one corner of a crossroad junction. Kate turned off the engine and opened the door. There was thick, deep mud.

“I’ve got wellies in the back,” she said. She got out and picked her way to the car boot, returning with two pairs of Wellingtons. “This is the bigger size,” she said, handing them to Tristan. “They belong to my spons . . . to my friend, Myra. We go walking together sometimes.”

Kate bit her tongue—now she sounded like an alcoholic dating her sponsor. Tristan took the pair without commenting, and they both changed. They got out and stared up at the piles of cars. It was quiet, but there was a slight wind, which made pieces of twisted metal from the surrounding cars move and groan. Tristan held up his phone.

“What do you think? Her body could have been around here?” said Kate, comparing where they stood to the picture on the screen.

“The cars are different. There’s no London skyline, but I suppose a wrecker’s yard is a wrecker’s yard,” said Tristan.

“That’s the problem,” agreed Kate. “Maybe I should just pony up another twenty and ask that old man to show us exactly where . . . No, he said by the Bob Marley.” She looked behind them. Bob Marley’s eyes stared mournfully out at them. She turned back and peered closer at Tristan’s phone. “Shit. Look.” She took his phone and zoomed in on the photo, to the top of the pile of cars on the right. She then looked up at the pile of cars to the right of where they stood. “Bloody hell.”

“What?” asked Tristan.

“In the photo there’s a crow perching on top of the right-hand pile of cars. See? I remember reading in the original police report that forensics had a real problem with it. They would shoo it away, but it kept landing back on the top car. They were worried it would try and peck at the body . . . Anyway, look, there’s a crow on the top of that car in the photo, and there in front of us.” She pointed up at the topmost car on the right-hand side.

There was a crow perched on the roof of an old yellow MINI.

“Jeez,” said Tristan, peering with her. Kate whistled, but it didn’t move. They clapped their hands, and the sound echoed around the yard.

“Obviously, it’s fake,” said Kate. “But who put it there? Bit of a coincidence.”





14

They stood in the wrecker’s yard for a few minutes, staring at the bird on top of the pile of cars. Its feathers moved in the wind, but it was still.

“Should we call the police?” asked Tristan.

“And say what? ‘Come quickly—there’s a stuffed bird stuck on top of a car in a scrapyard.’”