Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(32)

“Who is this Emma?” he said, holding up the note.

“Can you put gloves on? That’s evidence. It refers to the body of Emma Newman, which was discovered at this wrecker’s yard two months ago,” said Kate.

“And who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Kate Marshall. I was a police officer with the Met in London.”

“Is this your son?”

“No. That’s Tristan Harper. He’s my assistant.”

The man knocked on the car window and signaled for him to get out. When Tristan came around the car to join them, he looked very nervous.

“Assistant of what?” asked the woman.

“I lecture in criminology at Ashdean University. Tristan is my research assistant,” said Kate.

“Can he speak for himself?”

“Yes,” said Tristan, clearing his throat. He seemed nervous.

“I’m PC Sara Halpin; this is PC David Bristol,” she said. Automatically they both flashed their police ID cards. “What made you go looking for this?”

“Have you heard of the Peter Conway case?” Both officers looked blank. “The Nine Elms Cannibal case in London fifteen years ago?”

“Yes, rings a bell,” said David. Sara raised an eyebrow, indicating Kate should continue.

“I was the officer who solved that case.”

“Right. And?”

“And I believe that this person, the author of this letter, is copying the murders. The Peter Conway, the Nine Elms Cannibal murders . . .” Tristan’s nervousness was now rubbing off on Kate, and she knew she was babbling. “I’m aware, through a pathologist colleague, that the police found the body of Emma Newman here, two months ago, and just a couple of days ago the body of a young woman called Kaisha Smith was found by the river near Hunter’s Tor. It was on the news today.”

“Yes, we’re aware of that,” said Sara. “But what’s the stuffed bird and the note got to do with it?”

Kate spent the next forty minutes explaining the details of the case and how they’d come to find the bird. Tristan showed them the photos he’d taken on his phone. Sara took down a statement, but only because Kate insisted, and it took a long time for them to write it up for Kate to then sign.

The light was fading when the officers finally left, taking their report and the bird and note with them.

“What happens now?” asked Tristan when they were back in the car.

“I hope they take it seriously and that the bird and the note don’t get shoved into some evidence storage room, or it will take days to be processed to the right department.”

They came out of the muddy track, passing under the NINE ELMS sign, and Kate turned left. They were back onto the main road speeding toward the motorway. She checked the time and saw it was just past five p.m.

“Shit!” she said. “I said I’d Skype my son at six.” She put her foot down on the accelerator and sped on toward the motorway.





16

Kate made it back to her house at one minute to six. She dashed inside, sloughing off her coat, leaving it in a heap in the hallway, and went to the kitchen, flicking on the lights. She had to scrabble around to find her laptop under a pile of paperwork on the breakfast bar, and then it seemed to take an age to switch on, and when the screen icons finally appeared, she opened Skype.

As an alcoholic, Kate had spent so many years being unreliable, missing meetings and showing up late, so being three minutes late to her regular Skype call with Jake bothered her deeply. She was relieved to see that he hadn’t tried to call her already. She smoothed down her hair and pulled up a chair and pressed “Call.”

Jake appeared in the little box on-screen. He was Skyping her from the kitchen table, and behind him, Kate could see her mother at the stove, mixing something in a large silver pan. He wore a Manchester United football shirt, and his dark hair was fashionably tousled.

“Hey, Mum.” He grinned.

“Hi, how are you?” she said, maximizing the window so he filled the screen.

“I’m good,” he said, seeing himself in the camera and adjusting his hair.

“Evening, Catherine,” shouted Glenda without turning around. She was immaculate, as usual, with a pristine white apron over her pale slacks and blouse.

“Hi, Mum,” shouted Kate. “What’s she making?”

Jake shrugged.

“I’m making apricot jam,” trilled Glenda, “for a Battenberg cake.”

Jake rolled his eyes. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve told her you can buy a Mr Kipling Battenberg cake for, like, less than two pounds, but she wants to waste her time.”

Kate had noticed over the past few weeks that Jake no longer worshipped Glenda in the way that he had when he was little.

“I’m sure a homemade one will be much nicer,” said Kate, being diplomatic.

Jake pulled a face, making his eyes go crossed.

“If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that,” said Kate, and he laughed.

“Did you have a good day, Mum?”

She didn’t feel like she could or should talk about anything that had happened to her during the day. She was still trying to process it herself. She was just excited to see her son and still felt guilty she’d remembered they had a call only at the last minute.