Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(4)

“I’ll need to conclude more from my postmortem, but . . . yes,” said Leodora. The rain fell harder, intensifying the thundering thrum on the roof of the tent. She let go of the young girl’s head, placing it gently back where it lay on her arm. “There is evidence that she was raped. There are bodily fluids present, and she’s been tortured, cut with a sharp object, and burnt. You see the burn marks on her arms and outer thighs. They look to be caused by the cigarette lighter from a car.”

“Or a Citr?en Dispatch white van,” said Kate. Peter gave her a hard stare. He didn’t like being corrected.

“Cause of death?” he asked.

“I need to do the postmortem, but off the record, at this stage I would say asphyxiation with the plastic bag. There are signs of petechial hemorrhaging on her face and neck.”

“Thank you, Leodora. I look forward to the results of your postmortem. I hope that we can quickly identify this poor young woman.”

Leodora nodded to her assistants, who brought in a pop-up stretcher with a shiny new black body bag. They placed it beside the body and gently turned the young woman over onto the stretcher. The front of her naked body was marked with small circular burns and scratches. It was impossible to tell what she looked like—her face was grotesque and distorted under the plastic. She had large pale-blue eyes, milky in death and frozen in a stare. The look in her eyes made Kate shiver. It was devoid of hope, as if frozen in her eyes was that last thought. She’d known she was going to die.





3

Viewing the young woman’s battered body left Kate disturbed and exhausted after what already had been a long day, but an investigation of this scale had to move fast. As soon as they left the forensics tent, Kate was assigned to head door-to-door inquiries on Thicket Road, a long avenue of smart detached houses on the west side of the park.

Despite having a team of eight officers, it took almost five hours to work their way down the street, and the rain didn’t let up. Their lead question—Have you seen a 1994 Citro?n Dispatch white van and/or anyone acting suspiciously?—sparked fear and curiosity in the residents of Thicket Road. The search for a white van had been widely reported in the press, but the police weren’t allowed to comment on the details of the case. Even so, most people Kate spoke to knew she was investigating the Nine Elms Cannibal and had their opinions, questions, and suspicions. All of which generated endless leads, which would have to be followed up.

Just after midnight, Kate and her team were called back to the rendezvous point at the station. The young woman’s body was now at the morgue for the postmortem, and the fingertip search of Crystal Palace Park was being hampered by the poor visibility and pouring rain, so they were told to stand down for the night and things would resume the next morning.

The officer Kate had been working with boarded a bus back to North London, leaving Kate alone in the car park. She was about to call a cab when lights flashed on a car in the far corner and she saw Peter walking toward her.

“Need a lift home?” he asked. He was also soaked through and tired, and Kate gave him points for rolling up his sleeves and not sitting it out in one of the support vans with a cup of coffee. She looked around the car park. There were three squad cars left, but she presumed they belonged to the officers who had drawn the short straw to stay up at the park.

He saw her hesitate.

“It’s no problem, and you left your bags in my car,” he said. His lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of driving her home made her more willing to accept the lift.

“Thank you. That would be great,” she said, suddenly craving a hot shower, tea and toast slathered in butter and honey, and then her warm bed. He opened the boot of the car and took out a stack of towels from a laundry bag.

“Thank you,” she said, taking one and wrapping it around her shoulders and wringing out her wet ponytail. She opened the passenger door and saw that her shopping bag was still on the floor. Peter opened the driver’s door and then the glove compartment. He rummaged around, pulling out a car manual and a bunch of keys until he found a box of baby wipes. He quickly cleaned off his hands and then chucked the dirty wipes under the car.

“Anything from the fingertip search?” she asked.

“Some fibers, cigarette ends, a shoe, but it’s a park—who knows who they belong to.”

He tucked a towel on the passenger seat, then took a thermos flask out of the central console and handed it to her while tucking another towel onto the driver’s seat. Kate watched in amusement. He seemed so domesticated, bustling and tucking with an unconsciously camp manner, making sure the improvised seat covers were neat and would stay in place.

“I think you’re the first person who I’ve seen attempt hospital corners on a car seat,” she said.

“We’re soaked, and it’s a new car. You don’t know how hard I had to fight to get it,” he said, frowning.

It was the first time that evening he’d displayed any emotion. His dirty car seats gave him real anxiety. Kate wondered if that’s what happened after a long time in the police. You shut yourself off from the horrific stuff, and you sweat the small things.

They were silent on the journey back to Deptford. She stared out the window. Torn between trying to get the image of the young girl out of her head and trying to keep it there. To not forget her face, to file every detail away.