Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(5)

Kate lived in a ground-floor flat behind a long, low row of shops just off Deptford High Street. The front door was accessed through a potholed gravel car park, and Peter’s car bounced and bumped its way through the waterlogged holes. They came to a stop at her front door under a sagging awning, and next to the delivery entrance of the local Chinese restaurant, where there was a pile of crates filled with empty soft drink bottles. Peter’s headlights reflected off the pale back wall of her building, illuminating the inside of the car.

“Thanks for the lift,” she said, opening the door and stepping out widely to avoid a large puddle. He leaned over and handed her the shopping bag.

“Don’t forget this, and it’s ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the station.”

“See you then.”

She took the bag and closed the car door. His headlights lit up the car park as she rooted around in her pocket for her key and opened the front door, and then it was dark. She turned to see his taillights vanish. She’d made an idiotic mistake in sleeping with her boss, but after seeing the dead young woman and knowing there was still a killer on the loose, it seemed to pale to nothing.





4

It was cold inside the flat. A small kitchen looked out over the car park, and she quickly closed the blinds before switching on the lights. She took a long shower, staying under the water until the warmth came back into her bones, then pulled on a dressing gown and came back into the kitchen. The central heating was doing its work, pumping hot water with a gurgle through the radiators, and the room was warming up. Suddenly starving, she went to take a microwave lasagna from the shopping bag, but nestled on top were the bunch of keys and the thermos flask from Peter’s car. She put the thermos on the counter and went to the phone on the kitchen wall to call his pager so he wouldn’t get all the way home before he discovered he didn’t have his keys. She was about to dial when she noted the keys in her hand. There were four, all substantial and old.

Peter lived in a new-build flat near Peckham. The front door had a Yale lock. She remembered this clearly from that second night when he’d invited her over for dinner. She’d hesitated outside the door, staring at that Yale lock, thinking, What the hell am I doing? The first time I was drunk. Now I’m sober, and I’m back for more.

The keys in her hand were mortise keys for heavy locks, and a small length of rope was tied around the key ring. The rope was thin, with a red-and-blue woven pattern. Heavy-duty rope, or cord. Tough and well made. She turned the loop of rope over in her hand—tied at the end was a monkey’s fist knot. She replaced the phone on its cradle and stared at the keys.

Kate had a feeling, like the room was tilting under her feet, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She closed her eyes, and the crime scene photos of the dead girls flashed behind them—bags tied tight round their necks, vacuum formed, distorting their features. Tied off with the knot. She opened her eyes and looked at the keys and the monkey’s fist.

No. She was exhausted and clutching at straws.

She pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. What did she know about Peter outside of work? His father was dead. She’d heard odd bits of rumor about his mother being mentally ill. She was in the hospital. He’d had quite a poor upbringing that he’d struggled to extricate himself from, that he was proud to extricate himself from. He was thought of highly by top brass. He didn’t have a girlfriend or wife. He was married to the job.

What if the keys belonged to a friend? Or his mother? They fit a large door or a heavy padlock. They had speculated that the killer would need a place to keep the van and his victims. A storage unit or a large garage. If Peter had a storage unit, he would have mentioned it, and she remembered him complaining about the building where he lived. He’d said he paid a fortune for a space in the underground car park, and that didn’t include a garage.

No. It had been a long, stressful day, and she needed sleep.

She put the keys on the counter and retrieved the lasagna from the bag. She peeled off the outer packaging and placed the small plastic box in the microwave and keyed in two minutes. Her hand hovered over the timer.

She thought back to when they had brought in an expert, a retired scoutmaster who explained the monkey’s fist knot to the incident room. What made the knot stand out was that it could be tied only by someone with a level of expertise. The monkey’s fist was tied at the end of a length of rope as an ornamental knot and a weight, making it easier to throw. It got its name because it looked similar to a small bunched fist or paw.

The lasagna spun slowly in the microwave.

The retired scoutmaster had told them that most young boys would learn to tie knots in the Scouts. The monkey’s fist knot had little practical use, but it was a knot tied by enthusiasts. Everyone in the incident room had attempted to tie the knot, under the expert’s watchful instruction, and only Marsha had managed it. Peter had failed miserably, and he had made a joke out of how bad he was.

“I couldn’t tie my own shoes until I was eight!” he’d cried. All the officers in the incident room had laughed, and he’d put his hands over his face in mock embarrassment.

The keys were old, with a little rust. They’d been oiled to keep them in good use. The rope was shiny in places, and the monkey’s fist knot looked old, with oil and grime worn into it.

She chewed on her nails, not noticing that the microwave had given three loud pips to say it was finished.