Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(52)

Kate followed Varia as she moved around the tor and past the body, which was now in the black bag and being loaded onto a stretcher. Varia took out a flashlight and shone it on the smooth rock at the base of the tor.

“There it is—the small metal door sunk into the rock,” said Kate. Varia pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and Kate took the flashlight from her, training it on the box as she undid the latch and opened it.

“There’s a postcard,” she said, pulling it out. On the front was an image of a famous pub on Bodmin Moor, the Jamaica Inn. A large building was set back among the moors, and there was a close-up image of the pub sign: a swarthy pirate with a yellow-and-blue parrot on his shoulder.

Something about the Jamaica Inn rang a bell in Kate’s head, but she was eager to see what was written. She was pleased that Varia wasn’t petty enough to shoo her away while she looked at the letter.

SO BODY NUMBER THREE SHOWS UP, AND FINALLY YOU CLOWNS ARE CATCHING UP.

I SAW THE NEWS REPORT. AND HOW EXCITING TO HAVE A WOMAN HEADING THE CASE. THE STAGE IS SET. THE PLAYERS ARE ALL COMING TOGETHER.

I ALREADY HAVE MY EYE ON NO. 4.





A FAN




“It looks like the same handwriting from the other notes,” said Kate.

“Get this fingerprinted and tested for any DNA,” said Varia, placing the postcard in a plastic evidence bag and handing it to John, who had joined them.

“If we’re in any doubt he’s copycatting, then this confirms it,” said Kate.

“There’s no ‘we,’” snapped Varia. Her radio beeped in her pocket, and she pulled it out. “Go ahead.”

“The body is in transit. We can have officers bused in from sunrise tomorrow to do a fingertip search,” said a voice through the radio.

“Copy that,” said Varia. They came back around the tor. An officer handed Varia the paperwork from Alan Hexham.

“That’s my paperwork signed, which means you need to leave,” said Varia. Kate could see she was trying to stay calm.

“You have my number, if you need anything,” said Kate, but Varia ignored her and went over to her team. Kate walked back down to the police cordon and handed in her coveralls.

She found Tristan close to the car. He was shivering. She switched on the engine and put the heater on full. The cold and damp seemed to have got into her bones. They set off back along the track to the road, and they came up behind the forensic pathologist’s van, which was moving slowly over the rough terrain. Its brake lights flashed on as it stopped suddenly, causing Kate to stamp on the brakes. Their car skidded a little and came to a stop inches from the back of the van.

“Shit, that was close,” she said, putting the car in reverse and backing up.

“Rear-ending a pathologist’s van with a body in the back wouldn’t have been great,” said Tristan. The passenger door of the van opened, and Alan Hexham hurried over. He waved and came around to Kate’s window. She wound it down.

“Listen, Kate, one of my colleagues heard over the radio that you got access to the crime scene as a private investigator?”

“Sorry. I only had my driver’s license. We weren’t sure what to say.”

“I’m not really keen on the idea of private investigators per se. Lots of them seem to be knicker sniffers poking their noses into marital affairs . . .”

“Alan. I’m not that kind of . . .”

“Of course not; what I mean is, you’re the perfect candidate to be a private investigator . . . I just wanted to say you should get some business cards printed. I know they’re nothing more than paper, but they go a long way to making you legitimate. And if there is any way I can help you, within the bounds of professional ethics, of course, you can rely on me.”

“Thank you,” said Kate, surprised.

“What do you make of this DCI Campbell?”

“I don’t know. She doesn’t know the area, but she’s smart—she’ll learn,” said Kate, eager not to be seen slagging off the lead officer on the case.

“Let’s hope she learns quickly,” said Alan. “Oh, and what’s your associate’s name again?”

“Tristan,” he said, leaning across Kate and offering Alan his hand.

“Good to meet you,” said Alan, shaking it. “And well done. You didn’t puke!”

“Thanks.”

Alan hurried off, throwing them a wave, and got back in the van. Kate waited until it had a head start. Her head was spinning, not only after seeing the poor dead girl and the latest note but after having Alan approach her and give her that advice—it was a revelation. For so many years she had been the butt of jokes, painted as a corrupt police officer, mentally unsound, and a bad mother. Even as a university lecturer, she knew her tabloid past had played a part in her hiring, to bring in the fee-paying students. Was there a chance that she could make a go as a professional private investigator?





27

“Are you feeling better?” asked Kate when they pulled up outside Tristan’s flat, which was right on the seafront in Ashdean. He’d kept his window open during the journey home and stuck his head out several times to gulp at the fresh air.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” he said. He flicked on the light above the mirror. His face was gray. “I just feel stupid.”