Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(80)

He’d become aware that it was dark, and the road was very quiet, just the flickering of the streetlamp. He’d gone back to the van and locked himself inside, trying to clean himself up, but the red dye was everywhere. He found her baseball cap lying at the back of the van. It was dark blue, with a red Nike tick on the front. He’d pulled the peak down low, and hoped it would be enough to disguise his dye-covered face.

This had destroyed his plan for victim number four.

He’d taken several baths and showers, scrubbing at his skin, but still the stain remained, like a port-wine birthmark. He did a little research, and the color would fade in a few days, but it put him out of action at a crucial time of planning.

He’d driven a vast circuitous route back to the distribution center in the Southwestern Electrical van, and he had switched out the plates as soon as he returned, but he now had to clean the red stains from the van, and he couldn’t let anyone else do it. The police would know about the red dye. This detail hadn’t been mentioned on the news yet, but that old man was a worry. He had seen the van.

He had planned to dump Abigail’s body the following Tuesday, with a note, but now he wouldn’t be able to do that, and it was no longer the perfect crime that he had planned so carefully.

If that old man spoke to the police and they knew that he was using vans, how long would it take them to trace things back to him? The fake plates would buy him only so much time.

He took off his underwear and stepped into the shower. The red stain from the gel had seeped down his neck and onto his chest. He took the tub of industrial cleaner and shook the acrid-smelling powder out into his palm. He mixed it with a little water and then started to rub it over the stain on his chest, up the side of his neck, and over his face. It burned and stung. He ran the water, as hot as he could bear, and he was pleased to see the faint pink water running off.

The chemical smell, that swimming pool smell of bleach and detergent, was pricking his nose and waking him up. This was a setback, but not everything was lost. As he smiled, he scrubbed at his teeth, which had also been stained pink. The industrial cleaner made him retch, but he kept on scrubbing.

As the stain began to fade, he felt back in control. For his plan to work, he had to be in control of his emotions.





48

It took forty-five minutes for Kate and Tristan to drive to the next location. It was a leafy avenue of posh houses that then became an unmade road with an arched railway bridge and an underpass. On one side of the bridge was a patch of scrubland that had once been a children’s play area but was now overgrown, and on the other side was a high brick wall, connected to the railway bridge.

Kate and Tristan walked through the underpass, which was a long, dark, dirty passage that stank of urine. It opened out onto a busy road with shops.

“Would you walk down this?” asked Tristan. “Even if there was a shortcut?”

“Not if I stumbled on it, but this looks like a very posh area. The houses are smart. I don’t know. It’s a shortcut that would make the journey to the bus stop a lot shorter,” said Kate. They came back through the underpass, and as they emerged on the other side, a train rumbled and clattered on the tracks above.

“This would be a quiet place to wait,” said Tristan when they came back out next to the overgrown playground. The last house on the road, just before the tarmac ended, was a grand old building in decay. Kate imagined that it had once been the only house in the area and surrounded by fields.

They walked back up the road a little way to get a better look at the home. Ivy grew up the walls and around the large bay windows at the front. A light was on inside the front room downstairs, which looked very cozy. An old man wearing thick-rimmed glasses was sitting in a high-backed chair, reading a newspaper. A set of steps led up to a pillared front door with a brass knocker. Kate moved closer to the house and saw something tucked up under the eaves. The man noticed them, put down his newspaper, and took off his reading glasses.

“Look. Up there, under the roof eaves, there’s a small mounted security camera,” said Kate, pointing. “You can’t really see it until you’re up close.”

The man was now standing at the window, and he waved a hand to shoo them away.

“He doesn’t look happy,” said Tristan.

“Let’s see if he’ll talk to us,” said Kate. She waved at the older man, and they climbed the steps to the front door and rang the bell. It chimed deep inside. No one answered.

“What if he’s a ghost?” said Tristan with a grin. Kate rang the bell again. A moment later, the door opened. The old man stood in the doorway holding on to a walking frame. His right leg was encased in plaster.

“Are you blind, woman? Can’t you see I’m walking wounded?” he said waspishly. There was a smell of baked goods and tea brewing, and warm air flooded out into the chilly fall morning. The old man looked past Kate to Tristan and smiled. “What can I do for you, young man?”

Kate nudged Tristan in the ribs, and he stepped forward and offered their cards.

“Hello. We’re private detectives; I’m Tristan Harper, and this is Kate Marshall.”

“I’m Frederick Walters.”

“Hello, Mr. Walters. We’re investigating the abduction of a young girl, and we believe that she could have been abducted on the road outside your house.”