Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(97)

“What happens now?” Victoria asked the police officer with the goatee.

“He’s going to bring the second dog back to check, just as a precaution . . . But I think we’ve hit the bull’s-eye. Either way, she’s detected human remains.”





58

Kate had woken up at her normal time of seven thirty a.m., but Jake slept through until ten. This was another change that reminded her he was now a teenager. He always used to wake up at six in the morning, bright and chatty.

She’d pottered around the house and made herself and the police officer who was stationed outside a cup of tea, and she’d spoken to Tristan, who was on his way to Jepson’s Wood and promised to call her the minute he heard anything. When Jake finally stirred, they went for a swim in the sea. The weather was beautifully clear and the water calm. He had been excited to use his wet suit and sea shoes, and they swam out together and spent a happy hour splashing in the surf and diving down under the water wearing their goggles.

They then went into Ashdean and had lunch, and when they came home, Myra joined them for a walk on the beach. Kate loved how good Myra was with Jake, and when they reached the rock pools, she was able to name all the sea creatures hiding in the gloomy depths and tell him all about them. He was fascinated.



PC Rob Morton was now on his third day shift outside Kate’s house, and it was proving to be a long, boring grind. His shift started at seven a.m. and would go through to seven p.m. He was grateful for the cups of tea and coffee from Kate and her neighbor Myra, but the shitty food he had ended up eating for the past few days was doing his guts in. Since his girlfriend, Danni, had left him, he was forced to fend for himself when it came to catering.

He missed Danni’s making him packed lunches, and the home-cooked meals, more than he missed her. He looked over at today’s lunch on the passenger seat beside him, a sweaty cheese-and-onion sandwich from the petrol station. Pricey and shit—that’s what his lunch would be for the third day.

As he sat with the radio playing, his mind drifted to what he would have for his dinner that night. This kind of long surveillance work wore you down, and all he wanted to do was drive home, have a bath, and crash out on the sofa. He was going to treat himself and order in sushi from the new place in Ashdean. He took out his wallet and saw that he had only a tenner. There was a cash machine outside the surf shop, and wanting to stretch his legs, he got out of the car and walked over to it.

The road was a dead end after Kate’s house, and on the other side of the road were fields. It was the kind of road where not much happened, but he had to keep his eyes peeled, as it was a quiet spot and not overlooked by anybody.

The screen on the cash machine was misty with a layer of salt, and he had to rub it with the sleeve of his uniform. He put his card in and withdrew fifty quid, seeing that it would charge him five pounds for the privilege. He would have words with the old woman later and ask where that five pounds went to.

As he was tucking the cash into his wallet, he noticed a small white van had pulled up a little way along the road. A tall red-haired man wearing walking gear had climbed out and was changing into walking boots.

Rob went back in his car and watched as the man pulled on a big rucksack and picked up a map. He then started toward him.



The red-haired Fan glanced around as he approached the police car. He had already walked the length of the beach under Kate’s house and seen her on the sand with Jake and the old woman from the surf shop.

As he reached the police car, he could see the thin, pasty-faced officer looked miserable sitting inside. He smiled amiably and knocked on the car window.

The police officer scowled and wound down the window.

“Hi, sorry to bother you, officer,” he said. “Is this the entrance to the coastal walk to Ashdean?” In his hand was a folded map of the area, which he held up to the window. His hand moved to the pocket of his shorts, where he felt the outline of a flick knife and a little clump of cotton wool balls.

The officer ignored the map and turned his head to look behind him.

“Yeah. That’s the footpath, I think,” he said and went to wind up the window.

The Fan put the map on the edge of the window.

“Officer, I’m crap with maps. Is that the footpath where there’s been a lot of erosion? I’d hate to end up going over the edge of the cliff.” He pushed the map through the window, forcing the officer to take it in both hands.

He peered at it. “Listen, mate, I’m on duty . . .”

The Fan reached inside the pocket of his shorts, and with a quick, smooth movement, he took out the flick knife, pushed it to the officer’s right ear, and pressed the button. The eight-inch blade shot out and embedded itself in his brain.

It all happened so quickly: the officer looked up at the Fan in shock, then writhed around and grappled at the hand holding the knife against his head. The Fan twisted the blade in a circular motion, pulling it through his brain tissue.

The officer started to seize, gurgle, and foam at the mouth. Less than a minute later, he was still.

The Fan removed the knife and plugged the officer’s ear with cotton wool, propping him up so that from a distance he would look like he was still sitting up in the car.

He took out a tissue, wiped the officer’s chin and then the knife, and then retracted the blade, putting the knife back inside the pocket of his shorts. He looked around. The road was still and quiet.