No one needs to know about it. Who could she ask who was discreet? Akbar in forensics. She’d bumped into him once coming out of a gay bar in Soho. It had been an awkward moment. She had been with a guy and so had he. He’d invited her for a drink the next night after work and she had assured him that his secret, if it was a secret, was safe with her.
She would call him first thing in the morning, drive it over early and get the flask swabbed. Or maybe, if she got some sleep, this would all seem like a crazy theory in the morning.
There was a knock at the door and she dropped the glass. It shattered, spraying glass and brown liquid across the linoleum. There was a pause and then a voice said: ‘Kate. It’s Peter, are you okay?’ She looked up at the clock. Almost 2 a.m. The knock came again. ‘Kate? I heard breaking glass. Are you okay?’ He hammered on the door harder.
‘Yes! I’m fine!’ she trilled, looking at the mess on the floor.
‘You don’t sound it. Can you open up?’
‘I’ve just dropped a glass on the floor, by the door. What are you doing here?’
‘Have you got my keys?’ he said. ‘I think I might have dropped them in one of your bags.’
There was a long silence. She stepped over the shattered glass and quietly put the chain on and opened the door. Through the gap, Peter stood, soaking wet, the collar of his coat pulled up. He smiled a broad white smile. His teeth were so straight and white, she thought.
‘Good, I thought you might have gone to bed. I think you have my keys?’
CHAPTER 5
Kate peered up at Peter. The car park was dark behind him, and she couldn’t see his car.
‘Kate. It’s pouring down. Can I come in for a sec?’
‘It’s late. Hang on,’ she said, leaning over the broken glass to grab the keys off the counter. ‘Here.’ Their eyes met as she held them out to him in her palm. He looked down at the little loop curled round in her shaking hand with the monkey’s fist knot, then back up at her with a smirk.
Later on, Kate would think what she could have done differently. If she’d made a joke about it being the same knot the killer used, would he have taken the keys and gone home?
‘It’s my car. I got a flat tyre up the road. Then I saw my keys weren’t in the glove compartment,’ he said, finally breaking the silence, wiping the rainwater from his face. He didn’t take the keys, though, and she stood there with her hand outstretched.
‘Kate. I’m getting wet here. Can I come in?’
She hesitated, and swallowed, but her throat was dry.
He shouldered the door, and the chain snapped easily. He stepped over the threshold, forcing her to move back into the kitchen. He pushed the door closed behind him and stood there dripping wet.
‘What?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing. Sorry,’ she said. Her voice was a thin rasp.
‘I need a towel . . . I’m soaking wet.’
Everything about the situation was surreal. Kate left the kitchen and went to the small airing cupboard and took out a towel. Her mind was racing. She had to act normally. She looked around for something to defend herself with. She grabbed a small smooth glass paperweight, the only thing she could find remotely close to a weapon.
Her breath caught in her throat when she went back into the kitchen. Peter stood in the middle of the room, staring at the Thermos flask sitting in its plastic evidence bag on the kitchen table. When he turned to her his features were the same, but anger had changed him. He was like an animal about to attack. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated and his lips were curled back, baring his teeth.
Do something! shrieked a voice inside her head. But she couldn’t move. There was a thud as the paperweight fell from her hand onto the floor.
‘Oh dear, Kate. Kate, Kate, Kate,’ he said softly. The broken glass crunched under his feet as he went to the back door and locked it.
‘Peter. Sir. I don’t think for a second that you . . . it’s my job to investigate . . . ’
He was shaking, but his movements were calm as he went to the phone. In one swift motion he wrenched it clean off the wall, still attached to its metal bracket. Kate flinched as the tiny nails holding the wire to the wall popped out and skittered across the linoleum. He yanked the cable from the socket and placed the phone on the counter by the fridge.
‘It’s funny. You said the killer would slip up . . . The keys . . . the fucking keys.’ He took a step towards her.
‘No. No. They’re just keys,’ said Kate. If he took another step forward he would block her path out of the kitchen.
‘The flask . . . ’ He shook his head and laughed. It was a cold, metallic sound, devoid of humour.
Kate made a dash for the living room, where her mobile phone was charging, but he was quicker. He grabbed the back of her hair, swung her around and slammed her into the tall fridge door. Pain exploded in the side of her face, but he was on her, twisting her shoulders around to face him and gripping her neck with one hand.
‘Rough area, where you live,’ he said calmly, pinning her against the fridge door with his shoulder and left leg. He gripped her throat with his right hand. She kicked out, hitting him in the side of his leg, and she tried to claw at his face and neck but he used his elbows to keep her arms down. ‘There was a break-in. You scared the intruder. He panicked and he killed you.’
His fingers gripped her throat harder. She couldn’t breathe and his face, looming over hers, began to blur. She scrabbled around, her fingers feeling the edge of the counter. Peter leaned into her chest and she felt his strength pushing the remaining air from her lungs. She cried out as she felt one of her ribs crack.
‘I’ll make sure to be the one who leads your murder case. The tragic death of a rising star in the police force.’
Kate writhed and pushed back, managing to free up her left arm a little. Her hand felt along the edge of the counter and found the phone, where Peter had left it. She didn’t have much strength as she swung it, but the sharp edge of the metal bracket glanced off his forehead, slicing through the skin above his eye.
His grip loosened for a moment and she was able to push him away. He staggered back in shock, blood pouring from the gash in his forehead.
Kate held up the phone on its bracket and advanced on him, not feeling the broken glass under her bare feet. Peter staggered back, spitting blood. He lunged for the block of knives by the sink and pulled one out.
The knives! Why didn’t I go for the knives? she thought. She turned and ran into the living room but tripped, landing on the phone, knocking the air from her lungs. She rolled back and tried to get up, but he was on her. He punched her hard in the face, dragged her kicking and writhing through to the bedroom and threw her on the bed. Her head hit the headboard and she saw stars. Her robe was open and she was naked underneath. He climbed on top of her, his face slick with blood, reddening the whites of his eyes and giving his smile a pink mania. He knelt on her hip bones and pulled her wrists down, pinning them under his knees.
He held up the knife and grazed the tip of the blade over her nipples, down to her belly button, and pushed the blade into her skin. The sharp steel sliced through her flesh easily and through the muscles of her abdomen. She screamed out in agony, unable to move. It was terrifying how fast the blood pooled on her belly. He calmly twisted the knife and dragged it up through the flesh of her stomach, towards her heart. It snagged on one of her ribs.