Peter leaned close, lips curled back over pink-stained teeth. The pain was unbearable, but she summoned up the last of her strength and fought and writhed, freeing her knee and bringing it sharply up into his groin. He groaned and fell backwards off the bed, landing on the floor.
Kate looked down at the knife sticking out of her abdomen. Blood was saturating the white robe and bedclothes. Leave the knife in, said a voice in her head. If it comes out, you’ll bleed to death. Peter started to get up, his eyes crazed with rage. She thought of all the victims, all those young girls who had been tortured. The anger gave her a surge of adrenalin and energy. She grabbed the lava lamp from beside her bed, and brought down the heavy glass bottle of paraffin and wax on the top of his head, once, twice, and then he was still, slumped weirdly, his legs splayed outwards.
Kate dropped the lamp. The pain in her abdomen almost made her black out, and it took all her will not to pull the knife out as she limped through to the living room, the knife shifting as she moved. She found her mobile phone and dialled 999. She gave her name and address, and said that the Nine Elms Cannibal was Detective Chief Inspector Peter Conway, and he had just tried to kill her in her apartment.
It was then that she dropped the phone and lost consciousness.
FIFTEEN YEARS
LATER
September 2010
CHAPTER 1
It was a grey morning in late September as Kate picked her way through the sand dunes. She wore a black swimsuit and had her goggles hooked in the crook of her right arm. The sand was dry as she weaved her way through the undulating dunes where pale yellow marram grass grew. Her bare feet cracked the thin crust made by the sea spray.
The beach was deserted and this morning the tide was far out, exposing a few strips of black rocks before the waves broke. The sky was a pearly grey, but towards the horizon it twisted into a knot of black. Kate had discovered sea swimming six years previously, when she’d moved to Thurlow Bay on the south coast of England, five miles from the university town of Ashdean, where she now lectured in Criminology.
Every morning, whatever the weather, she would swim in the sea. It made her feel alive. It lifted her mood and was an antidote to the darkness she carried in her heart. Unmasking Peter Conway as the Nine Elms Cannibal had almost killed her, but the after-effects had been more devastating. Her sexual relationship with Peter Conway had been discovered by the press, and it played a big part in his subsequent trial. Fifteen years later, she still felt like she was picking up the pieces.
Kate emerged from the dunes, feeling the sand grow wet and solid as she made her way to the water’s edge. The first wave crashed down a few metres from where she stopped to pull on her goggles, and the surf surged up around her knees. On the coldest days, the water plunged into her skin like a knife, but she pushed through. A healthy body really was a healthy mind. It was just water. She knew how a knife felt. The six-inch scar on her abdomen was always the first place to feel the cold.
She put her hands down into the surf and felt the pull as it dropped away, leaving her on the wet sand with a few strands of green seaweed between her fingers. She shook them off and tied back her hair, which was showing a little grey, and pulled the elastic strap of her goggles over her head. Another wave crashed in, jostling her on her feet and surging up and around her hips. The sky was growing darker, and she felt spots of warm rain on her face. She dived headfirst into a breaking wave. The water enveloped her and she swam off, kicking out strongly. She felt sleek and fast, like an arrow cutting through the surf under the breaking waves. She could see down to where the sand rapidly fell away to a rocky gloom.
The roar of the water came and went as she broke the surface every four strokes to breathe, surging towards the storm. She was now far out, moving as one with the swells of water as they rolled towards the shore. She slowed and allowed herself to float on her back, rising and falling with the waves. Thunder rumbled again, louder. Kate looked back at her home sitting on top of the rocky cliff. It was comfortable and ramshackle and sat on the end of a row of widely spaced houses, next to a surf shop and snack bar which was closed up for the winter.
The air was fizzing with static; the storm was close, but the water was still. Kate held her breath and sank down under the water, the currents close to the surface diminishing as her body slowly descended towards the sandy bottom. Cold currents moved on either side of her. The pressure increased.
Peter Conway was never far from her mind. On some mornings, when getting out of bed seemed a Herculean task, she wondered if he found it hard to face each day. Peter would be locked up for the rest of his life. He was a high-profile prisoner, a monster, fed and cared for by the state, but he’d never denied what he'd done. Kate, in comparison, was the good guy, but in catching him she’d lost her career and her reputation, and was still trying to salvage a normal life from the aftermath. She wondered which one of them was really serving the life sentence. Today she felt even closer to him. Today he would be the subject of her first lecture.
With her lungs about to burst, Kate gave two strong kicks, broke the surface and started to swim back. The thunder rumbled and as the shore came closer, she rode the growing swells, feeling her heart pumping and the zing on her skin from the salt water. A wave rose up behind her and she caught it as it broke, her feet wheeling under her, pulled along the sandy bottom, feeling the exhilaration of riding a wave until the sand was under her feet and she was safe again on dry land.
The lecture theatre at the university was large, dusty and drab, with rows and rows of raked seating stretching up to the ceiling. Kate liked to watch her students as they filed into the lecture from her vantage point on the small circular stage. She was shocked by how little they noticed about their surroundings, all engrossed in their phones, barely looking up as they took their seats.
Kate was joined on stage by her assistant, Tristan Harper, a tall, well-built man in his early twenties. He had dark hair, closely cropped to his head, and elaborate tattoos on his muscular forearms. He wore the uniform of male academia – beige chinos and a checked shirt rolled up at the sleeves. The only difference was that he shunned the usual pale loafers or dark brogues and today wore a pair of bright red Adidas high-tops.
He leaned down and checked the slide carousel, which he had pre-loaded beside the lectern.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this lecture,’ he said, handing Kate the remote. He smiled, and left the stage. Seconds later the lights went out, plunging the lecture theatre into darkness. There was a murmur of excited chatter, and Kate could see the students’ faces, lit up by their mobile phones. She waited until they fell silent, then clicked the button on the projector remote.
THE NINE ELMS CANNIBAL flashed up on the huge screen.
There was a collective gasp as a crime scene photo filled the screen. It was taken in a car scrapyard. A young girl’s naked body lay on its side in the churned-up mud, next to a pile of rusting and half-crushed cars. The piles of scrap cars stretched away into the distance, with the misty London skyline and the four chimneys of Battersea Power Station in the background. A lone crow perched on top of a pile of cars, looking down at the young girl’s body. The mud and exposure to the elements gave her flesh a rust colour, like metal, some small grotesque object that had been dumped by its owner.