‘The course you’ve signed up for is called “Criminal Icons”. And it reflects how we, as a society, are obsessed with murder and serial killers. It’s fitting that I start with a serial killer I knew. Peter Conway, the former Met Police detective chief inspector who is now known as the Nine Elms Cannibal. The young woman in the photo was his first victim, Shelley Norris . . . ’ Kate stepped out of the glare of the projected image and stood to one side. ‘If you find this image distressing, good. That’s a normal reaction. If you want to study Criminology you’ll need to get down and dirty with the worst of humankind. The photo was taken at the Nine Elms Lane wrecker’s yard in March 1993,’ said Kate. She shuttered the slide carousel around. The next photo showed a wide-angle shot of a young woman’s body from behind, lying in long grass. A low mist hung above the surrounding trees.
‘The second victim was fifteen-year-old Dawn Brockhurst. Her body was dumped in Beckenham Place Park in Kent.’
The next slide was a close-up of the body from the front. Her face was missing, leaving just a bloody pulp, and only part of the bottom jaw and a row of teeth remained.
‘Kent, on the London borders, has one of the largest populations of wild foxes in the UK. Dawn’s body wasn’t discovered for several days and the plastic bag tied over her head was torn off by scavenging foxes, and part of her face was eaten.’ Kate moved to the next slide, a close-up of bite marks. ‘The Nine Elms Cannibal liked to bite his victims, but because Dawn’s body was decayed by the elements, the bites were wrongly attributed to the foxes. This prevented the first two murders from being immediately linked.’
There was a thudding sound as one of the wooden chairs flipped up, and a student, a young woman in the centre of the auditorium, dashed out with her hand over her mouth.
Kate moved through slides of Conway’s next victim, ending with the crime-scene photo of the fourth victim, Catherine Cahill. Kate was taken back to that cold rainy night in Crystal Palace: the hot lights in the forensic tent which intensified the scent of decaying flesh, but also made the grass smell like it does on a summer’s day; Catherine’s eyes staring through the plastic wrapped tight over her head. And after all this, Peter tucking the towels over his car seats, concerned they’d get dirty.
Kate pressed the button and the slide image clicked to a picture of Peter Conway, taken in 1993 for his warrant card. He smiled into the lens wearing his Met Police uniform and peaked cap. Handsome and charismatic.
‘Peter Conway. Respected police officer by day, serial killer by night.’
Kate told the story of how she was a police officer working alongside Peter Conway, how she came to suspect he was the Nine Elms Cannibal, confronted him and barely escaped alive.
The next slide showed Kate’s flat in the aftermath of Peter’s attack: the Thermos flask and bunch of keys sitting on the kitchen table, each with a numbered evidence marker; the living room furniture, old and shabby: her bedroom, with its damp, peeling wallpaper, curling at the edges with a pattern of yellow, orange and green flowers, the double bed with a knot of blood-soaked sheets, clumps of hardened orange wax and glass from the broken lava lamp she’d hit him with.
‘I came very close to being the Nine Elms Cannibal’s fifth victim, but I fought back. Quick-thinking doctors saved my life after I was stabbed in the stomach. They also pumped Peter’s stomach, where they found partially digested pieces of flesh from Catherine Cahill’s back.’
The lecture theatre was silent. Every student was transfixed, and Tristan was with them.
Kate went on: ‘In September 1996, Peter Conway was tried and in January 1997 he was jailed at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Blundeston Prison in Suffolk. After deterioration in his mental state, and an attack by another prisoner, he is now being indefinitely detained under the Mental Health Act at Great Barwell Psychiatric Hospital in Sussex. It’s a case that still haunts the public imagination, and a case I will always be inextricably linked to. That’s why I chose to present it first.’
There was a long pause after the lights went up. The students in the auditorium blinked at the brightness.
‘Now. Who has any questions?’
There was a long pause, then a young woman with closely cropped pink hair and a pierced lip put up her hand.
‘You effectively solved the case, yet you were used as a scapegoat by the police and left out to dry. Do you think this is because you are a woman?’
‘The Met Police were embarrassed that their star officer was the killer in their most high-profile case. The case dominated the headlines for many years. You may have read that I made the mistake of having a sexual relationship with Peter Conway. When this became public knowledge, the press assumed I was somehow in possession of the facts, when I wasn’t.’
There was a short silence.
‘Would you ever go back to the police?’ asked a young guy sitting on his own in one of the corner seats.
‘Not now. I always wanted to be a police officer and I feel my career was cut short. Catching the Nine Elms Cannibal was my greatest triumph. It also made it impossible for me to continue my career in the force.’
He nodded and gave her a nervous smile.
‘What about your colleagues? Do you think it’s unfair that many of them were able to stay anonymous and carry on with their careers?’ asked another girl.
Kate paused. She wanted to answer, Of course it was fucking unfair! I loved my job, and I had so much to give! But she took a deep breath and went on: ‘I worked with a great team of police officers. I’m glad that they still have the opportunity to be out there, keeping us safe.’
There was a moment of hushed chatter, and then the student with the pink hair raised her hand again.
‘Erm . . . This might be too personal, but I’m intrigued . . . You have a son with Peter Conway, is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate. There was a shocked murmuring from the students. It seemed that not everyone knew her business. Most of them had been three or four years old when the case was playing out in the press.
‘Wow. Okay. So, he’s now fourteen?’
Kate was reluctant to talk about him.
‘He was fourteen a few months ago,’ she said.
‘Does he know about his past? Who his father is? What’s that like for him?’
‘This lecture isn’t about my son.’
The pink-haired student looked at her two companions on either side, a young guy with long mousy dreadlocks and a girl with a short black bowl cut and black lipstick. She chewed her lip, embarrassed, but determined to find out more.
‘Well, do you worry that he will be, like, a serial killer, like his father?’
Kate closed her eyes, and a rush of memories came at her.
The hospital room felt like a hotel suite. Thick carpet. Flock wallpaper. Flowers. Fresh fruit fanned out on a plate. A gold embossed menu on the bedside table. It was so quiet. Kate longed to be on a normal maternity ward, like any other normal mother, cheek to jowl, screaming in pain, seeing the joy and sorrow of others. Her waters had broken in the early hours of the morning at her parents’ house, where she had been staying. She’d welcomed the contractions, the short sharp pains cutting through the dull feeling of dread that had nibbled insidiously at her over the past five months.