Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(10)

“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 girl 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 girl 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 water 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 pain cutting through the dull feeling of dread that had nibbled insidiously at her over the past five months.

Her mother, Glenda, was at her bedside. Gripping her hand. More out of duty, tense and fearful, showing none of the joy at the prospect of her first grandchild. One of the tabloid newspapers was paying for the private room. It had been a last resort, ironically, to try and gain some privacy. In return for footing the bill, the newspaper would have an exclusive photo of mother and baby, taken at a time of Kate’s choosing, through the window of the hospital room. For now, the blind had been pulled down, but Kate noticed how her mother kept eyeing it, knowing that a photographer was waiting on the other side, in the office building across the street.

Kate hadn’t known she was four and a half months pregnant on the night she cracked the case. Her internal organs had been sliced up badly, and the attack left her in intensive care with complications and a serious infection for several weeks. By the time she could make the choice to have a termination, the pregnancy had gone beyond the legal limit.

It was a long and painful birth, and when the baby finally fought his way out, his first scream was chilling to Kate. She sat back, exhausted, and closed her eyes.

“It’s a boy, and he’s healthy,” said the midwife. “Do you want to hold him?”

Kate kept her eyes closed and shook her head. She didn’t want to look at him or hold him, and Kate was grateful when they took him away and the crying ceased. Glenda left her bedside for a few hours to get some rest in the nearby hotel, and Kate lay in the dark. She felt she was in an alternative reality. The baby had been forced upon her by fate. She resented it, and everyone. And it was a boy. A girl she could have coped with more. Boys become serial killers; very rarely do young girls. She fell into a restless sleep, and when she woke up, the room was dark. A cot had been placed by the bed. A soft gurgling sound drew her toward it. In her mind the baby had been born with horns and red eyes, but she found herself looking down at the most beautiful baby boy. He opened his eyes. They were a startling clear blue, and one of his eyes had an orange burst of color, just like hers. A tiny hand reached up. She put out her finger, and he grabbed it, giving her a gummy smile.

Kate had heard how the maternal instinct kicked in, and it was like a jolt to her body, a switch being flicked. An overwhelming wave of love crashed over her. How could she think this tiny, beautiful baby was bad? Yes, he shared Peter Conway’s DNA, but he shared hers too. They both shared the same rare eye coloring, and that had to count for something. Surely it meant that he was more like his mother than his father. She reached down and gently picked him up. Feeling how his warm little body fit perfectly in the curve of her arm. How his head smelled, that heavenly smell of tiny baby . . . Her baby.