Nine Elms (Kate Marshall #1)(8)

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 blade shifting as she moved. She found her mobile phone and dialed 999. She gave her name and her 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





1

It was a gray 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 wove her way through the undulating dunes where pale-yellow marram grass grew, her bare feet cracking 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 gray, but toward 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 aftereffects had been more devastating. The press had discovered her sexual relationship with Peter Conway, and it had 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 meters 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, tied back her hair, which was showing a little gray, 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 dove 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 toward the storm. She was now far out, moving against the swells of water as they rolled toward 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 sea had stilled. Kate held her breath and sank down under the water, the pull of the tide close to the surface diminishing as her body slowly descended toward 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 had 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 from her vantage point on the small circular stage as her students filed into the lecture. 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 onstage 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 preloaded beside the lectern.