'Forget? I don't think so. Not once we've finished. Not once we're through.' He was tapping the knife against his leg. 'Now, what about that drink?'
The bottle was on the shelf unit in the alcove to the left of the gas fire. Stolichnaya, four-fifths gone. A couple of shot glasses alongside. Books, not many. CDs. David Gray. Damien Rice. Norah Jones. Magazines. The telephone was on a low table to the right; her mobile in the inside pocket of her coat. She could hear her own breath reverberating inside her head, against, it seemed, the inside of her skull.
'Just a small one for me,' Kennet said, a smirk just visible on his face.
Unsteady, Vanessa poured vodka into the glass and it spilled over the rim.
'Nerves,' Kennet said. 'Don't worry. Soon take the edge off those.'
She was thinking about Maddy, about what had happened to her. She knew she had to do something now, before it was too late. The vodka bottle still tight in her hand, glass cold and smooth against her palm. Her eyes flicked back towards the door, the key still in the lock.
'Here,' Kennet said, leaning forward. 'Why don't you let me put that somewhere out of harm's way?'
And he lifted the bottle clear and, with a smile, returned it to the shelf.
'That's better,' he said. 'Now we can relax a little. Get to know one another better. What do you say?'
How long they had been sitting there, Vanessa didn't know. Sitting opposite one another, the small table pushed aside. Knees touching. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? More? Kennet talking about this and that, about his work, his holiday in Spain, and all the while easing his hand between her legs, slowly, slowly, forcing them apart, his fingers pressing hard, then soft, before switching his attention to her breasts, and all of this happening, this unwonted fondling, almost casually, without remark.
When he squeezed, finger and thumb, her uncovered nipple, she cried out with a start.
'Sorry,' he said with an apologetic smile. 'Hands too cold. Warm them up a little, eh?' And slid both hands between his thighs, legs closed tight.
Vanessa threw what was left of her vodka in his face, aiming for his eyes, and as she did so lurched sideways, reaching for the bottle on the shelf.
'You bitch!' he said, grabbing at her arm.
Shaking him off, Vanessa swung the bottle as hard and fast as she could against his face. The base struck the temple, just above the eye, and as he staggered back she swung again, teeth gritted, full force, and the bottle shattered against his cheek, driving him sideways through a quarter-circle, left leg folding beneath him, blood streaming from below his eye.
Vanessa dropped the bottle and dashed for the bathroom, feeling for her mobile as she ran.
Two bolts, top and bottom, and she slid them across, leaning her weight back against the door as she dialled 999.
'Emergency. Which service do you need, caller?'
She gave the details as precisely as she could, waiting all the time for Kennet to hurl himself against the door and break it down.
When it didn't happen she began to cry and when she heard the sirens, distant at first, then closer, closer, and then feet loud and heavy on the stairs, she cried louder and couldn't stop, not even when the first officers to respond had convinced her it was safe enough to unbolt the door; not even when she saw the glass, some of it smeared with blood, upon the floor; not till the fresh-faced young PC, barely out of training, so young he looked more like a boy, led her firmly, not roughly, over to an easy chair and sat her down, sat with her holding both her hands and telling her it was all right, it was okay, they'd only got the bastard, hadn't they? Legging it across the Holloway Road and he'd run smack into the side of a bus and cannoned off. On his way to A amp; E now, most likely, cuffed inside an ambulance. That's it. Go on, cry. Let it out. This kid with bum fluff on his cheeks, still holding her hand while other officers secured the scene.
'The knife,' Vanessa said. 'He had a knife.'
'We'll find it. Don't worry.'
And they did, an hour later, where Kennet had thrown it, in the front garden of the house closest to the main road, hard up against the wall.
40
The doctor had checked Vanessa over, pronounced her bodily sound, waited while an officer took Polaroid photographs of the marks on her neck, then given her something to help her sleep. But of course she'd hardly slept at all. For half of what remained of the night she lay in bed, knees pulled up close to her chest, trying to blank out the sound of Kennet's voice, the coarse warmth of his breath. For the rest, she'd sat up in her old dressing gown, a blanket pulled round her, staring at the images that moved across the television screen. ITV Nightscreen. Skiing on 4. A signed edition of the Antiques Roadshow, especially for the hard of hearing.
'You're a lucky girl,' one of the officers had said. 'Dead lucky.' And then tried to swallow back his words. 'You did brilliant,' said another. 'Fucking brilliant.' Vanessa was not just thinking about herself; she was thinking of Maddy. Had that been him? Kennet? Had he done those things to her? She had never seen the photographs of the body, only spoken to someone who swore he knew someone who had, but she knew that as well as being raped Maddy had been cut badly with a knife before she died.
Lucky girl.
She was, she was: she pressed her face against the rough material of the blanket and wept.
Alerted by the senior officer at Kentish Town, Karen had arrived shortly after midnight and spoken to Vanessa briefly, enough to get an abbreviated version of what had happened, and arranged to take a proper statement in the morning. She'd considered phoning Elder and waking him with the news, but decided to let him slumber on.
At the hospital, Kennet had taken eleven stitches to the face, and an X-ray of his chest had shown three broken ribs. Now he lay in a side ward, sedated with painkillers and handcuffed by one wrist to the bed, an officer sitting cross-legged outside reading the Mail and trying to catch the eye of one of the nurses and scrounge another cup of tea.
Elder was finally put in the picture at seven and met Karen outside the hospital at eight. Ramsden and Denison were already there, the uniformed officer having been gratefully relieved.
One of the lifts was out of order and a porter was carefully positioning a patient on a trolley in another, so they took the stairs.
'Has he been charged?' Elder asked.
'Not yet.'
'Possibilities?'
'As it stands? Aggravated assault. Possession of an offensive weapon. Enough to hold him.'
When they got into the room Kennet was on his side, sheet pulled level with his chin, eyes closed. A nurse had just finished checking his temperature and blood pressure and was entering the results on his chart.
'Is he asleep?' Karen asked.
The nurse shook her head.
'Kennet,' Karen said, moving closer. 'Mr Kennet.'
No movement; no response.
Ramsden seized hold of the sheet and tugged it sharply back.
'Mr Kennet,' Karen said, 'there are questions I need to ask.'
Kennet's eyes had closed again.
'Is there any reason,' Karen asked the nurse, 'why he shouldn't answer questions?'
The nurse shook her head. 'The painkillers might have made him slightly woozy, but other than that,
