4

When the news broke that a second student from St Christopher’s College had been murdered – and that she was the daughter of a US senator – the story made headlines around the world.

Senator Drake boarded the next available flight from Washington with his wife, pursued by the US media and followed by the rest of the world’s press, which descended on St Christopher’s in a matter of hours.

It reminded Mariana of a medieval siege. Invading hordes of journalists and cameramen held back by a flimsy barrier, several uniformed police officers, and a few college porters; Mr Morris was at the forefront, sleeves rolled up, ready to defend the college with his fists.

A sprawling media camp was set up on the cobbles outside the main gate, and it spread all the way to King’s Parade, where lines of satellite vans were parked. A special press tent was set up by the river, where Senator Drake and his wife gave a television interview, making an emotional appeal for any information that might lead to the capture of their daughter’s killer.

At Senator Drake’s request, Scotland Yard became involved. Extra police officers were sent up from London – and they erected blockades, made house-to-house calls, and patrolled the streets.

The knowledge they were now dealing with a serial killer meant the whole city was on alert. And in the meantime, Conrad Ellis was released, and all charges dropped.

A nervous, edgy energy was in the air. A monster with a knife was among them, unseen, prowling the streets, apparently able to strike and then melt away invisibly into the darkness … His invisibility made him into something more than human, something supernatural: a creature born from myth, a phantom.

Except Mariana knew he wasn’t a phantom, or a monster. He was just a man, and he didn’t merit being mythologised; he didn’t deserve it.

He deserved only – if she could summon it in her heart – pity and fear. The very qualities, according to Aristotle, that constituted catharsis in tragedy. Well, Mariana didn’t know enough about this madman to access pity.

But she did feel fear.

5

My mother often said she didn’t want it for me, this life.

She’d tell me that, one day, we would leave, she and I. But it wouldn’t be easy.

I don’t have an education, she’d say. I left school at fifteen. Promise me you won’t do the same. You need to be educated – that’s how to make money. That’s how to survive, how to be safe.

I’ve never forgotten that. More than anything, I wanted to be safe.

Even now, I still don’t feel safe.

My father was a dangerous man, that’s why. After a steady flow of whiskies, a small flame would appear in his eyes. He’d become increasingly argumentative. Avoiding his anger was a minefield.

I was better at it than my mother – better at keeping things steady, staying several steps ahead, keeping the conversation on safe ground, guessing where it was going – outmanoeuvring him, if necessary – guiding him away from any subjects that might incur his wrath. Sooner or later, my mother would always fail. Either accidentally – or deliberately, through masochism – she’d say something, do something, disagree with him, criticise him, serve him something he didn’t like.

His eyes would glint. His lower lip would droop. He’d bare his teeth. Too late, she’d realise he was in a rage. A table would then be overthrown, a glass smashed. I’d watch, helpless to defend or protect her, as she ran to the bedroom in search of refuge.

She’d frantically try to lock the door … but too late – he’d bash it open, and then, then— I don’t understand.

Why didn’t she leave? Why didn’t she pack our bags and spirit me away in the night? We could have left together. But she didn’t make that choice. Why not? Was she too scared? Or did she not want to admit that her family was right – that she’d made a terrible mistake and was running home, tail between her legs?

Or was she in denial, clinging to a hope that things would magically improve? Perhaps that was it. After all, she was highly skilled at ignoring what she didn’t want to see – and was staring her in the face.

I learned to do that too.

I also learned, from a young age, that I did not walk on the ground – but on a narrow network of invisible ropes, suspended above the earth. I had to navigate them carefully, trying not to slip or fall. Certain aspects of my personality were offensive, it seemed. I had terrible secrets to hide – even I didn’t know what they were.

My father knew, though. He knew my sins.

And he punished me accordingly.

He’d carry me upstairs. He’d take me into the bathroom and lock the door— And it would begin.

If I picture him now, that frightened little boy – do I feel an ache of sorrow? A pang of empathy? He’s just a kid, guilty of none of my crimes – he’s terrified, he’s in pain. Do I experience a second of compassion? Do I feel for his plight, and all he went through?

No. I don’t.

I banish all pity from my heart.

I don’t deserve it.

6

Veronica was last seen alive leaving a rehearsal of The Duchess of Malfi at the ADC – the Amateur Dramatic Club – Theatre at six o’clock. Then, she apparently disappeared into thin air – until her body was found the next day.

How was this possible?

How did her killer emerge from nowhere, abduct her in broad daylight, leave no witnesses and no trace? Mariana could draw only one conclusion: Veronica went with him willingly. She went to her death quietly and cooperatively – because she knew and trusted the man who took her there.

The next morning, Mariana decided to have a look at where Veronica was last seen. So she made her way to the ADC Theatre on Park Street.

The theatre was originally an old coaching inn, converted in the 1850s. The logo was in black letters painted above the entrance.

A large board displayed a poster for the upcoming production, The Duchess of Malfi, which Mariana presumed would now not take place – not with Veronica playing the Duchess.

She went up to the main door. She tried it. It was locked. There were no lights on in the foyer.

She thought a moment. Then she turned and walked around the corner, to the side of the building. Two large black wrought-iron gates enclosed a courtyard, which once housed the stables. Mariana tried the gate – and it was unlocked. It swung open easily. So she went inside the courtyard.

The stage door was there. She walked over and tried it, but it was locked.

She was frustrated and about to give up – when she thought of something. She looked at the fire escape. A spiral staircase, leading up to the theatre bar on the floor above.

When Mariana was a student, the ADC bar had been famous for staying open late. She and Sebastian would sometimes go for last orders on a Saturday night, dancing and drunkenly kissing in the bar.

She started climbing the steps, going round and round until she reached the top – where she was confronted with the emergency exit.

Without holding out much hope, Mariana reached out and pulled the handle. To her surprise, the door opened.

She hesitated. And went inside.

7

The ADC bar was an old-fashioned theatre bar – it had velvet-covered bar stools, and smelled of beer and old cigarette smoke.

The lights were off. It was gloomy, shadowy, and Mariana was distracted for a moment – by a couple of ghosts kissing by the bar.

And then a loud bang made her jump.

Another bang. The whole building seemed to shake with it.

Mariana decided to investigate. It was coming from downstairs. She left the bar and went further into the building. Trying to be as quiet as possible, she descended the central staircase.

Another bang.

It seemed to be coming from the auditorium itself. She waited at the bottom of the stairs and listened. But there was silence.

She crept over to the auditorium doors. She opened them slightly and looked inside.

The auditorium seemed empty. The set for The Duchess of Malfi was onstage – a nightmarish impression of a prison in the German Expressionist style, with slanted walls and bars stretched into distorted angles.

And onstage was a young man.

He was shirtless, and his torso was dripping with sweat. He seemed to be intent on demolishing the entire set with a hammer. There was a violence to his actions that was quite alarming.

Mariana cautiously made her way down the aisle, passing row after row of empty red seats, until she reached the stage.

He didn’t notice her until she was standing just beneath him. He was about six feet tall, with short black hair and a week’s worth of stubble. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, but it was not a youthful nor a friendly face.

‘Who are you?’ he said, glaring at her.

Mariana decided to lie. ‘I’m – a psychotherapist – I’m working with the police.’

‘Uh-huh. They were just here.’

‘Right.’ Mariana thought she recognised his accent. ‘Are you Greek?’