No Turning Back: The can’t-put-it-down thriller of the year. Tracy Buchanan

skin removed by the Ophelia Killer as trophies, as Anna later learnt.

      That was the penultimate victim. A couple of weeks later, her father killed himself on the same day the last victim was found, jumping from the top floor of the lighthouse to the rocks below, the horror of the case finally getting to him.

      Anna felt tears spring to her eyes and scrubbed at a plate to force the memories away. Florence was right, she’d been silly to question Ben Miller like that. She needed to leave the investigations to the police. If her dad had, maybe he’d still be alive, not driven to depression by the horror and stress of it all.

      She removed the plug, watching as the bubbles spun down the sink. Then the sound of something smashing outside pierced the silence. Florence was out there! She quickly dried her hands and ran out of the open back door, calling her gran’s name.

      Then she froze.

      Standing on the beach outside was a crowd of people, candles flickering in the darkness. ‘Child killer,’ someone hissed.

      It was Elliot’s father, his blue eyes fierce with anger.

       Chapter Three

       The Second One

      You’re staring out towards the dockyards, brow creased. You will not look at me. I want you to look at me.

       ‘Look,’ I say, pointing out of the other window facing towards the beach. ‘It’s starting.’

       You turn and narrow your eyes.

       ‘There, see,’ I say, pointing towards the family spilling out of a car, their bright towels flapping in the wind. There’s a mum and dad, a boy and two girls. The pebbles of the beach shine under the sun, small boats shimmying over the waves in the distance. They’re from The Docks, I can tell from their decrepit old car.

       Something changes in you as you look out of the window, eyes alighting on the sullen boy who helps his father get out a tatty-looking picnic hamper. At least this family are trying, taking their kids out for a Sunday afternoon on the beach.

       ‘Shall we go to the beach?’ you say, smiling now.

       ‘Really?’

       ‘Why not? We can get lunch at the cafe.’

       ‘Oh!’

       You laugh. ‘Come on.’

       As we walk to the beach together, I feel free like that seagull over there, soaring above the lighthouse and craggy rocks. It doesn’t matter that the sandwiches are a bit dry when we get to the cafe, the fizzy drink too warm. I start to feel like this is the best day of my life, being here with you.

       I watch you bite into your sandwich. Your eyes are on the boy again. He’s fourteen or fifteen. He has headphones on, head hunched over a comic book. His dark hair is too long, and he’s wearing cut-off jeans and a grey t-shirt with a growling dog on the front.

       The boy looks up, catches me watching him.

       I turn away.

       ‘Don’t be shy,’ you say in a quiet voice. ‘You should go talk to the boy. That way he won’t bat an eyelid when you see him next. He’ll be relaxed.’

       I think of the last boy, the first one, and a tremor of fear rushes through me. ‘I don’t know.’

       ‘Look, this is the perfect opportunity.’

       The mum gets up and takes the girls to the water’s edge as the dad strolls to the cafe.

       The boy’s alone now.

       You jog your arm into mine. ‘Go. Practise on him.’ You stand up, stretching. ‘I’m getting another drink.’

      You give me a look – the look – then stride off.

      I stay where I am for a few moments, fear battling curiosity. Can I really do this? Do I want to do this? You think I can but I’m not so sure.

       I take a deep breath then walk along the beach to the boy, weaving between all the people who are cluttering the beach now. The boy doesn’t notice me for a bit as I stand over him. Then he looks up, scowling.

       ‘Looks interesting,’ I say, gesturing to the comic book.

       The boy takes his headphones off. ‘What?’ He looks angry. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk to me.

       I think about heading back, then peer at the cafe. You nod at me, encouraging. I don’t want to disappoint you.

       I kneel down beside the boy. ‘I’ve met the man who illustrates those,’ I lie.

       ‘Oh yeah?’ the boy says, feigning disinterest but I see his eyes light up.

       ‘Yep. My friend’s brother knew him.’

       He looks me up and down. ‘I’ve seen you at school.’

       ‘That’s right. You like it there?’

       He laughs. ‘Does anyone?’

       I laugh back and we start to talk.

       After a while, I sneak a peek back at the cafe to see you watching us, this strange intense look in your eyes. I look back at the boy and know things aren’t going to end well for him.

       Chapter Four

      ‘Get back inside,’ Anna’s gran called over her shoulder. ‘Lock the door, call the police.’

      ‘No,’ Anna said, striding down the path towards Florence as the angry-looking crowd throbbed in front of them.

      ‘You’re Anna Graves?’ Elliot’s father shouted at her, his red hair like blood under the moonlight.

      ‘No, she isn’t,’ Florence said, shaking her head. ‘You’ve got the wrong person.’

      ‘Liar,’ Elliot’s father hissed at her.

      He strode towards Anna. Florence tried to get in the way but he pushed her aside.

      ‘Gran!’ Anna went to help her but Elliot’s father grabbed her with one hand, using his free one to look at his phone as Anna struggled against him.

      She caught sight of the screen. It was a tweet featuring the publicity shot the station always used of her – one eyebrow wryly raised, arms crossed, long brown hair smooth and shiny. Below it were the words: ‘BREAKING NEWS: Mother who killed Elliot Nunn is named as local radio presenter, Anna Graves.’

      She looked out at the crowd. There were about twenty people on the beach, jeering at her, glaring at her, hatred in their eyes.

      She saw her gran try to pull herself up, wincing slightly.

      Anna fumbled in the pocket of her cardigan, finding the door keys. She pulled them out, jutting one between her two fingers and pointing it at Elliot’s father’s face.

      ‘Let go of me,’ she hissed.

      ‘What you going to do, knife me?’ the man spat. ‘Not young enough though, am I? You only kill innocent school kids,