Cathy Wilson - Escape from Evil: Married at 17 to a Serial Killer, Shes One Victim who Escaped

with JEFF HUDSON

PAN BOOKS

Dedicated to the memory of my beautiful, talented but troubled mother Jennifer, for giving me life, to my grandparents for the stability they gave me, and my gorgeous son Daniel for breaking the cycle.

Also to my patient, caring and fabulous friends Gaynor and Maeve and partner Stuart who have endured my emotional roller coaster since the truth came out.

When I was a child I spake like a child,

I understood as a child, I thought as a child:

but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

For now we see through a glass, darkly;

but then face to face:

now I know in part;

but then shall I know even as also I am known.

And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three;

but the greatest of these is love.

St Pauls First Epistle to the Corinthians. XIII 1113

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

Cathy, turn on the news now!

It was September 2006, a Saturday morning, and my aunt sounded anxious. I hung up the phone and flicked the flatscreen remote. A second later I screamed. Shock turned quickly to confusion.

It cant be him. Its not possible.

I dont know why my teenage son, Daniel, was up at nine oclock on a weekend, but as he ran into the room, I was glad he was.

Mum, what is it? Whats wrong?

But I couldnt speak I just stared at the screen, shaking and pointing at the picture of the man they said was wanted for the murder of a young girl.

Youre scaring me, Mum, Daniel said. Whos that man? Do you know him?

Until then Id been able to protect my son from the poison of his past. Now it was time for the truth. I took a deep breath.

Daniel thats your father.

Part of me wishes Id never set eyes on Peter Britton Tobin. Part of me wishes he had never taken a single breath. Im sure I wouldnt have any trouble finding people whod agree. Just ask the grieving families of Angelika Kluk, Vicky Hamilton and Dinah McNicol. If I were them I would definitely consider death too good for the man who took my daughters life.

Just ask the two young girls he tortured, raped and left to die, the prostitutes who were hurt because of his excessive, brutal tastes or the countless others rumoured to have been his victims over a possible forty-year campaign of terror. Ask any of them and Im sure theyd have nothing good to say.

But mine is a hideous, unique position. Its why I can only ever partly wish hed never been born. Because, like it or not, the serial killer Peter Tobin is the father of my only child, my beautiful son. And as any parent will know, there is nothing you wouldnt do to protect your child. Unfortunately for me, Peter Tobin knew that.

With knowledge comes power and Peter knew without a shadow of a doubt that there is nothing stronger than the bond between mother and child. He played on that. That was how he controlled me during our marriage. One word out of place, one step out of line and he didnt have to threaten me. He just threatened Daniel.

Our poor, innocent baby boy, from the moment he was born, was just a tool with which I could be manipulated. I see that now. He was a bargaining chip. A means to an end.

I was a wild child when Peter Tobin, twice my age, fell for me. A free spirit, confident, loud and independent. I was the sixteen-year-old with the world at my stilettoed feet. Thats how I felt and thats how everyone saw me. Everyone except Peter.

He alone saw the confused, scarred girl beneath the veneer. The hurting, abandoned teenager desperate for validation, hiding behind her image of the life and soul of the party. To Peters expert eye, I wasnt a wild child in need of taming. I was vulnerable, fragile, damaged ripe for falling under his control.

Thats why he tricked me into getting pregnant. I dont think he ever wanted a child. He just wanted leverage.

The day I made my escape from him was the scariest day of my life. It had to be timed to perfection. One error, one delay, and he would catch me. And he would kill me.

I knew in my heart that he would have no choice. In Peters eyes, I was no more than a possession, maybe even his most precious possession, but not a person with rights of her own. When I ran away, he didnt feel abandoned; he felt like hed been robbed. And I knew he would exact his revenge.

Smuggling my son out of Scotland and fleeing the five hundred miles to the sanctuary of my family in Portsmouth was the longest night of my life. I was convinced Peter would be following, waiting for the coach to pull over, biding his time before storming on and reclaiming his property.

Every set of headlights that passed my window was his, I was convinced. Every time we slowed, it was because he had caused it.

I told my family and friends that I thought I would die that night if he found me. They all said the same thing: It cant be that bad.

But they didnt know. I hadnt told anyone about the abuse, the beatings, the violence, the atmosphere of terror hed forced me to live under for three years. They wouldnt believe me when I said he would have killed me to stop me escaping. But I knew.

Then, in September 2006, he was arrested for the murder of Angelika Kluk.

And then we all knew.

My son was so young when his life was in peril, but he has recovered. He has had his counselling, he has had his therapy and, more than a decade later, has emerged as a healthy, unscarred young man. Im confident hes found his closure.

This book, I hope, will be mine. I have never told this story before. Not even my closest friends know what I suffered as the plaything of Peter Tobin and no one has ever heard how the parallels with my mothers short life led me into his clutches. Ive gone to great lengths to rebuild my life, but Ive wasted too much time running from the truth. Until I face my past, my escape from evil will always be incomplete. If I dont share my story, it will always be there to haunt me. And I dont want that anymore.

This is where it ends.

And this is where it began...

ONE

Whos this, Grandpa?

I was fourteen years old and sitting at the kitchen table in my grandparents house. In front of me, spread out in neat little piles, were dozens of small, square photographs. One had caught my eye.

Grandpa pushed up his glasses and studied the picture I was holding.

Thats you, he said, a warm smile lighting up his face.

I stared at the mop-topped little bundle in the duck-egg blue cardigan with navy trim. Was I ever so blonde and curly? And look at those chubby little legs!

Baby me, grinning towards the camera, looked so happy on the hip of the slim woman in the gorgeous, white, thigh-length A-line dress. If anything, she looked happier still. No prizes for guessing who that beaming lady was, but I checked anyway.

And this is Mum?

Grandpa nodded. Yes, he said, a flicker of pride in his voice, thats your mother. Doesnt she look beautiful?

He didnt have to ask me that. Id never seen anyone look so stunning. With long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and slim, tanned legs, Mum looked like a film star to me. At the very least, a model. And as for her amazing little white outfit...

I love the dress, I said. She looks so smart.

I noticed the smile fade slightly from Grandpas lips. She does, doesnt she? he said quietly. But then people tend to make an effort on their wedding day.

Wedding day? But Im in the picture.

I dont remember if I couldnt work it out or I didnt want to.

Grandpa, I dont understand.

As he handed back the picture, Im sure I saw his shoulders sag a little, then he took a breath and pulled himself up straight. Im afraid, Cathy, Grandpa said, a steely tone to his voice, theres no other way to put it: you are a bastard.