She’d dragged Magda’s body across the beach and pushed her flopping head deep under the biting salty water, then watched as her arms and legs kicked out in protest. Lauren waited until Magda’s limbs finally stopped moving before submerging herself in the cutting-cold sea, and swimming out as far as she could with the lifeless body in tow, silently screaming pain into the night sky. Despite being a strong swimmer, after just a minute her arms ached. The left one from making strokes powerful enough to propel a live body and a dead weight forward, the right from clinging on to said excess baggage. When they were far enough from the shore, Lauren had paused, bobbing in the waves, then let Magda slip from her grasp. The last gasps of air evacuated the vacant corpse with a low groan, as she sank below the surface. It was a sound that Lauren could never forget. She had swum back, bleached blonde hair sticking rigidly to her forehead, teeth chattering, desperately wanting to shed her red leather jacket but too afraid to do so, in case it led a trail back to the snuffed out life sinking behind her. Freak accidents happened every day, she had reassured herself at the time. There was no reason for anybody to suspect her involvement.
Only now, she was stuck waiting for the police to publish the results of that damn autopsy, not knowing whether they might come knocking at her door again. She didn’t like the way that stocky uniformed woman had looked at her. It was as if she knew something. It felt like time was running out.
Stacks of washing-up lay around the sink, where Lauren was now standing. Marcus’s three-day-old saucepan with remnants of a fried egg stuck to the bottom, several glasses and plates smeared with sauces. Most tantalising of all, though, was the blade of a gleaming kitchen knife, poking out from beneath a wooden chopping board. The sharpest one in the flat. The one she used to swoosh through red peppers and dice onions into neat little squares with ease. Lauren stroked the handle of the knife tenderly, seemingly in a daze. Jessie was still struck dumb, her mind going over and over the best decision to make and coming up blank. Then her feet started moving.
‘I have to leave,’ she croaked, breaking into a run.
This time around, she wouldn’t let the bullies win. She was so close to being able to start over.
Lauren looked up, as if seeing Jessie for the first time, and lunged at her.
She was too slow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sergeant Langley sucked on a boiled sweet as she drove to Maver Place. The sirens on top of the car wailed. Her boss, DCI David Tyrell, a man she’d been working hard to impress, was riding shotgun. This was going to be good. Especially as Jessica Campbell ought to be identifying Elizabeth Holliday in a few minutes too, if everything back at the station was running to schedule.
Two cases as good as nailed in one day. The results of the post-mortem had finally come back confirming that Magda Nowak had died under suspicious circumstances. It was not, as initially reported, suicide. There were several lacerations to the victim’s face and marks on the body, indicating that she’d been kicked repeatedly after probably having fallen down a flight of concrete stairs. Her neck was broken but she wasn’t dead yet … She had then been held under water because her lungs were filled with liquid. Sergeant Langley had trawled through endless hours of CCTV footage and thanks to a small ice-cream kiosk, which had suffered several break-ins and turned the owner into a security vigilante, she’d found plenty of video evidence of Lauren McCormack dragging the poor young woman – her former flatmate – into the sea after a scuffle by the stairs. It was a brutal, animalistic attack. Psychopathic, almost. Inhuman.
As they wove through traffic, other cars pulling over to allow them a clear path, Sergeant Langley thought of how much she loved her job. She was a good driver, despite PC Phillips teasing her otherwise. When she rounded the corner and passed the wine bar at the end of Maver Place, blue lights came into view. Sergeant Langley could hear other sirens joining in with her own, a chorus of alarm. She neared the flat and saw several of her colleagues already pulled up outside. How could someone have beaten her to the chase? Her heart sank as she realised her radio was still tuned into the Hove, not Brighton channel; she must have missed a call. She heard DCI Tyrell give a small, unimpressed cough beside her. This wasn’t how it was meant to go.
‘What’s going on?’ Sergeant Langley walked straight over to PC Phillips, who was speaking earnestly into the walkie-talkie attached to his vest.
He looked at her with serious eyes.
‘We’ve had a call about a stabbing at number four, the same flat we were in the other week,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t sound good.’
The walkie-talkie bleeped and crackled. Paramedics had stopped working on the victim. They were about to bring the body out of the house and needed any vehicles blocking the ambulance to be moved immediately. PC Phillips hurriedly climbed into his car and reversed it backwards, to ensure it wasn’t in the way.
Marcus didn’t hear the sirens initially, as his headphones were turned up too loud, nor did he notice there was an ambulance pulled up by the kerb, alongside the police cars and vans. He noticed the blue lights though, bouncing off the front of the flat. The grip on his guitar case slackened, then he started running. Priya stood outside looking up at 4 Maver Place in horror, as two men in green uniforms carried a stretcher down the front steps and into the back of the ambulance. Strapped to it, was a woman with bleached blonde hair.
Acknowledgements
This book wouldn’t have been possible without a number of people.
Thank you first and foremost to Katie Seaman, editor extraordinaire, for sending the email that changed everything and for helping me water the seed of an idea into a real living, breathing book – I’m so indebted to you. To Diana Beaumont, my brilliant agent, thank you for the invaluable support and feedback you’ve given along the way too.
My parents, Nick and Heather, it appears that plying me with books as a child has paid off! I’m grateful that you always encouraged me to write, allowed me to be independent and to choose my own path. You’re the best.
Babette Savin, my grandma and hero – you’ve taught me more than you’ll ever know and making you proud is my biggest motivator. To my uncle Mark and auntie Vicki, you’ve been my constant cheerleaders from day one and I appreciate it no end.
Benjamin Kelly, thank you not only for reading every word of this book throughout the course of it being written, and for offering your honest opinion, but for everything else that you do too. I love you.
I am privileged to have some of the most wonderful friends. Isabella Silvers, thank you for kick-starting my career. You are one of the most razor sharp, determined and encouraging women I’ve ever met. Hannah Cardy, Jack Coulston, Oliver Greaves, Dina Mouhandes, George Palmer and Ashleigh Ward: you were everything I hoped I’d find in Brighton and more, some of my favourite ever times have been spent with you. Adam Carter, Krista Lynch, Carina McKay, September Mead and Ellen Thomas: how lucky I was to have met you all those years ago and luckier still to have you around now.
To the book club girls, my precious Ponies, the group chat and Prosecco, interspersed with karaoke and analysing celebrity autobiographies, were the perfect tonic to any writer’s block. Extra thanks to Josie Copson for reading this book in draft form and giving me helpful pointers, and to Eleanor Lees for always checking in.
Thank you: Catriona Innes for all the author-related advice, you’re a real inspiration, Farrah Storr for making me a better writer and Janine Pipe (plus others who wished to remain anonymous) for your insight into police procedures.
Lastly, I’d also like to thank all the terrible flatmates (and ex-boyfriends) I’ve had over the years. Turns out you were great inspiration.
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Copyright © Jennifer Savin, 2020
Cover photographs: Plainpicture/Mikael
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Jennifer Savin has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published by Ebury Press in 2020
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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ISBN 9781473568471
The Wrong Move Page 27
