‘Sophie, listen, there’s something you need to kn—’ She spotted something over my shoulder, flicked her plait behind her and drew herself up. ‘I was just asking Press to stay behind the tape, Sir.’
A man appeared beside us with a ferocious look on his young face. Tufts of sandy-coloured hair sprouted out of his head like the top of a pineapple. A cheap charcoal suit hung off his thin frame.
‘Waters, go and check the logbook,’ he said in a curt voice.
I stepped forward, plastering a smile on my face. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I’m–’
‘I know who you are.’
I frowned. ‘Are you in charge of this scene?’ When he didn’t respond, I pointed to the police tape. ‘I’m a crime reporter. This is a crime scene. I’m doing my job.’
‘And I’m doing mine.’ The man’s hand wandered to his earlobe and his aggression spilled out in a short, sharp pinch.
I studied him, trying to read the situation. Being disliked by police is not something I lose sleep over. There are a million reasons why coppers hate reporters. We don’t do as we’re told, for one. We hold police accountable, for another. But this man’s hostility was so potent, I could taste it in the air.
Suddenly, a tinny voice rattled out of the radio in his hand.
‘Sir, we’ve just found a handbag hooked on the railings. Must be hers.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘It’s a woman, then.’
He scowled, then leaned towards me, belching coffee breath in my face. ‘No comment. Now, piss off.’
‘Lovely to meet you, too,’ I called out as he stomped away. But my bravado vanished along with him. A CID officer with a personal grudge was very bad for business.
I heard Rowley’s voice in my head: Find me ten ways around the word no, Kent.
A police van crunched along the path and parked beside the railings. I pulled out my phone to snap pictures and a message blinked at me on the home screen: a voicemail from Charlie Swift, the Herald’s Business Editor and one of my best friends. I shut it down and took more photos of the two figures emerging from the police van and pulling on white protective suits.
At that moment, a line of reporters began streaming towards the crime scene. I recognised Stuart Thorp from the Post grilling the trio of mums. I nibbled my fingernail. Had I missed something? My eyes slid right and I spotted a figure slumped on a bench by a large oak tree. He was wrapped in a foil blanket and might as well have had a target tacked to his back.
I glanced over my shoulder, then hurried towards him. He was in sportswear: a tight black tank-top and lime-green running shorts.
‘Are you thirsty?’ The man’s head jerked up and I reached into my bag for the unopened bottle of water I hadn’t had time to drink. ‘Here.’ I handed it to him, then sat down on the bench. He pulled his leg away from me for a second, then let it fall back where it was. The leg was smooth and hairless. As he gulped down the water, I stole a glance. Early twenties, blond stubble, white marks around his hairline where sweat had crusted onto his skin.
‘I’m guessing you found her,’ I said. The man nodded and dug his elbows into his muscly thighs. ‘Can you tell me about it?’
He fingered his leather necklace. It was threaded with beaded letters that spelled out S-O-U-L-W-A-R-R-I-O-R, the kind they sell in cheap shops on the Southern Hemisphere gap-year-circuit. ‘Are you the police?’
I hesitated then shook my head. ‘Press. The London Herald.’
‘Should I be talking to you?’
‘Do you often run in Bishop’s Park?’
‘I’m training for the marathon. Twenty miles a week.’ He coughed again – short, wheezy clicks – and the foil blanket rustled. ‘Ran it last year but my hip was playing up. If I can do it sub-four hours I’ll be happy.’
I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek. I didn’t want to rush him, but I didn’t want to blow the opportunity either. I gazed towards the river. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Adrian.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Adrian Bronson.’ He slid off his glasses and wiped them on his top.
I pulled out my notebook and watched Adrian’s eyes flick nervously towards it.
‘I’m just after a few facts,’ I said, as Adrian twisted the bottle cap in his hand. ‘I don’t want to do the victim a disservice by getting anything wrong. How did you spot her?’
Adrian thought for a moment. ‘I only stopped to take a breather. By the railings there.’ He pointed to the spot where the forensics team were setting up a white tent. ‘I noticed something in the water. At first I thought it was a coat. Then I saw hair,’ he pulled an inhaler out of his pocket, ‘lots of it. Red. With things stuck in it. Leaves. And other stuff. I climbed over the railing to get a better look. And that’s when I saw the rest of her.’
Adrian shoved the inhaler in his mouth and sucked hard. I didn’t speak, wanting him to take his time, knowing how hard this was. In my experience, drowned corpses are among the worst.
The first post-mortem I witnessed was a thirty-eight-year-old homeless woman who’d been found in a canal behind Swiss Cottage Tube station. Police caught her killer; a spineless mouth-breathing drunk with an inferiority complex. When I wrote up the piece, we ran the last-known photograph of the woman. A delicate face with small, pointy teeth and a schoolteacher fringe. She was pretty. Not that it mattered, but I couldn’t reconcile that photo with the bloated mess on the coroner’s table. Water can do that to a face. So I knew exactly what Adrian was going through.
‘What time did you find her?’
He glanced at his shiny watch. ‘About an hour ago. I called the police the moment I realised what it was. Waited here. I didn’t want her to be alone. Or float away or whatever.’ He ground the heel of his trainer into the dirt, and coughed again.
‘What was she wearing?’
Adrian licked his lips, trying to unstick his words. ‘Black coat. Skirt. No shoes.’ He swallowed. ‘Her right hand, there was something wrong with it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Like it had been hacked at, or something.’
A wave of nausea burned my stomach, catching me off-guard. I wasn’t squeamish. I took a long breath, not wanting to interrupt his flow. ‘Did you see anything else?’
Adrian coughed into his hand and took another hit on the inhaler. ‘Do you know how long I’ll have to hang around?’
I closed my notebook, then handed him my business card. ‘Has anyone taken a statement?’ He shook his head. ‘Speak to that female officer over there. The one with the plait.’
He stood up, but his legs failed and he slumped back down. He gave me a wry smile. ‘Sorry, I’m not usually so . . .’
I smiled. ‘Her name is PC Waters.’
As he stumbled away, my phone rang.
‘Well?’ Mack’s bark wrong-footed me.
‘It’s a woman. Just interviewed the jogger who found her. And a bag has turned up; police think it’s hers.’
‘So who is she?’
‘I haven’t got that far.’
‘Chop chop, Kent. You’re almost out of time.’ He hung up and I collapsed against the bench, closing my eyes as the adrenaline seeped out of me.
I sighed and scrolled down to Charlie’s voicemail. When I needed cheering up, Charlie was the man to do it. Laid-back, popular, Charlie was known for his dry one-liners and infectious smile. Which is all the more impressive when you consider the double tragedy he had suffered. I never met his late wife, Lizzie, but I knew they hadn’t been married long when she was diagnosed with leukaemia. In the end it wasn’t the leukaemia that killed her. Lizzie went for a swim in the Serpentine Lido and never made it back. Charlie took a fortnight off and returned to the office, deflecting people’s condolences with a tight smile. Gradually his smile became larger; the charisma returned. Most people soon forgot. But I wasn’t most people. The closer we got, the more I understood how deeply Charlie buried his pain. I knew the effort it took to plaster the smile in place because I was doing the s
ame thing myself. Over the years we picked up each other’s pieces – and many long nights in the newsroom led to a friendship I’d come to cherish. One evening, three years ago, Charlie told me he’d started seeing Emily, the young pretty wedding planner who’d organised his wedding to Lizzie. He raised his chin and waited for me to judge him, but I’m the last person to judge anyone.
I hit ‘play’ and Charlie’s deep voice filled my ear. ‘Hello? Is that the great Sophie Kent, reporter extraordinaire?’ I rolled my eyes at his naff American accent. ‘Call me when you get this. I need to talk to you about something . . . personal.’
I pressed ‘call back’ and put a hand over my ear as a plane whistled low overhead. Charlie’s phone rang out to voicemail: ‘You’ve reached Charlie Swift, leave some words.’
I dug my nails into the wooden bench. ‘Here are some words for you: Mondays suck. I’m on a crime scene and the officer in charge wants me dead. I swear, dude. The look in his eye. Also: he looks like a demented pineapple. That reminds me, can you pick me up one of those radioactive smoothies from the canteen? And, yes, I want whipped cream on top. Like I said: Mondays suck. Back in the office soon. Can’t wait to hear the personal news. Are you finally coming out of the closet? Because, FYI, your sock choice has been betraying your secret for yea—’
The beep cut me off. I glanced towards the railings where PC Waters was resting a hand on Adrian’s arm. She held my gaze, gave a tiny nod. Then I clocked her boss, the man in the grey suit. As he jabbed a bony finger in a police officer’s face, he caught me watching and scowled.
To my horror I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. I forced myself off the bench and scurried towards the Tube.
2
I wedged my phone under my ear as I watched the Herald’s City Editor, Spencer Storey, lob balls of paper into the bin by his desk. He scored just as DCI Durand picked up and a jeer went up from the City desk.
‘What’s that noise?’
‘The office toddlers. Where were you this morning? The body in Bishop’s Park. It’s your patch.’ I heard the tinny tones of daytime television in the background. ‘Where are you?’
Durand’s deep voice grazed my ear. ‘This isn’t a good time, Sophie.’
I drummed my pen against the desk, ignoring him. ‘Who’s the new guy?’
‘What new guy?’
‘Prince Charming.’
There was a pause. ‘So, you met DCI Toby Golden.’
‘Why do I know that name?’
Durand cleared his throat. ‘His dad. Paul.’
My pen froze mid-air. ‘Fuck.’
DCI Paul Golden was retired now, but in 1994 he oversaw the Amanda Barnes murder case. The teenage model who was strangled in the woods near her home in Liverpool. Police uncovered DNA evidence in the shed at the bottom of her garden that pointed to what looked like an open-and-shut case. And when more DNA evidence was found, it was ignored, because those in charge felt they had their man. It was a decision that led to two more women suffering a similar fate. The man behind the decision was DCI Paul Golden. When I revisited the story recently, the Herald outed Golden. It was harsh – and the news team had argued late into the night about whether to withhold his name. A situation like that is rarely black and white. As another copper pointed out to me, forensic testing is expensive; you have to prioritise. Golden made a judgement call. The wrong one. And Rowley wanted justice. Except Rowley’s name wasn’t on the piece.
‘So he’s not a Herald fan.’
I regretted my flippant tone the moment I heard the disapproval in Durand’s voice. ‘It’s more than that. His dad has really suffered. Graffiti on the house, hate mail, that kind of thing. People in that neighbourhood don’t need any more excuses to mistrust the police.’
I bit my tongue, not wanting to get drawn into an argument about who was to blame for the public’s loss of faith in the police. It was hard enough working the system without curveballs like this being hurled at my head.
‘So Golden is holding me personally responsible?’
Durand turned off the TV. ‘Look, Golden is young. Aggressive. He has a great track record but, when he gets the bit between his teeth, it’s hard to stop him.’ He paused and I heard the smile in his voice. ‘Remind you of anyone else?’
I laughed, in spite of myself, and the tension in my shoulders eased a fraction. ‘How do you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Talk me down off the ledge so easily.’
‘You think this is easy?’
A warm silence stretched between us. I pictured the slow smile spreading across Durand’s face and my cheeks flushed.
I cleared my throat. ‘So Golden is the new you?’
‘For the moment.’
I debated pushing it, then changed my mind. ‘Are you involved at all?’
‘Let’s just say I’m being kept in the loop.’
‘So the identity of that woman in the river–’
‘Hasn’t been released. Nice try though.’
‘Come on, Sam. I’m way behind, especially now DCI Dickhead is stonewalling me.’
Durand paused and I felt the air go still. The way it does when a game-changer is about to come my way. ‘I can tell you this, and only because it’s you,’ he said quietly. ‘The victim was a lawyer. One of the Big Five firms.’
‘And her surname rhymes with . . .’ I was only half-joking, but Durand had already hung up.
I opened my drawer and fished out a snack bar. I’d skipped breakfast and was paying the price for hitting a crime scene on an empty stomach. I craned my neck to look for Charlie but he was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, I pulled up LegalAid’s league table of the country’s top law firms, then started scrolling through photographs of their employees, looking for women with long, red hair. Ten minutes later I stretched my arms above my head, then dropped them to my side with a sigh. I yawned and a mug appeared in front of me. I could taste the coffee without even touching it. Kate Fingersmith’s brew was like liquid speed in a mug.
‘Voila! Strong and black. As I like my–’
‘Former Presidents, yeah I know.’ I forced a smile. Kate launched herself into her chair, cackling. She was still obsessed with Barack Obama. Photographs of him were sellotaped all over her computer. ‘It’s the swagger,’ she once told me. ‘He can press my nuclear button any time he wants.’
I shuffled forward in my chair. ‘What’s going down?’
Kate wrapped a brown curl round her finger. ‘Same shit, different day. There’s been a development on the Rowntree verdict. My source tells me there are rumours he’s going to walk.’
‘But he’s guilty.’
Kate snorted into her mug. ‘You’ve been around the block enough times to know that means nada. Something to do with inadmissible DNA evidence. I’m heading down to the courthouse after Conference.’
I nodded, shuddering as a mouthful of coffee stuck to the back of my throat.
Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t pull that face, you ungrateful cow. You can make your own next time.’
I swivelled back to my computer. Twenty minutes later, I had two leads: Laura Bradley at Thorman & Gray, and Sabrina Hobbs at Hamilton Law.
I dialled the first number.
A robotic voice. ‘Thorman & Gray.’
‘Could you put me through to Laura Bradley?’
‘One moment, please.’
I bobbed my foot up and down in time to the pip pip pip.
A bright voice. ‘Laura Bradley speaking.’
‘Sorry, wrong number.’ I hung up and punched in the second number.
‘Good morning, Hamilton Law.’
‘Sabrina Hobbs, please.’ I rifled through my notebook while I waited, feeling faintly nauseous as I recalled what the jogger had told me about the victim’s hand.
‘This is Sabrina’s assistant, Rachel Cornish. Can I help you?’
‘Is Sabrina in?’
‘I’m afraid not. She’s in a meeting.’
‘Do
you know what time she’ll be finished?’
‘Who is this, please?’
‘It’s a personal call.’ I added a dose of authority to my voice hoping to shut down her questions.
‘Right, well. I was expecting her in already but she’s been held up. I’ll let her know you called.’ It was smoothly done but her words ran together too quickly. She’s lying.
I hung up and stared at the photograph on my screen. Sabrina’s red hair fell a couple of inches below her collarbone. She had a heart-shaped face; a small chin with a cleft in the middle and a smile that showed no teeth. She looked like the sort of woman who would pretend-order a gin and tonic at the office party and substitute it for sparkling water. She was a Partner at Hamilton Law. A First from Edinburgh University. No Facebook account but that didn’t surprise me. My flatmate Poppy Reynolds was a lawyer and she once told me that employees were warned off social media.
On a hunch I searched for Sabrina’s assistant, Rachel Cornish. Evidently that warning didn’t stretch to admin staff. I clicked through her photographs. Rachel twirling around a dance floor in a peach bridesmaid dress; reclining by a swimming pool with sunburned shoulders; giving a bleary thumbs-up in a Santa’s hat. The caption read: Hamilton Law knows how to parteeeee.
I zoomed into the tangle of people behind Rachel. On the right of the group was Sabrina, wine-glass in hand, leaning against a dark-haired man who was kissing her neck. I raised my eyebrows. Maybe she wasn’t as buttoned up as she looked. I hovered the arrow over his face and a name flashed up: Bert Hughes. A Junior Partner at Hamilton Law. Almost as an afterthought, I pulled up Twitter. There she was: @SHobbsLaw. Sabrina mainly retweeted news nibs and court verdicts. Then my eye caught on something. Five days ago Sabrina had ‘liked’ a tweet posted by Charlie Swift. I scanned the feed. Sabrina was often the first to respond to Charlie’s tweets, and vice versa.
I drained my coffee and wandered over to the Business Department. Charlie’s deputy, Adam Gamble, was on the phone. I perched on Adam’s desk, distracted by a commotion coming from Pictures. Austin Lansdowne, the Herald’s Deputy Editor and ‘bad cop’, was tearing a strip off a picture researcher.
The Perfect Victim Page 2
