Poppy was far less sympathetic to my brother’s plight. ‘You both had the same parents, right? So what’s his excuse?’
She thought Tommy needed to pull himself together. Do a stint in rehab and sort himself out. I understood where she was coming from, but she didn’t know Tommy the way I did: the scribbles outside the lines.
The first time Tommy’s boarding school summoned my parents to a meeting, he was thirteen and called me at university.
‘Did you hear the news, Sops?’
Tommy had smoked his first joint, which went straight to his head. He fell in the river and – being a sliver of boy – caught pneumonia and spent the night in hospital. Tommy didn’t sound remotely worried about his fate. His voice was light, breathless; as if he couldn’t believe our parents were making a two-hundred-mile trip on his behalf. Of course, when the day came, my mother couldn’t get out of bed, so my father arrived alone. He must have made a ‘donation’ to the school because Tommy escaped with a rap on the wrist. Tommy learned two important lessons that day: that money could make your problems go away, and he’d need to try harder to get our mother’s attention.
I grabbed an apple and padded through to my office, glancing at the almost-empty whiteboard above my computer. At the top was Tommy’s name. So far, information about his death had been thin on the ground. My eyes instinctively went to the phone number on the blue Post-It note tacked to my screen. It belonged to Damo: a former addict who knew Tommy from the streets. I’d only met him once, at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting I’d attended for research. But that day, I got a whole lot more than I bargained for. Damo was the one who put me straight about Tommy’s death: that it was murder, not suicide. He’d promised to give me more information, but that was a long time ago. I’d dialled the number every day until our mutual acquaintance, Violet, rang me to warn me off.
‘Stop boiling bunnies,’ she said in her trademark blunt manner. ‘Damo’s at a delicate stage of recovery. You hassling him ain’t helping.’
‘He said he would help.’ My words came out in a strangled whine.
‘And he will. But addicts . . . they keep to their own timetable. I’ll work on him. But you need to give him space.’
How much space did he fucking need? As I fired up my computer, I drummed my fingers on the desk, picturing Sabrina’s lifeless body lying in the morgue, her flame-red hair knotted with leaves. I couldn’t settle. Not with Charlie still out there ignoring my calls.
I stared at the blackness outside the window thinking back to my first encounter with Charlie.
I hadn’t been at the Herald long and was learning the art of fire-fighting on multiple levels. Mentally drained, I’d snuck out to the café opposite for a breather. While I waited in the queue, a stout man in a baggy pinstripe suit bowled in behind me barking orders down his phone. Every so often Pinstripe leered into my personal space, dousing me in a cloud of rank aftershave. When my turn came, he stepped round me and barrelled up to the counter.
I opened my mouth to speak but the day was already kicking the shit out of me, and I didn’t have the energy for another fight. I didn’t even notice the tall, handsome man with a heap of dark curls on his head, swaying in time to the music in his earphones. The next thing I knew, Pinstripe had stumbled and dumped his coffee down himself. People in the café twitched, trying not to laugh. He wheeled round accusingly, chins quivering, his eyes landing on the man at the counter.
‘You fucking pushed me.’
The man pulled out one earphone. ‘Sorry?’
‘Just then. You pushed me. Look what you did.’ He jabbed his finger in the man’s face, like he was groping for a switch in the dark.
‘I was nowhere near you, mate,’ he said, sliding his phone into the pocket of his navy suit jacket.
Pinstripe’s face turned crimson, a vein bulged in his forehead. He flung his coffee cup onto the counter, splashing me in the process. ‘I felt you push me. And now you’re going to apologise, prick.’
The man pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘You’re making a scene. This lady here, the pretty one.’ He gestured towards me. ‘Her name is Sarah. She’s got a big interview today. With Amaro Intel. Huge tech firm. I’m sure a man of your stature knows it. Anyway,’ he grabbed a paper napkin and handed it to me, ‘poor Sarah has coffee all down her shirt. You were on the phone – doing a huge deal by the sounds of it, congrats, mate – and lost concentration. Easily done. But poor Sarah now has to run home and change. Will you even make your interview, Sarah?’
I bit my lip, rearranged my face. ‘I think I have a spare shirt in my office.’
‘Well, that’s lucky, mate, isn’t it?’ He slapped Pinstripe on the back.
The man looked at us, doubt clouding his eyes. ‘Amaro Intel? Yes, good firm.’ Then he shifted his weight and looked at me. ‘Will you make your interview?’
I feigned irritation. ‘I’ve missed my spot in the queue now so . . .’
He raised a fat hand, then leaned towards the barista and mumbled something over the counter. Moments later, he handed me a large coffee. ‘Please accept my apologies. Good luck with the interview.’ He slunk out of the café, leaving a trail of aftershave in his wake.
I watched him, stunned, then raised my eyebrows. ‘Did you push him?’
‘Did you hear the way he was talking to his assistant?’ He unravelled his earphones and grinned.
I laughed. ‘Amaro Intel?’
‘Made it up.’ He held out a hand. ‘Charlie Swift. Business Editor at the London Herald.’
I shook it. ‘Sophie Kent, junior reporter.’
Charlie winked. ‘I know. Come say hi some time.’
That was two weeks before his wife, Lizzie, died.
I grabbed my phone and dialled his number again. ‘You’ve reached Charlie Swift. Leave some words.’
‘Charlie, it’s me. Listen, I heard about your mum. I get that you’re freaking out.’ I glanced up at Tommy’s name on the whiteboard. ‘Believe me, I know how . . . messy it is. I wish I could say take all the time you need. Only,’ I squeezed my eyes shut, ‘can you just let me know you’re OK? That’s all I need. To know you’re OK. Please.’
I sighed. I knew something had been on Charlie’s mind lately. ‘You’ve lost your sparkle,’ I told him over coffee a couple of months ago. Charlie fluttered his eyelids at me in a bid to laugh it off, and I’m ashamed to say I didn’t push him. I figured he’d tell me when he was ready.
It was almost 11 p.m. but I made myself baked beans on toast and settled down at the kitchen table. It wasn’t so long ago that Tommy had sat across from me. Small and pale and twitchy. I lay my cheek on the table, ran my hand across its surface. I could smell the wood. I could smell Tommy: peppermint and cigarettes; could hear his fingers drumming the table, his foot tapping the floor. It was easier to picture the edges of Tommy: his dirty fingernails, his white-blond hair, the feel of his spine when he hugged me. Any more than that, and I went to a different place.
Half an hour later, I climbed into bed and knocked back two blue pills, my cheeks wet with tears. As I drifted off, Kate’s words were whisper-soft in my head.
If the tide is pulling you out, wave a hand.
Wave a hand.
Wave a hand.
6
I opened my eyes and fumbled around for my phone. Nothing from Charlie. Then I saw the time. It was 7.34 a.m. I scrambled out of bed, head spinning. Did I sleep through my alarm? Did I even set it? Ten minutes later I flew out the door and up the King’s Road towards Sloane Square Tube station. The metallic-blue morning sky stretched over the city like a pane of glass.
As I waited on the platform, my phone beeped.
Got your message. Will call later. Em x
I responded.
Have you heard from Charlie?
I waited, but she didn’t reply. Emily still hadn’t replied when I reached my desk twenty minutes later. I decided to try my luck with my general pathologist contact, Dr David Sonoma. Like DCI Dur
and, Sonoma was more tolerant of the press. He understood the role we played in the big picture. I worked hard on our relationship because a source inside the coroner’s office is every reporter’s Holy Grail. I never printed anything sensitive, and I made it my life’s mission to ensure that if Sonoma was ever going to talk to a reporter, that reporter would be me.
‘Sophie?’ Sonoma’s voice was early-morning gruff. He was in his late fifties and had a schoolmasterly air about him. Bushy grey eyebrows, small, round spectacles and a fine line in sleeveless cardigans. But I never let his mild manner deceive me. Sonoma was the sharpest scalpel in the box. ‘Give me a moment, I’m just finishing up.’
I heard rustling down the phone and chewed on my pen lid. I’d only been to Sonoma’s office at St. George’s Hospital a handful of times and I was struck by how tidy it was. Rows of neatly stacked papers and identical ballpoint pens, all facing the same way. When I sat down, I inadvertently nudged a wedge of papers and Sonoma pounced, neatening the lines with steady hands. He chuckled when he caught me staring. ‘Restoring order wherever I can.’
He didn’t need to elaborate. It was bad enough writing about crime victims. Sonoma cut them open, scrutinised their injuries, then pieced together their final brutal moments. If an OCD relationship with stationery brought him a fraction more peace, who was I to judge?
‘Sorry, it’s been a busy morning,’ he said.
‘How was the Iron Death concert?’
‘Sublime.’ I heard the smile in his voice. Sonoma was a die-hard heavy metal fan, and I bagged him tickets whenever I could. ‘It was worth waiting a decade for them to reunite.’
I opened my notepad and cleared my throat. ‘Can you confirm some details about Sabrina Hobbs?’
‘I don’t have long, Sophie.’
‘I’ve heard she was on antidepressants.’
Sonoma paused. ‘I can confirm that Diazepam was found in her system. Along with alcohol. Not huge amounts but enough to blur the edges of a woman that size.’
‘Size?’
‘She was petite. Five feet one – about your height, in fact.’
I scribbled down notes. ‘Her body was found in the Thames. Did she drown?’
Sonoma sighed. ‘Yes. The blow to the back of her head was my first thought. But I don’t think it killed her. My guess is the killer stunned her, then threw her in the river, where she drowned. Police found rocks in her pockets, so there was an attempt to hide her, but not a successful one. And I don’t think she put up much of a fight. She was wearing earrings, silver four-leaf clovers, and they survived the attack, and the tide. A fibre under her fingernail is being tested, but not much else.’
I nodded, pen flying. ‘Can you estimate when she was killed?’
Sonoma coughed. ‘Not an easy one. The tide can play havoc with a corpse. I’d say somewhere between 8 p.m. Saturday and 8 a.m. Sunday. It’s a big window, I know, but I wouldn’t like to be more specific than that right now.’
I thought back to the jogger’s grim observation. ‘A witness said something about her right hand.’
Sonoma hesitated and I heard the sound of a door closing. ‘A carving of some kind on her wrist. Hard to be specific because of the water damage. Some kind of shape, perhaps?’ A chorus of voices erupted in the background and Sonoma sighed. ‘Sophie, my eight thirty is here.’
He hung up and I logged on to Sabrina’s profile on the Hamilton Law website. A year at the Sorbonne university in Paris, three years at Cambridge. A passionate interest in pro bono work: Sabrina had supervised a research team working for the Red Cross in 2010. She qualified at Hamilton Law, worked her way up from trainee to Partner, which didn’t fit with the inequality angle. I thought back to the Wicked Whispers campaign. Did a few comments signal a sexism epidemic at the law firm? But Charlie would have done his research before agreeing to expose Hamilton Law. Wouldn’t he?
Ask your friend the real reason he knows the victim.
I spun my chair round to the window. Sunlight streamed in, pooling on the grey carpet beside me. I dipped my foot in, allowing the sun to warm my ankle. Was Charlie involved with Sabrina?
Without thinking I dialled his number again.
‘You’ve reached Charlie Swift. Leave some words.’
As I tossed my phone onto the desk, I spotted the file Adam gave me yesterday. I glanced at the Post-It Note. For Sophie. Urgent. It wasn’t unusual for a colleague to stumble across something juicy and pass it on. Was Charlie directing me to a potential story? But if it was so urgent, why was it stashed in his bottom drawer? I glanced at the top sheet. It was a news cutting from the Bournemouth Bugle, May 2012.
The Christ Clan Reborn?
Can the religious group ever break free of its sordid past, asks Jeff Johnson.
The photograph showed a young man with wavy brown hair and a cherubic face that seemed at odds with his guarded expression. I read the caption:
Hector Marlon, thirty, the tech-genius son of the original First Leader Laurence Marlon, dubbed the Shepherd, who disappeared in 1988.
I scanned the piece.
The bulk of Christ Clan members are made up of society’s most vulnerable: homeless, drug addicts, former criminals. ‘The new Christ Clan is nothing to do with the organisation my dad ran back in the eighties,’ says the younger Marlon, who made a fortune last year through his Pocket Church smartphone app. ‘The religious cornerstones are different. My goal is to help society’s cast-offs, to give them a safe place to turn.’ When pressed about the rumours that surround his father’s organisation, Marlon–
My phone rang and I picked it up, eyes on Marlon’s face. ‘This is Sophie Ke—’
‘Sophie, it’s Emily.’ The panic in her voice made me forget all about Christ Clan.
‘What’s wrong?’
Jagged breathing. ‘The police. They’re here. At the flat. With a warrant.’
Alarm swept through me. ‘Are you there now?’
‘Yes, but–’
‘Stay where you are. I’m coming.’
*
The heavy black door to Charlie and Emily’s building was propped open and I found Emily sitting on the bottom stair in the hallway. Her ash-blonde ponytail hung limply from the crown of her head and she was dressed in black leggings, a long-sleeved Lycra top and bright orange trainers.
She looked up when she heard me; her eyes were rimmed pink. ‘Thank God.’ She pulled me into a tearful hug, and I caught the scent of lemon mixed with sweat. I was surprised by how much weight she’d lost.
‘How long have the police been here?’ I asked, looking round. Evidence of long-abandoned building work was everywhere. A large tarpaulin sheet hung from the bannister, piles of timber lay along one wall. I could taste the dust in the air.
Emily’s voice tremored. ‘Half an hour. They arrived just as I came back from a run.’
I squeezed her hand. ‘Did you get the name of the person in charge?’
She brandished a business card.
Toby Golden
Detective Chief Inspector
My heart sank, and I sat down beside Emily. ‘What have the police told you?’
Emily wiped her nose with the back of her hand. This was the first time I’d seen her without make-up; I’d never noticed her freckles before. ‘That a woman was killed in Fulham on Saturday night. She had a phone in her bag. Pay-as-you-go. Apparently police tracked messages she received from another pay-as-you-go phone.’ Emily took a deep breath and exhaled shakily. ‘Both phones were paid for with Charlie’s credit card.’
I chewed my fingernail. That didn’t mean anything. I already knew Charlie and Sabrina were in touch. Maybe Charlie was taking precautions by using untraceable phones.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Emily got there first. ‘There’s more. Charlie sent the victim a text arranging to meet her at Bishop’s Park on Saturday night.’
I stared at her. Bishop’s Park. Saturday night.
‘Listen, Em,’ I said, forcing the concern out of my hea
d, out of my voice. ‘Charlie and the victim were acquainted. They were working together on a story.’
Emily clutched my hand, her voice sounded faraway. ‘Who was she?’
‘This is her.’ I pulled out my phone and logged onto the Hamilton Law website. ‘Sabrina Hobbs.’
Emily twisted her ponytail round her hand and pulled sharply as she peered at the screen. ‘Do you think they’re making a mess in there? I need to photograph my bedroom today. For my blog,’ she added. ‘Something Borrowed. My book is due out later this year. Marriage advice for millennials. My publisher wants me to post every day. Today’s topic is “inside other couples’ bedrooms”.’
I pocketed my phone, wondering at the change of subject. ‘Emily, where’s Charlie?’
‘You mean he hasn’t come running to you?’ The bitterness in her voice took me by surprise. Emily rested her elbows on her knees and picked at her leggings. ‘I’m sorry, Soph. I . . . I don’t know where he is.’
‘I’ve left messages. Hundreds of them. Emails. The works. He’s not responding.’
Emily hunched further over her knees. ‘That’s because he’s gone.’
‘What do you mean “gone”?’
Emily chewed her lip, refusing to meet my eye. ‘Wallet, phone, holdall. Gone.’
The way she said it triggered a memory in my head. It was a few months ago, a Saturday, I think, and Emily called me to ask if I’d seen Charlie. She hadn’t been able to get hold of him. When I rolled into work on the Monday and Charlie was at his desk, I meant to ask him about it. But I’d got sidetracked. Then forgot all about it.
I leaned back against the bannister trying to process my thoughts. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Friday. We . . . rowed. I drove to Norfolk that night. Had a client getting married Saturday morning so I stayed overnight. I got back early hours of Sunday morning and Charlie wasn’t in bed. I assumed he was in the spare room. But when I woke up later . . .’ her words tailed off and she shrugged.
The Perfect Victim Page 6
