The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  Adam laid out the pages. ‘There isn’t a lot but, look, the last email is dated a week ago.’

  I pulled the page towards me and read it out loud.

  Dear Sabrina, I’m happy to confirm our meeting. Before we meet, please send over the figures relating to the company contract.

  Best wishes, Charlie

  Dear Charlie, I really enjoyed our lunch yesterday. I’m thrilled you’re taking on the story. Let me know if you need anything else.

  Kind regards, Sabrina

  I sat back in my chair, chewing my lip. Something wasn’t right.

  I turned to Adam. ‘Does this sound like Charlie to you?’

  Adam’s mouth was pulled tight. ‘It sounds very formal. Like he’s trying to . . .’

  ‘. . . not sound like he’s shagging her?’ Mack’s voice was laced with sarcasm.

  I opened my mouth to defend Charlie when my phone beeped. It was an email from the Met. I scanned it, then scrambled to gather my things. ‘Shit, the police have called a press conference relating to Sabrina’s case.’

  As we filed back to News, I glanced at Mack. ‘You were quiet in that meeting.’

  ‘Didn’t think my opinion would be very popular.’

  ‘That’s never stopped you before.’

  Mack gazed past me at Charlie’s desk. ‘Did it ever strike you as odd that he ended up marrying his wedding planner?’

  I shrugged. ‘People have to meet somewhere.’

  Mack tugged at his sleeve. ‘I know you and Charlie are close now, but you hadn’t known him long when his first wife died. It always surprised me that he was able to slap on a smile and banter in the office.’

  My voice struck a warning note. ‘People deal with grief in different ways.’

  ‘But it points to a certain mentality, don’t you think? What do they call it? Compartmentalising.’

  I shrugged. ‘He was widowed in his thirties, for Christ’s sake. In that scenario, you get through the day however you can. What’s your point?’

  Mack’s dark eyes dropped to my mouth and he blinked. ‘Only that, when Charlie returned to work, he didn’t look like someone drowning in grief.’

  I leaned against the desk, mentally running through my to-do list. ‘Oh yes, and what does someone drowning in grief look like?’

  He held my gaze. ‘Like you.’

  *

  The conference room at New Scotland Yard was brightly lit. A makeshift stage containing a table, three chairs and three microphones had been erected at the far end. Behind me I could hear the scrum of TV news crews jostling for space. I fanned my face with my notebook and a sharp hit of BO wafted towards me from the man on my right. I shifted up a seat.

  ‘If you get any closer, you’ll have to buy me dinner,’ said a nasal drawl.

  I swung round to find a leering Eliot Sampson, Chief News Reporter at the Post. He was potato-shaped, with a black beard and shrewd blue eyes. He was also a seriously talented journalist and had won more Scoops of the Year at the National Newspaper Awards than any other reporter. A fact he never let anyone forget.

  ‘You know what this press conference is about?’ I asked, pulling my Dictaphone out of my bag and testing the batteries.

  ‘You don’t?’ He hooted with laughter and saliva splattered my chin. If Sampson was a colour, he’d be a brash Ferrari red. His phone beeped and he looked at the screen, licking his lips. ‘How are things over at the Herald? Sinking in shit, I hear.’

  I smiled sweetly. ‘I saw the Post got a rap on the knuckles for the Edgware Road riot.’

  Sampson didn’t seem fazed. ‘Did wonders for our circulation, though. Survival of the fittest and all that.’

  ‘Fittest?’ I looked pointedly at his wide girth and Sampson’s lip curled.

  The door at the side of the room opened and DCI Golden strode in flanked by two officers. His blond hair was gelled into an aggressive side parting and his young face was set rigid. He sat down and cleared his throat.

  ‘At 7.30 yesterday morning a woman’s body was found on the banks of the Thames in Bishop’s Park, Fulham. The woman has been identified as thirty-three-year-old Sabrina Hobbs from London. Our initial investigation has led us to a suspect, a forty-two-year-old male.’

  Golden paused and clasped his hands on the table.

  ‘We have taken the decision to release his name and his photograph because we believe the suspect has absconded. We ask that you circulate his image to the public. His name is Charles Swift. He is a journalist at the London Herald and I’m sure is known to many of you here.’ A murmur rippled through the room and Golden raised his hand, calling the room to order.

  I gripped my voice recorder with a damp hand, ignoring Sampson’s hard stare.

  Golden took a sip of water, his eyes scanning the room. They stopped for the briefest moment on my face. ‘I’ve got time for one or two questions.’

  Everyone put their hands up and Golden nodded towards a chestnut-haired reporter in the front row: Lindsay Thackery from the Daily News.

  ‘Do you have any leads as to Swift’s whereabouts?’ she asked in a loud voice.

  ‘We believe he is still in the South-East, but I can’t be more specific than that.’

  I raised my hand higher. Golden’s eyes found mine then kept going.

  At that moment, Sampson gave me a sideward glance and cleared his throat. He rarely waited to be asked. ‘DCI Golden, the Post has spoken to a Dr Anne Lack, an obstetrician on Harley Street. She confirmed that the victim had an abortion recently. Can you confirm whether Charles Swift is the father?’

  I felt the room go still, bright; like the vicious split-second of silence after a bomb detonates.

  Golden’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t comment on that yet, or on any other evidence. A forensics team is currently at Swift’s flat so we will update you soon if there’s anything further.’ He gave a final sweep of the room, then stood up. Yanking down his jacket, he, and the other officers, filed out.

  People charged past me, eager to file copy to waiting editors. I couldn’t move. My feet felt as if they were glued to the floor. I clutched hold of my chair. An abortion? Forensics?

  Sampson sidled over. His face was red and sweating. ‘Didn’t see that one coming, did you?’

  A scream bubbled in my throat. I hurtled towards the exit, knocking over a chair in my haste. Outside, the sun cast a brittle light over the city. I staggered down Broadway, fumbling with my phone, and leaned against the wall of St James’s Park Tube station.

  Kate picked up after two rings. ‘What’s up, butterc—’

  ‘Sabrina was pregnant had an abortion is he the father forensics are–’ My words tripped over themselves.

  ‘Slow down, Soph. What the fuck?’

  ‘Sabrina had an abortion.’ I stopped, squeezing my eyes shut as the full force of reality hit me. ‘There’s a forensics team at Charlie’s flat.’

  ‘I – fuck.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  I sensed a shift in gear as Kate pulled herself together. ‘Right, Growler’s due back any moment. I’ll grab the team. We need a strategy.’ A pause. ‘Do you want off this story?’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘You know why.’

  I slammed my palm against the wall, wincing as my thumb hit a sharp edge of brick. ‘Are you mad? Charlie isn’t a killer. This is all a stupid misunderstanding.’

  ‘Right.’

  The doubt in Kate’s voice made me forget the pain in my hand. ‘You don’t honestly believe Charlie did this? There’s no motive.’ That we know of. I could hear Kate’s thoughts.

  She sighed. ‘Have you spoken to Emily about any of this?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Do it now. She’s front and centre.’ I nodded, hearing the subtext. If Emily was going to become part of the story, the Herald might as well be the newspaper she spoke to.

  I started towards the steps when a thought hit me. ‘Kate, tell me my piece hasn’t gone live. The one with Emily�
�s quote. If the media know she’s spoken out, she’ll become their number one target.’

  I heard the sound of Kate frantically tapping away on her keyboard. ‘It’s live. And, shit.’

  ‘What?’ I tried to quell the rising panic.

  ‘It’s been picked up.’

  ‘Already? Who by?’

  Kate whistled. ‘Everyone. Listen to this headline on the BBC website: Murder suspect’s wife sends message: I love you. No matter what.’

  My voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Fuck, we’ve thrown her to the wolves.’

  8

  Emily: 42 weeks before the murder

  She opens the café door and breathes in the scent of croissants and coffee. Charlie is sitting in the corner, his head dipped low, his thick fringe swept over one eye. Emily watches the nearby table of yummy mummies nudge each other and point at Charlie. One wipes her baby’s milky chin with a muslin and flicks her hair back, laughing too loudly to try and catch his attention.

  Emily sighs, remembering the first time she saw Charlie, striding up the path to her front door. He was dressed in a navy peacoat and jeans, looking as if he’d stepped out of a Burberry campaign. She was living in Chiswick at the time, operating her fledgling wedding-planning business out of her ground-floor flat. Emily spotted them out the window. Lizzie was pixie-pretty, with short blonde hair that showed off a slender neck. Charlie’s arm was slung around the shoulders of her suede coat and he whispered something in her ear as they waited on the doorstep.

  Emily had made up her mind about Charlie before he even rang the bell. She’d met his type before. Sexy, self-absorbed and totally uninterested in the wedding. But Charlie had surprised her. So had Lizzie, who threw herself on the sofa and stretched out her long legs, resting one biker boot on the coffee table. Sensing Emily’s discomfort, Charlie gently nudged his fiancée’s foot off the table. Normally the bride-to-be led the way in these consultations, but Lizzie was indecisive and easily bored. A pain in the arse, Emily decided. A pretty girl who was used to getting things her own way. Lizzie hadn’t had to work at life like she had. Emily ended up directing most of her attention at Charlie. He laughed when she asked him about flower displays (‘Um, pink ones?’) and had been surprisingly patient as she ran through the checklist (‘Invitations, music, food; load me up, I can take it!’) After they left, Emily ran her hands over the imprint he had made in the sofa, lost in the trace of his woody scent.

  Emily weaves through the cafe, sensing the yummy mummies’ eyes on her. Charlie is reading something. She catches a glimpse over his shoulder. A letter. Vanessa’s childish scrawl.

  My darling darling son, forgive me this letter is over forty years late but–

  Charlie senses her presence and spins round. He plasters a smile onto his face and pats the chair beside him. ‘I’ve ordered for you,’ he says, stuffing the letter in his pocket.

  Emily fixes her gaze on the red-checked tablecloth as the café sounds fill her head. The clink of cutlery, the hum of Tuesday-morning voices, a baby’s howl.

  A baby.

  Emily covers her face with her hands.

  Charlie’s hand is on her shoulder, his voice soft in her ear. ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘That it’s nature’s way.’ She feels the doctor’s cold hands on her stomach. ‘It was only the size of a grain of rice. Barely worth bothering about.’

  She forces a smile, but the anguish is building inside her. That tiny sack of cells had lit her up in a way she hadn’t thought possible. She had already planned the Instagram announcement: three pairs of Converse trainers in a row. Charlie’s, hers, and a tiny pair no bigger than her palm.

  Emily has always wanted kids but when she fell in love with Charlie, a primal instinct took over. She wants Charlie’s child so badly it scares her. In her darkest moments, she wonders whether it’s really the baby she wants or what the baby symbolises. Everything Charlie and Emily share, he has shared before. With Lizzie. Charlie has popped the question before, bought the ring before, kissed the bride before. But a baby? Lizzie never got that far. Perhaps a baby will make Charlie forget.

  Charlie squeezes her arm, mutters, ‘Give God your weakness, and He’ll give you his strength.’

  ‘What?’

  Charlie shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Em. I know how much you wanted this.’

  ‘How much we wanted this.’ She gazes at him through tear-sodden lashes, suddenly unsure of everything. They’ve never really had the ‘kid’ conversation. Not properly. She raised the topic once or twice at the start of their relationship but Charlie’s lukewarm response put her off asking again. Once, at a party, a friend of Charlie’s – Ashley something? – announced she was pregnant. When Emily asked if she had any names picked out, Ashley grinned.

  ‘Current frontrunner for a girl is Arabella,’ she said, pinching Charlie on the arm. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I know that was one of yours.’

  Charlie put a hand on his heart in mock indignation, but Emily could see the tightness around his eyes. Arabella. That night she asked Charlie about it, but he just shrugged.

  ‘It was Lizzie’s choice. You know how it is.’ But she didn’t. She and Charlie had never got as far as discussing baby names. That night she locked herself in the bathroom and carved an ‘A’ for Arabella into her thigh.

  A reedy waitress with spiky hair sets a mug of tea down in front of her. Her gaze lingers on Charlie and Emily feels like slapping her.

  ‘How long will it take to . . . you know,’ Charlie says, chewing his lip.

  ‘He wasn’t too specific. Says I need to take it easy.’

  Charlie nods, rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands. Emily studies his face. Did he sleep at all last night? The nightmares are getting worse. Last night his screaming woke her in the dead hours; he dreamed he was being burned alive.

  Emily sips her tea, feeling a stab of irritation in her chest as she watches Charlie tap out an email on his phone.

  ‘I’ve emailed Sophie to say I’m taking the rest of the day off,’ he says. ‘She’ll cover for me at work.’

  She can’t hide her surprise. ‘Are you sure?’

  Charlie hesitates, then cups her cheek in his hand. His warmth spreads through her. As the chasm between them closes a fraction, she feels a shift inside her.

  She puts a hand on his. ‘We’re going to be OK, aren’t we?’

  ‘This was just the first attempt.’

  ‘I don’t mean the baby. I mean us. You and me.’ Emily sees the shadow flit across Charlie’s face and regrets her words. She stares down at her tea. ‘I want to go home.’

  Charlie lays a tenner on the table. ‘You go ahead, I’ll meet you there. I have to run an errand first.’

  Emily pushes her mug away. Please don’t leave me alone. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, you need to rest.’

  Charlie slips his jacket on and kisses her cheek. Over his shoulder the yummy mummies narrow their eyes.

  *

  The sitting room curtains are half-drawn and the air is heavy with the caustic reek of wilting flowers. Emily curls up on her sofa and picks up an interiors magazine, trying to quieten the noise in her head. She flicks to the photographs of a beautiful Georgian farmhouse in Bath. The interior is arctic-white: walls, rugs, curtains, furniture. The owner, an elegant woman with grey hair that hangs as straight as rain, gazes serenely at the camera. ‘My life was so hectic but, after my encounter with God, everything made sense. Part of my epiphany involved chucking things out, stripping them back.’

  Emily drums her fingers against the chair. Where is Charlie? It’s been three hours since she got home.

  It’s just nature’s way.

  The doctor had peeled off his latex gloves and shrugged, like he was apologising for the weather. Emily dials Charlie’s number again but it goes to voicemail.

  ‘Baby, where are you?’ she says, her voice high and pleading. ‘Please come home.’

  She throws her phone onto the coffee tab
le. She shouldn’t have to be alone, not today. Doesn’t Charlie realise that? Doesn’t he love her? Her skin starts to vibrate. Emily glances at the abstract painting on the wall and its garish colours shout at her. The panic lodges in her throat. Too much noise. Too much colour. Too much everything. What did you expect, Dumpy Danson? That you were going to live happily ever after?

  All of a sudden, Emily can’t breathe. Her skin screams. She lurches forward and rips the painting off the wall, then she shoves the mosaic coffee table and kicks the striped rug to one side. Feeling giddy, Emily stumbles over to the window and yanks down the purple curtains. Sunlight streams through the window. She opens the cellar door and staggers down the steps, returning with a wedge of bin liners.

  An hour later, Emily has torn through the entire flat filling the hallway with bin bags. She’s ordered a glass coffee table, a white rug, white curtains. An encounter with God. But it’s still not enough. She crawls to the bathroom and picks up her nail scissors.

  The relief is instant.

  Emily slumps on the toilet lid, watching blood dribble out of her hip. Four cuts, one for each hour she’s been alone. She waits for the noise in her head to die down, then busies herself tending to the cut.

  The key turns in the lock, and Emily winces as she pulls up her knickers.

  Charlie has to shove the door open to get past the rubbish bags. He stares at the sitting room open-mouthed. ‘What the hell happened?’

  Emily feels dazed. ‘Where have you been?’

  Charlie strides towards Emily and pulls her onto the sofa beside him, nuzzling her hair. The smell of him makes her dizzy. She wants to ask again where he’s been, but the desire to hold on to this moment, on to his warmth, is too strong. She has to trust Charlie. Her eyes grow heavy and she sinks into his chest.

  Emily pictures her parents. Middle-class, ordinary. That’s what everyone thought. But she grew up watching the trust dissolve between them. Even now the smell of Sunday roast flings her right back to family meals spent in itchy silence. She vowed her own marriage would be different. No secrets. No suspicion. Her marriage will be perfect.