The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  Charlie flicks on the TV, she knows without looking it will be football. Emily clings to her husband, and drifts off to sleep. She sleeps so soundly, she doesn’t feel Charlie slide out from under her, or hear the front door close as he disappears into the darkness.

  9

  Present day

  I emerged from London Bridge Tube station and pulled up Google Maps on my phone. Rain was falling like a silver veil from the sky and, as I hurried along the cobbled street that ran through Butler’s Wharf, I was struck with a heady mix of river tang and wet tarmac. Tea Trade Wharf was an eighteenth-century brick building dotted with glass balconies. Once the dirty hub of city life, this former warehouse had been hollowed out and polished up, and now rich City kids rubbed shoulders with ghosts of the Industrial Revolution.

  I ducked into the marble lobby and a bald man looked up from behind the reception desk.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m here to see Bert Hughes. Apartment 7A.’

  A shadow passed across his face as he picked up the phone. ‘Your name, please?’

  ‘Sophie Kent,’ I said, leaning against the desk and listening to the sound of rain pelting against glass. I wondered if Bert knew Sabrina was dead, given he’d just returned from New York.

  ‘Mr Hughes, there’s a lady in reception. A Sophie Kent.’ I could hear the squawking from where I stood. The man replaced the receiver and gave me an apologetic look. ‘Mr Hughes isn’t available right now.’

  I glanced at his name badge. ‘Would you mind calling him again, Seth?’ He blinked rapidly, his mousy brown eyebrows knitting together. I smiled. ‘You don’t have to speak to him.’

  Seth hesitated, then dialled again and handed me the phone.

  Bert answered on the first ring. ‘Listen, you prick. I told you–’

  ‘Mr Hughes, it’s Sophie Kent. Please don’t hang up.’

  ‘How did you–’

  ‘Mr Hughes, I’m a reporter from the London Herald. I’ve uncovered an issue at your law firm. In connection with your colleague, Sabrina Hobbs’s, death.’ Silence. He knows. ‘I’m approaching you first because I’ve heard that you and Sabrina were close. I understand it’s a difficult time.’ I paused, choosing my words carefully. ‘I’m happy to leave you out of the loop and go directly to your boss. We can get the whole thing out in the open.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seth’s jaw slide open.

  Bert’s voice was pure ice. ‘For Sabrina’s sake, you have five minutes.’

  The line went dead and I handed the phone back to Seth. ‘Can you point me to the stairs?’

  *

  Bert Hughes scowled in his doorway. His charcoal sweater stretched tight over his biceps and he was wearing sunglasses on top of his head; the pink cord hung down behind his large head.

  He raised his chin at me. ‘I don’t take kindly to threats.’

  ‘I appreciate you seeing me, Mr Hughes.’ I waited awkwardly for Bert to invite me in, but he didn’t. ‘You want to do this in the corridor?’

  Bert shot me a look, then pushed himself away from the door frame. I followed him into a large, open-plan room. The far end of his apartment was all glass and looked out over Tower Bridge. In the centre stood a granite-coloured L-shaped sofa; the black marble floor was edged in LED lights.

  Bert prowled into the kitchen; his aftershave, a cloying musk, laying down an overpowering track wherever he went. I watched him gulp down a glass of water, then dump it in the sink.

  ‘I’d offer you a drink, but I want you gone,’ he said.

  I shook off my jacket, buying some time. I didn’t take Bert’s hostility personally. I’ve developed a thick skin over the years. A reporter is a lightning rod for people’s emotions. You appear in their lives at the worst possible moments. The least you can expect is a bad attitude.

  ‘I’m very sorry about Sabrina.’ I wandered over to the window. The flat light made the Thames look solid, like a sheet of metal.

  Bert perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘Let me be clear. Nothing I say is on the record. Don’t even think about stitching me up. I know my rights and, believe me, I’m fucking good at my job.’

  I nodded, registering the accent, a gruff North-Eastern twang. ‘How long have you been at Hamilton Law?’

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘And you’re a Junior Partner, right? And Sabrina was a Partner.’

  Bert traced a circle in the air with his bare foot. ‘Promoted just before Christmas.’

  ‘Sabrina must have been good, then. To get the promotion.’

  ‘Must have been.’

  I heard the sarcasm in his voice but I held my tongue, biding my time. Knowing when to pull back and give a person space is the difference between a killer quote and a slammed door.

  I nodded towards the drum-kit in the corner. ‘Your neighbours must love you.’

  ‘I had the place sound-proofed.’

  ‘You any good?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  The smirk on Bert’s lips hardened my stomach. ‘Are you aware your firm is being investigated for sexism?’

  Bert spread out on the sofa and put his bare feet on the coffee table. ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I’m also good at my job.’ I waggled my eyebrows, earning a smirk from Bert. ‘What can you tell me about the website, LegalLens?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s for time-wasters. A joke.’

  ‘I don’t think Sabrina found it funny.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ As Bert stretched his arms up, his gold Rolex glinted in the light.

  ‘So, you weren’t aware of the smear campaign against Sabrina?’

  Bert raised an eyebrow. ‘I hardly think a few spiteful comments constitutes a smear campaign.’

  ‘So you have seen it.’ I crossed the room and sat in the armchair opposite Bert.

  ‘Sabrina asked me for advice about what to do. I told her to ignore it. She was always too sensitive.’

  I narrowed my gaze. ‘So your advice was to accept the abuse. Move on.’

  Bert tapped his finger against his thigh and rolled his eyes. ‘Look, Sabrina was smart, a brilliant lawyer. But outside work it was a different story. She wasn’t right. In here,’ he tapped his head. ‘She was on the happy pills because she got herself all worked up about stuff.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  Bert crossed one leg over the other, and ran a finger along his jawline. He was shooting for nonchalant, but the tension around his eyes gave him away. ‘She showed up here back in February. Tears, the lot. She thought she was being followed. That someone had broken into her flat.’

  I fidgeted in the chair, trying to get comfortable. ‘Did she report it?’

  ‘I doubt it. Sabrina was cuckoo. Struggled with reality sometimes. I thought she was making it up.’

  Something was bothering me. I stood up and wandered to the window, giving my brain space to breathe. Happy pills. Cuckoo. Both had appeared in those poisonous posts on LegalLens.

  Suddenly, there was a click and the front door opened. A bundle of fur scampered across the flat and leaped into Bert’s lap.

  ‘Thanks, Bridget,’ he called out, nuzzling the dog, as the door closed again. He glanced at me. ‘This is Butch.’

  My mouth twitched. I definitely hadn’t pegged Bert as the owner of a Yorkshire Terrier.

  Rifling through my bag, I pulled out the picture from Facebook and joined him on the sofa. ‘This photo was taken at your office Christmas party,’ I said, as Butch licked my hand with his small pink tongue. ‘Not long after Sabrina was promoted, right?’

  Bert was stroking the dog, his eyes on the floor. All of a sudden, he turned to me and his jaw tightened. ‘The London Herald. Your colleague is the man who killed Sabrina.’

  ‘The man suspected of killing Sabrina,’ I corrected him.

  Bert gave me a cool look. ‘Well, he was sleeping with her.’

  ‘He wasn’t the only one.’ Bert twitched and the dog looked
up at him.

  ‘Did you know about Sabrina’s affair with Charlie Swift?’ I asked.

  ‘Why would I know about it?’ He rubbed his eyes with a fist and dropped his head. I knew Bert’s alpha-male ego had taken a beating over the promotion, but there was something else, something deeper.

  I turned my head and watched Bert’s reflection in the gigantic flat-screen TV hanging on the wall. ‘Were you in love with Sabrina?’

  Bert’s gaze hardened, then he threw the dog off his lap and stalked into the kitchen. This time he poured himself a proper drink. ‘What does any of this matter now? Sabrina’s fucking dead.’ Finally, the mask slipped and I saw pain in his eyes. But I also saw something else. Fear.

  I slid forwards on the chair, and kept my voice level. ‘Bert, whether you realise it or not, you’ve given me two strong motives for Sabrina’s murder. Jilted boyfriend with an axe to grind. Bitter colleague who lost out on a promotion. Your relationship with Sabrina could play out a thousand ways in the press.’

  Bert raked a rough hand through his hair and his sunglasses clattered onto the floor. He stared down at them, his voice as hoarse as a rusty saw. ‘You’re forgetting one thing. The police have their man.’

  I shook my head. ‘They have a suspect. There’s a difference. Where were you on Saturday night?’

  Bert drained his glass. ‘Are you fucking serious?’

  ‘Come on, it’s good practice for when the police show up.’

  ‘And why would the police show up?’

  ‘Because you’re not as good a liar as you think.’

  Bert’s face twisted into a snarl and he thumped the glass down on the counter. ‘I’m a fucking great liar. I just happen to be telling the truth right now.’

  I nodded towards the window. ‘I was there, you know. When they pulled Sabrina’s body out of the Thames. I’m going to find the person who did this.’

  I use that line a lot. It makes an innocent person feel as if we’re on the same side. Only a person with something to hide hears it as a threat.

  I waited a beat, then picked up my bag. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Hughes.’

  ‘It must be pretty tough on his wife.’ The words were so quiet, I almost missed them.

  I glanced over my shoulder, frowning. ‘Whose wife?’

  ‘Your colleague.’

  ‘You mean Emily?’ I turned to face him. ‘Yeah, she’ll be happier when Charlie turns up.’

  Bert followed me to the door and scooped the dog up in his arms. ‘You don’t think Charlie did it?’ His eyes swept across my face and that’s when I spotted it; a flicker of something in his eye.

  I sighed, my mind still on his question about Emily. ‘Innocent until proven guilty. You should know that more than anyone, right?’

  He looked as if he was going to say something else. When he didn’t, I handed him my card, then slung my bag over my shoulders.

  As I marched towards the stairs, Bert’s eyes burned a hole in my back.

  10

  I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped out of the lift.

  It was eerily quiet, as though a blanket had been thrown over the newsroom. Clusters of people were gathered around computer screens. I darted towards News, tension coiling in my stomach. Kate, Mack and Rahid were glued to Kate’s computer screen.

  Kate looked up when she heard me, her face pale and drawn. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Interviewing Sabrina’s ex. What’s going on?’

  She shifted to the left and I caught a glimpse of her screen. The Post’s homepage displayed a photograph of Charlie and Lizzie on their wedding day. It had been photoshopped to look as if it was ripped in half. I read the headline, and felt the blood drain from my face.

  BREAKING NEWS: JOURNO BEAT UP LATE WIFE

  By Eliot Sampson

  The Post can exclusively reveal that Charles Swift, Business Editor at the London Herald and the prime suspect in the murder of Sabrina Hobbs, was arrested for assaulting his late wife, Elizabeth, in July 2007. Charges were dropped after Elizabeth decided not to pursue the matter charges. A source remembers how Swift’s assault left his wife needing twenty-eight stitches in the back of her head.

  A smaller photograph of Lizzie’s head injury showed a red gash oozing stickiness.

  I blinked rapidly, unable to process the image on the screen with something Charlie had done. ‘It says . . . it says Charlie wasn’t convicted.’

  ‘Are you fucking blind?’ Mack rapped the screen with his knuckles. ‘Look at that photograph. Shit, did she have cancer when he did this to her?’

  We all stared at the computer screen, the atmosphere plummeting fast.

  ‘Rowley is going to hit the roof.’ Mack rounded on me, dark eyes flashing with anger. ‘We missed this, Kent. And you know why? Because we’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to keep a lid on Charlie. We look like we’ve been caught with our dicks in our hands.’

  I leaned against the desk, feeling light-headed. ‘Let’s not get carried away. This assault doesn’t prove Charlie murdered Sabrina.’ I waved my notebook in the air. ‘I’ve just come from Bert Hughes’s apartment. He has a motive, two actually. Then there’s the smear campaign and–’

  ‘Enough!’ Mack’s voice cut through me. ‘If you can’t be objective, you’re off the story. I will not let you screw it up.’

  ‘Hear hear, fucktards.’ A shadow passed across my desk as Lansdowne bore down on us. ‘You are officially the most useless news team on the planet.’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Kate shook her head.

  ‘You have two hours to pull this back from the brink and come up with something new,’ said Lansdowne. ‘Or I will march over to the Post, poach every one of their staff and nail you lot to the wall by your genitals.’ He kicked a wastepaper bin, spilling the remnants of Mack’s quinoa salad across the floor, then stalked off.

  Mack buttoned the jacket of his custom-made suit and smoothed down his tie. Under the newsroom lights, his overly gelled hair looked shiny and fake. ‘Kent, I want you to pass Bert Hughes over to Rahid.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘No buts, Kent. I need you on Charlie.’

  Kate glanced at her watch. ‘I’m out of here in fifteen minutes. My Rowntree source says news is imminent.’

  ‘Good, maybe a verdict will kick this off the front page,’ I said, then hated myself for the comment.

  Mack was pacing up and down beside his desk. ‘Emily. That’s our angle. Second wife commenting on first wife. Get a quote from her and we’re golden.’

  Kate snorted. ‘Are you mad? There’ll be a ring of fire around Emily now. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s signed with a PR firm.’

  If that was true, Emily could name her price for the exclusive sit-down interview. The Herald couldn’t afford to join a bidding war.

  Mack leaned forward and tapped my notebook. ‘Charlie. Where is he? We need to think like him. Pull together everything we know about his background, friends, family. Police sources – what’s the latest? Any sightings of him, CCTV. Has he used his phone, his bank card? Anything that points to–’

  ‘Listen up, everyone.’ Spencer Storey, the City Editor, strode into our circle, his gut hanging over his belt like a sack of flour. ‘We’re clearing space in the print edition. Legal are drawing up a statement. We need to cover our arses.’

  ‘Thanks for pointing out the fucking obvious,’ said Mack, squaring up to Spencer.

  I left them to their pissing competition, forcing myself to tune out the noise. One of the first things you learn in the newsroom is that facts don’t necessarily sell papers. Although it was pretty hard to argue with the evidence on Kate’s computer screen. I dragged my eyes away as Rahid picked up a tray and collected our mugs.

  The picture of Lizzie’s injury made me feel sick. I slid down my chair, sifting through my brain for clues to Charlie’s violent streak.

  A memory took shape in my mind. Charlie and I in a bar last November. It was coming u
p to the one-month anniversary of Tommy’s death. I’d been at an awards lunch and, like every other journalist, had taken advantage of the free bar. That afternoon I kept my head down in the office but, at the end of the day, Charlie spotted me barrelling into the lift. He tried to steer me to a cab. Instead I staggered into a bar, where my red high heels and pencil skirt combo proved beyond my levels of coordination, and I promptly fell over.

  I ordered a vodka tonic and Charlie pulled up a stool, frowning. ‘Take it from me, booze isn’t the answer.’

  ‘You know what’s worse than an alcoholic,’ my words were already slurring together, ‘a reformed alcoholic.’

  As I signalled to the barman for another round, Charlie sighed and pushed a menu towards me. ‘At least eat something.’

  I shook my head, and jabbed my finger in his chest. ‘Eating’s cheating.’

  Charlie scowled. ‘You think Tommy would want to see you like this?’

  ‘What the fuck do you know about Tommy?’ I glanced down and noticed the holdall by Charlie’s feet. ‘Going somewhere nice?’

  ‘Geneva. For work. Flight leaves tonight.’

  I slumped against the bar, looking at him. ‘Ge-nee-va. Emily going? Dirty weekend away, is it?’ I waved my glass in front of his face, feeling mean. ‘You sure you don’t want one?’

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ he said, shooting me a look. He picked up a beer mat and turned it over in his hands. ‘Soph, listen. When Lizzie died, I was face-down, frozen. Couldn’t understand why someone so beautiful and kind was taken, when deadbeats like Vanessa get away scot-free. It was as if a light went off. I was crawling around in the dark, wondering what happened, and why I couldn’t do the most basic things like toast my bread, or tie my shoelaces.’

  The barman slid me a drink and I sucked greedily on the straw. ‘Let me guess, a year went by and the light came back on.’

  Charlie gave me a tight smile. ‘The light has never come back on.’