The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  Sinead pushed her mug away and sighed. ‘She overstepped the line.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The last time I saw her she told me she was pregnant.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Sinead screwed her face up trying to remember. ‘I don’t know . . . February, I think. Anyway, she seemed nervous about it. Not psyched in the way I thought she’d be.’

  I did the mental calculations in my head. ‘But she’d had two miscarriages already by then. Maybe she was worried she’d miscarry again.’

  Sinead shook her head. ‘No, that wasn’t it. I can’t put my finger on it. She was anxious, about Charlie. The pregnancy was causing a rift. I got the impression Emily was worried he didn’t want kids.’ Sinead stared out of the window, her eyes blank with memory.

  ‘So, what happened?’

  Sinead gave a tired smile. ‘I dared to suggest that they get help. See a marriage counsellor. It was clear something wasn’t right between them.’

  ‘And she flipped?’

  ‘She did more than flip. Emily did what she always does when she’s pissed off with me.’ Sinead’s expression hardened. ‘She took what was mine.’

  I frowned, not understanding. ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘Oliver. Well, she tried, anyway. She spent the rest of the dinner flirting her arse off with him. Olly, bless him, was like a deer in the headlights. Didn’t know what to do with himself. It’s a power thing. You know how pretty she is. Anyway, I was livid. So was Charlie. It was the most awkward evening of my life.’

  ‘Has she done that to you before?’

  ‘Sure. Whenever she feels threatened. Although why she’d feel threatened by me is a mystery.’ Sinead glanced over her shoulder, even though there was no one there. ‘Look, what I told you earlier about school. Someone did see through Emily’s transformation. A girl called Katy Baker. She was a friend of a friend; got wind of the bullshit. Anyway, Katy confronted Emily in front of a crowd of people outside the Dorset Arms one night. Really embarrassed her. Two days later Emily told a teacher that Katy’s boyfriend raped her.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘You’re not suggesting . . .’

  ‘. . . that she made it up? Well, put it this way, I was in the pub with her the night the alleged rape took place. I mean, there’s a chance it happened. Emily never went into details with me but she stuck to her story. The school took it seriously. Steve was expelled, right before his A-levels. And Katy was so devastated she flunked her exams.’

  Sinead shrugged but I could see the tension in her face.

  ‘Emily’s always blurred the lines between reality and fantasy. She plays the “little girl lost” character but she knows exactly what she’s doing,’ she said, draining her cup and giving me an odd look. ‘What you have to understand, Sophie, is this: Emily has been spinning a story her whole life.’

  18

  I stood outside 30 St Mary Axe – the skyscraper affectionately known as the Gherkin – staring at my haggard reflection in the blackened glass. I had a million other places to be but, somehow, I’d ended up here, at the place I’d vowed never to come to.

  The lift swept me up to the sixteenth floor where a woman with a platinum bob and snaggle-toothed smile glanced up from the marble desk.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I squared my shoulders. ‘Is Mr Kent in his office?’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  She frowned. ‘Do you mind me asking why you want to see Mr Kent?’

  ‘Because I’m a masochist.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ She pushed her hair behind her ear, exposing three small diamond studs in each lobe. ‘That’s not really – he doesn’t like to. Uh, what’s your name?’

  ‘Sophie Kent.’ I waited for the penny to drop. Which it didn’t. ‘As in Kent Industries. I’m his daughter.’

  A flush spread across her cheeks and she put a hand to her throat. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s only my second day. Wow, that’s embarrassing.’ Her eyes darted left and right as she tried to work out how to play this. I regretted making her feel uncomfortable but being in the vicinity of my father played havoc with my ability to function like a human being.

  I shook my head, wondering how young she was. ‘Don’t worry. Where’s Ramona?’

  Ramona was my father’s secretary. A severe blonde with a lifelong smoker’s voice. She guarded him fiercely, and he returned the favour. One year my father bought her a vintage Mercedes. Another year, he put her son through private school. If my father was busy, Ramona wouldn’t let anyone near him, not even me. Especially me. Ramona once confessed that I was one of the few people who could ruffle Antony Kent’s feathers. Unlike everyone else in his life, I couldn’t be bullied or bought and I drifted in and out of his orbit like a rogue satellite.

  ‘Ramona is out on a personal appointment.’

  I leaned my elbows on the table. ‘Can you just tell him I’m here? Look, I’ll just sit over here. I’ll be quiet, I promise.’

  I shook off my jacket and looked out the window, trying to ignore the queasiness in my stomach. Far below, London spread out like a child’s Lego city, coloured yellow in the morning sunshine. Kent Industries moved into the Gherkin five years ago. In his speech at the opening party, my father announced the move signalled a new era for the company. I’d stood in the corner, in a black velvet dress, nursing a glass of champagne, and smiling until my face hurt. At the time, I was piecing together a story about corruption at a private German bank, and I knew the CFO would be at the party. That’s how I justified accepting the invitation. By that stage, I needed an excuse. When I was younger, I used to attend the same parties as my father because a photographer would inevitably ask for a picture of us together. I had stacks of these photographs. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. One night I lined them up in a row. Identical silvery-blonde hair, pale blue eyes and fake smiles. In every picture my father’s arm is around my waist. Except, what you can’t tell from the photographs, is that he’s not actually touching me.

  I thumped down on the angular leather sofa, underneath the gigantic letters spelling out my own surname, and stared up at the painting of my father that hung on the far wall. Since it was taken, his tan had deepened and the years had dug more lines into his face, but he hadn’t really changed.

  ‘Does your dad have an ageing portrait in the attic?’ Kate once asked me, in a tone that bordered on flirtatious. ‘What’s his secret?’

  ‘Feasting on the blood of newborns,’ I said, shooting her a look.

  Even though I hadn’t seen my father since our disastrous dinner where I blamed him for Tommy’s death, last night’s drama with Damo had strengthened my resolve. As much as it pained me, I’d track Tommy’s killers far quicker with my father on board.

  My phone beeped with an email from Kate. The subject line:

  Have you fucking seen this fucking hell fucking hell fucking hell

  I was about to click on the email when the receptionist cleared her throat. ‘Mr Kent is ready for you.’

  I paused for a moment outside my father’s office, mentally preparing myself, then knocked. I didn’t bother waiting for a reply.

  This was the first time I’d set foot in his office. I inhaled the scent of leather and money. At the far end stood a table the size of a pond. To my right was a large built-in dresser, which contained rows of photographs. I was curious to see who’d made it into the Antony Kent Hall of Fame but couldn’t see from where I stood, and I didn’t want my father to know I cared.

  My father sat behind a large teak desk, with his back to the view. His steely eyes followed me as I approached his desk. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  I sat on the chair opposite his desk. ‘Sorry, I should have called first.’

  ‘My 11.30 is running late.’ His face darkened and I already felt sorry for whoever that was. ‘You look terrible.’

  I wrapped my arms around my bag. ‘Late night. Lots going on.�
� I glanced at the window. ‘Nice view.’

  ‘I don’t get much time to look at it. How are things at the Herald?’

  ‘Busy. How’s life at the top of the world?’

  ‘Busy.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Right,’ I said, opening my bag. ‘Now we’ve established we’re both busy people, I’ll cut to the chase.’ I fished out a document and handed it to my father. It was Tommy’s post-mortem report. Durand had given it to me a while back, as a favour. I’d read it so many times, the paper had practically disintegrated.

  As my father scanned the page, I spotted more picture frames on his desk. I shifted my weight to get a better look but they were obscured by a plant.

  My father tossed the piece of paper onto his desk and steepled his fingers together.

  ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ I said, when I couldn’t bear it any longer.

  ‘I’d like to hear your thoughts first.’

  I rested my hands on the arms of the chair to steady myself. ‘Well, there’s the evidence that Tommy didn’t kill himself.’

  My father peered at the page. ‘Cause of death: inconclusive. That’s not quite the same thing.’

  I sat forward on the edge of my seat. ‘I met a guy who knew Tommy from the streets. He was there the night it happened. He says two men came for Tommy, held him down and forced a needle into his arm. They left the syringe in his hand to make it look like suicide.’ My words ran together and I took a gulp of air.

  My father stood up and strode to the mahogany sideboard. He poured himself two inches of whisky and drank it in one.

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Bit early to open the bar. You taking a leaf out of Mum’s book?’

  It was cruel, even for me. I sighed, opening my mouth to apologise. Not least because I needed him on side.

  My father tapped his finger against the crystal tumbler. ‘Tell me, Sophie, when you’re interviewing a witness, how far up the reliability scale would you place a drug addict?’

  I twisted the handle of my bag. ‘It depends what they’ve taken.’

  ‘Well, let’s assume this source is more advanced than your entry-level addict, you trust his word?’

  ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘He knows who you are, I suppose.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  My father waited a beat. ‘Presumably, he’s done his homework. He knows you’re not from ordinary stock.’

  ‘Christ, you make me sound like a cow. Not everyone is as motivated by money as you.’ I glanced towards the window, not wanting him to see how much his words unsettled me. What was it Damo had said last night: I didn’t know Tommy was from such a rich family. Was that why he agreed to meet me? He was hoping for some kind of financial reward?

  I dragged my gaze back to my father. ‘Or he could be telling the truth, that your son was murdered.’

  He strolled back to his desk and sat down. ‘It was night-time, yes? Dark. Under a bridge. It couldn’t have been very clear. He could have hallucinated this for all we know.’

  I shook my head incredulously. ‘So that’s your answer, is it? To dismiss this as the unreliable word of a junk—’ I stopped, as a piece of the puzzle slotted into place with a thud. When I asked Durand why there hadn’t been an investigation into the cause of death, he told me: the whole thing was quietly dropped.

  ‘You knew.’ I closed my eyes, and for a second, I almost laughed. ‘You’re the dead end.’ Tears burned the back of my eyes. ‘Do you know what it’s been like? Living with the guilt since he died?’

  I heard a sound and opened my eyes. My father was shuffling his papers, a grim look on his face.

  I slowed my breathing. ‘What possible reason could you have for shutting this down?’

  My father’s voice was unnaturally harsh. ‘Do you really think I would risk airing our dirty laundry on the word of a drug addict?’

  ‘Our dirty lau—’ I stared at him, fury rising in my chest. ‘Your son was murdered.’

  ‘So you claim.’

  ‘I’ve looked this man in the eye. He knows what he saw. Two killers are walking free because– Why the fuck am I having to argue this? Why aren’t you shouting this from the rooftops?’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘Because of this?’ I gestured wildly around his office. ‘Your business?’

  ‘This business might not mean much to you, Sophie. You’ve never missed an opportunity to pour scorn on my achievements. Perhaps you share something with your grandfather in that respect. He never believed I was capable of turning the Kent name into a lasting legacy. But empires are built on a knife-edge. I made a call that it wasn’t worth the risk.’

  Anger coiled in my stomach. ‘What possible deal could be worth letting your son’s killers walk free? How much money do you need in the bank before you’re willing to take that risk? Ten million? Fifty million? A billion?’

  My father shifted forward in his chair and fixed me with a cold stare. ‘Do you know what Tommy said the last time I saw him? That he was going to kill himself. Three days later he overdosed.’

  ‘That’s beside the fucking–’ I frowned. ‘You saw Tommy three days before he died?’

  My father took off his glasses to inspect the lenses. ‘One of our bench visits. We used to meet up every now and then. Park benches. Battersea Park, Hyde Park, Green Park. Wherever he was calling home at the time. I’d try and encourage him to get help. Tommy would refuse. I’d hand over money. Then I wouldn’t see him again for months.’

  I stared at him. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘I suspect there are a lot of things you don’t know.’

  I chewed my fingernail. Tommy never mentioned he was still in touch with our father.

  All of a sudden the fire left my father’s eyes. ‘When did you last see your mother?’ he said, leaning back against his chair and crossing his arms.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Her latest stint in rehab was tough-going.’

  ‘She should try getting out of bed once in a while.’

  My father’s face darkened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. ‘You know what’s interesting, Sophie. You make endless excuses for Tommy. If you believe his addiction was an illness, why can’t you extend the same courtesy to your mother?’

  ‘She’s manipulative. There’s a difference.’

  My father gave me a cool look. ‘Doesn’t she deserve your compassion?’

  I sat back, staring at the view of London behind his head. In the distance, between two glass skyscrapers, I could just about make out the domed roof of St Paul’s Cathedral. I focused on it while I waited for my breathing to calm down. My father’s question was fair. The truth was, I’d never believed my mother. Deception rose from her like a stench. The mood-swings, the melodrama, the teetering walk. But I knew her secret. Once, I came back from university a day early and she was home alone. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, she was whistling to herself as she chose fabric swatches for the drawing-room curtains. When she spotted me, her face fell. After an awkward hug, she disappeared to her room. By supper time, the shrieking arias she insisted on playing on full volume shuddered through the walls. She spent almost every day of my Easter break in bed, tangled up in a white night-dress like some kind of Gothic heroine. Everything was done for effect. She shut herself away from her family for effect. Hoping that the more pathetic she was, the more attention she’d get. Except it didn’t really work. She wildly misjudged my father’s capacity for sympathy. If she wanted his attention, she should have threatened his bank account. The only person who did lavish attention on her was Tommy, but she held him at arm’s length and I couldn’t forgive her for that.

  My father cleared his throat. ‘You have a naive view of Tommy. You know, the last time I saw him, he told me he stole money from you.’

  ‘He was desperate.’

  My father shook his head. ‘When will you realise he wasn’t perfect? Look, I know you blame me. I
wasn’t the father either of you wanted. When you have children, you can choose to be the kind of parent you want. I provided for you both. That was my job.’

  ‘Didn’t you do well.’

  My father ignored the sarcasm and gave a tight smile. ‘When I look at you, at what you’ve achieved, at what you’re going to achieve, I don’t think I did badly at all.’

  I shook off the compliment, my mind muddy with exhaustion. ‘I’m only half the story though, Dad. Your other child is dead. I’d call that a fifty per cent failure rate.’

  My father flinched. ‘Has it never struck you that while Tommy and your mother have battled depression and addiction, you and I have forged ahead and made something of ourselves? Perhaps we’re not so very different after all.’

  For one brief moment, an alternative scenario played out before my eyes. One where I reached across the divide towards my father, where we put the past behind us. I was tired of fighting him. But then my eyes drifted from his face to the wrinkled piece of paper on his desk. I pulled it towards me and my heart hardened inside my chest.

  ‘The difference between us is that I loved Tommy.’

  My father held my gaze. ‘So did I, Sophie.’

  ‘So fucking act like it.’ I brandished the post-mortem in his face, my voice rising. ‘Now’s your chance to do something for Tommy, to finally show up for him, to be the father we always needed you to be.’

  He gazed at me, defiant, stubborn, and something else. Something I couldn’t read. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. I can’t do it.’

  I stood up so suddenly, the chair toppled over. My breath was coming in shallow puffs. ‘I will find Tommy’s killers. And when I do, I want everyone to know you didn’t lift a finger to help. You don’t get to call yourself his father anymore.’

  My father didn’t move. His voice sounded as exhausted as I felt. ‘Are we done?’

  As I strode towards the door, I finally caught a glimpse of the photographs on his dresser. Rows of besuited grey-haired men: politicians, oligarchs, captains of industry. Not a single photograph of his family. I picked up the nearest picture frame and flung it at the wall. It smashed into a thousand pieces.