The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  Then I squared my shoulders. ‘Now we’re done.’

  19

  Emily: 15 weeks before the murder

  ‘One ticket for DragonSlayer, please.’

  A greasy teenage face stares back at her. ‘Two o’clock showing?’

  Emily nods, hands him the cash and glances over her shoulder. The cinema air is thick with the fatty fumes of hot dogs and popcorn. She wanders over to the pic ‘n’ mix area and pretends to inspect the sweets. She buys a bottle of water and a packet of chewing gum. She’ll need it for after.

  Emily makes her way to Screen 4 and pushes open the door. The velvet quietness envelops her. She slips through the darkness, brushing her hand along the seats, until she reaches the back row. The screen lights up, and the music starts. Emily’s heart feels as if it’s going to lift out of her chest. She closes her eyes, hoping the noise will drown out her thoughts.

  She is supposed to be meeting a potential client right now. A South African couple who want to get married in London next summer. Their budget is huge; the bride-to-be has big connections in the magazine industry and could open whole swathes of doors for Emily. But instead of winning them over with her pitch, she’s in a cinema in Broad Green, miles from home. Because today, for the first time, she can’t do it. She can’t sit across from a couple and sell the happy ever after. She can’t talk about soul mates or wedding favours or the Big Day. She can’t watch two people in love.

  Not when the world is crashing down around her ears.

  Emily leans her head back against the chair. She is officially losing her mind. Her failing marriage is turning her into a twitching, paranoid wreck. Again, last week, she found more evidence that Charlie is drinking. A bottle of whisky under the bed; empty beer cans stuffed in his gym bag. The drinking is bad enough, but it’s the lying that is killing her. When she confronted Charlie, he gave her a long, cold look then stormed out.

  Heartbroken, she turned the flat upside down looking for more evidence that Charlie was lying to her. And that’s when she found them. The black-lace knickers stuffed at the back of Charlie’s sock drawer. Later that night, when she threw them in his face, he called her a ‘bloody maniac’ and told her she must have planted them herself, before yanking on his trainers and going for a run. Emily logged on to his laptop and scrolled through his internet search history feeling sick. There were pages and pages of religious searches: biblical cleansing, baptism by fire, by water, by blood. Emily was horrified by the images. The next day, she sneaked a look at his phone when he was in the shower and found a religious app buried at the end of all his other apps. When she asked him about it he claimed he didn’t know how it got there. ‘Lay off me, Em. Just lay the fuck off.’

  The following morning she drove to Oxfordshire to oversee a client’s wedding and couldn’t get hold of Charlie the whole time she was there. Her voicemails were curt, then furious, then worried, then desperate. She called his two closest friends: Dominic and Sophie, feeling like an utter loser when she called Sophie. ‘Hi Sophie, I seem to have misplaced my husband. No worries, he probably forgot to leave a note. You know how scatty Charlie is. Yep, I’ll keep you posted. And dinner soon? Would love to!’ She’d hung up, and suddenly the prospect of a normal meal out in a normal restaurant like a normal couple was so preposterous that Emily folded over and sobbed. The moment she could get away, she fled the wedding and sped down the M4 back to London. The flat was empty. Charlie’s holdall was gone. Emily huddled under the duvet and cried until she had nothing left. He’s gone, Dumpy Danson. Well, what did you expect? It was her own fault for pushing him. She always knew this day would come. Once Charlie discovered she wasn’t the carefree, upbeat, uncomplicated woman he thought, he’d realise she wasn’t worth loving.

  She went for a run, and when she got home, Charlie was asleep on the sofa. He leaped up when he saw her; a mortified look on his beautiful face.

  ‘Em, my phone died. I’m sorry. I’ve only just got your messages. I called you from a payphone. Left you a voicemail. You didn’t get it?’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I promise you. I’d never not call you, Em. I just needed . . . space.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘From everyone.’ He pulled his fringe back from his face and she saw the deep lines etched into his forehead. ‘I was up North. An old uni friend.’

  When he left for work the following morning, Emily checked his jeans and found a train ticket to Bournemouth in his pocket, along with a business card for a divorce lawyer.

  That was when she made her first Tinder connection. A mechanic with small hands called GunnersMan23, who met her in a dark Portuguese bar on Dean Street. Afterwards she sloped back to Delaware Street, raw and broken, and discovered she was miscarrying for the third time. Serves you right, Dumpy Danson. Serves you right.

  Emily leans forward in her seat and traces the scarred skin on her wrists. She knew Charlie wasn’t ready for marriage but she pushed and pushed, hoping that the stupid piece of paper would make up for everything. Dress for the man you want, not the man you have. Fake it till you make it. The brazen approach had worked for her in the past, but the problem with faking it is that you can only do so much and then one day you come home and find your husband spraying his dead wife’s perfume around the flat.

  In the quiet hours, when the city slows right down and darkness falls, Emily prays to a higher being that their marriage will be saved. She isn’t one to quit. She will fight for the both of them if she has to. Other times, she finds herself fantasising about all the ways she can make Charlie pay for what he’s done. Either way, she just needs a plan.

  Emily shifts in her seat. She hears the voice in her head: if you were thinner, prettier, smarter, Charlie wouldn’t leave you.

  Or if you were dead, like her.

  A surge of adrenaline courses through Emily. Her skin is starting to itch. Her emotions are going to take her down from the inside if she doesn’t let them out. The men aren’t hard to find. She doesn’t care who they are, or what they look like. Only that they can meet when she wants. And they don’t expect sex. Because sex isn’t what this is about. Today, it’s a man called Sternus whose Tinder profile is even starker than her own. He’s been bombarding her with messages. At first it was too much, but she’s come to appreciate the flattery. She’ll do what she needs to do, then block him from her phone. The cinema was Sternus’s idea, and she agreed immediately. It’s perfect; dark, anonymous.

  The door to the left of the screen sweeps open. A figure pauses, then makes his way towards her. Emily shifts her weight, flexes her fingers. Her skin is burning. He slides through the seats and stops beside her. Emily keeps her eyes on the screen and nods. When he sits, she can smell the musty funk of unwashed clothes. As a giant CGI dragon sweeps across the screen, Emily puts a hand on his thigh. She hovers over his zip, then tries to undo it but it sticks. As she reaches across with her other hand, the light from the screen hits his face. She freezes. Something about the slant of his jaw, the arch of his brow, reminds her of Charlie. The light shifts and the likeness disappears. Her mind is playing tricks on her. But she refuses to feel guilty. Not when all this is Charlie’s fault in the first place.

  Emily frees the man with her hands and bends over, taking him in her mouth. On the screen a battle is raging. The cinema floor vibrates as something explodes. His hand is on the back of her head. She can smell the nicotine on his fingers, see the tattoo on his wrist. As she slides her mouth up and down she pictures the blank look on Charlie’s face as she told him another one of their babies had died. Emily closes her eyes, trying not to gag. The man shifts his weight. It won’t be long now. Her body is humming. She feels the dark red swirl building in her stomach. She pushes him deeper. She wants it to hurt. She hates oral sex, but that’s the point. The man thrusts, the guttural sounds coming from his throat. He pulls her hair. He’s close.

  Suddenly, a flash lights up the space in front of her eyes. What the fuck?

 
Emily glances up and sees his phone. He’s taken a picture of her. She freezes.

  ‘Keep going.’ His voice is low, breathy.

  Something isn’t right. She should stop, demand he deletes the picture. But she’s raw, the burning in the pit of her stomach is all-consuming. She needs this to be over. Emily grips harder and squeezes her eyes shut.

  The man shudders. Emily swallows, gags, then slips to the floor, her body like a spent balloon. She can hear him breathing hard. He zips up his trousers, puts a damp hand on her head and gives her an awkward pat.

  Then he leans down close and whispers in her ear, ‘Filthy bitch.’

  Emily doesn’t respond. The floor is sticky beneath her. As he disappears into the darkness, she clutches hold of the seat and listens to the wet, meaty sound of a dragon devouring a village of people. She feels drunk. She feels euphoric.

  Her head is filled with white.

  Bright, virginal, wedding white.

  20

  Present Day

  It wasn’t until I was in the taxi and almost back at the office that I remembered Kate’s email. It was a link to Emily’s blog. There was a new post up, entitled Three Times.

  Dear friends,

  I promised you my story, in my words. Well, brace yourselves. Things are about to get ugly.

  As I type, I’m propped up in bed lying in a stark hospital room. Last night I was attacked in my home. By the man I love most in the whole world. The fact that Charlie could hurt me makes me want to curl up and cry. But it turns out, I’m not the only one he has hurt. Remember in my last blog post, I opened up about my three miscarriages? This morning, DCI Golden from the Metropolitan Police let me in on a secret. Those miscarriages weren’t ‘Nature’s way’ after all.

  OK, here goes. The police have found evidence that Charlie has been poisoning me, deliberately causing me to miscarry. I can’t go into details but the evidence, it’s . . . compelling.

  If the police are right, that’s three times Charlie has spiked my food and waited patiently for our child to die inside me. Three times I’ve crouched in the bathroom and watched my longed-for baby slip away. Three times Charlie has held me in his arms afterwards and told me everything will be OK. I find myself replaying everything in my head. The homemade smoothies he made me drink, the dinners he cooked. Am I married to a monst—

  ‘Miss?’ The cabbie rapped on the glass. ‘We’re here.’

  I tore my eyes away from my phone and held it together long enough to fling some money at him and slide out the door. Then I staggered to the back entrance of Premier News and collapsed on the steps, rereading Emily’s words. Each line cut deeper into my heart. Poisoning me. Hurt me. Causing me to miscarry.

  A group of tourists meandered past leaving a thick trail of cigarette smoke in the air. I shifted towards the wall and closed my eyes. What was it that Dominic said about Emily’s miscarriages: Charlie wasn’t that much of a shit that he would leave his grieving wife. Had Dominic and I got Charlie wrong? I pictured the hopelessness in Dominic’s eyes and felt my insides go cold. My phone rang and I fished it out of my bag.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Mack’s voice was low and urgent.

  ‘Downstairs. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I take it you haven’t listened to my voicemail?’

  I closed my eyes, feeling delirious with tiredness. ‘I haven’t had a chance.’

  ‘Clarion call from Rowley. He wants us in his office. Move it.’

  He hung up. I had five new messages. One from Mack and four from numbers I didn’t recognise. I hit the first one.

  Hi Sophie, this is Jemma Williams from the Tribune. Could you ring me when you get a moment? I’d love a comment about the rumours you’ve been sleeping with your colleague, Charlie Swift.

  I swore under my breath and stomped across the lobby.

  *

  ‘You sure you’re OK?’ Rowley’s angular face peered at me from behind his desk. ‘You’re looking a bit . . . peaky.’

  I felt Mack and Kate staring and dug my nails into the arm of the chair. What could I tell them? That my father was a sociopath, that my brother was murdered and I was no closer to finding the killers, that everyone thought I was a lying whore, that my friend had jumped off the deep end and left us all shovelling his shit. The walk of shame through the newsroom had nearly finished me off. I’d felt each pair of eyes on my back like an icy wind.

  I took a long breath and forced a smile. ‘I take it we’re here to discuss Emily’s latest blog post?’

  ‘Amongst other things,’ said Rowley. He slid his tortoiseshell glasses off his nose and rubbed them with his tie. ‘Have any of you heard of an app called KeepSafe?’

  Kate tapped her pen on her notepad, still looking at me. ‘It’s a way of protecting files, isn’t it?’

  Rowley nodded, slipping his glasses back on. ‘KeepSafe is the second most widely used data protection app in the UK. It has varying degrees of security; the lowest being a simple password. So if, for example, you download the app onto your smartphone and your wife finds it, she won’t be able to access your deepest, darkest secrets.’

  The atmosphere deadened. We could tell by the look on Rowley’s face that something major was about to go down.

  ‘It turns out the phone Emily found doesn’t just contain photographs,’ said Rowley. ‘There are videos, too. I’ve pulled in a favour from an old friend on the Force and he’s given me a snippet; a heads-up before another press conference tomorrow morning.’

  Mack frowned. ‘Another press conference?’

  I licked my lips, feeling light-headed. Next to me, Kate scratched lines into her page.

  Rowley shifted his computer round and clicked on a link.

  A screen popped up, flickering briefly then settling on a place I recognised: Charlie and Emily’s bedroom. A woman drifted into the frame. Dressed in a dark green coat, she was laughing and looking over her shoulder at someone off camera. Even before she flicked her long red hair away from her face, I knew who she was. Sabrina.

  Sabrina shrugged off her coat; underneath she was wearing black lacy lingerie and suspenders. She wobbled over to the bed and unzipped her knee-length boots. She was alone on the bed but Charlie had obviously entered the bedroom because she followed him with her eyes. She slipped a bra strap over her shoulder, then put her finger to her lips. In the background, a wedding photo of Charlie and Emily was visible on the bedside table.

  We sat rigidly watching Sabrina peel off her stockings and throw them at Charlie. When she was naked, she looped a lock of hair around her finger and peered up at Charlie through her lashes. She blew him a kiss, then beckoned him over. The pout on her face said he was playing hard to get. She rolled her eyes, then slid off the bed and sashayed off camera.

  Rowley hit pause.

  ‘No prizes for guessing what happens next,’ said Mack, his voice lacking the usual sarcasm.

  ‘When was that?’ I asked, still staring at Rowley’s computer.

  ‘Fifteenth of January,’ he said. ‘Four months before her death.’

  Kate closed her notebook with a slap. ‘A performance like that and not a single glance to the camera? What does that tell you?’

  ‘She didn’t know Charlie was filming her,’ I said, already drawing the same conclusion. I made a mental note to ask Durand if Forensics found a hidden camera during their search. I glanced at Rowley. ‘Are there more videos on the phone?’

  Rowley reached for his glass of water. He took a sip, then cleared his throat. ‘Mack, Kate, start fleshing out the bones for tonight’s edition. Now, please,’ he added, his voice shifting into a high whine.

  Kate raised her eyebrows at me as she stood up, and I shrugged, praying Rowley wasn’t going to subject me to another pep talk.

  The door closed and Rowley’s shrewd grey eyes darted across my face. He tapped his finger against the rim of his water glass, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  ‘Are we going to n
eed something stronger?’ I pointed towards the silver drinks trolley in the corner, only half joking.

  Rowley gave me a taut smile. ‘I’m not going to drag this out, Sophie. There’s no way to sugar-coat what I’m about to show you. Company protocol is that a member of HR should be present in a matter like this, but I’m choosing to ignore that. I wanted to give you the space you deserv—’

  ‘Just play it, Philip,’ I said, hugging my arms around myself.

  Rowley clicked his screen.

  We were back in Charlie and Emily’s bedroom. It was the same scene, but a different time of day. The curtains were drawn and the lamp in the corner bathed the room in a mellow light. A figure darted past the camera. I caught a glimpse of dark hair. He paused by the bedside, and I recognised Charlie’s West Ham hoody. He leaned over the bed for a moment, then straightened up. At first I didn’t see the woman lying on the bed. She was so small, I mistook her for a pile of cushions. She was lying on her side, eyes closed, arms tucked beneath her. She was fully clothed; still wearing her shoes. I leaned in for a closer look. Red high heels.

  My jaw clenched so hard it rang through my teeth. ‘Is that . . . me?’

  Charlie knelt on the bed, his back to the camera, and I watched in horror as he unbuttoned my blouse, yanked down my bra and started kneading my flesh. My hand flew to my mouth and I was vaguely aware of Rowley moving away from the computer. Charlie undid my skirt and slid it down over my legs. Then he stood back to look at me.

  He tilted his head, then ran a hand up my leg. As I watched him slip his hand inside my knickers, I curled my legs onto the chair. I wanted to run, scream, hurl the screen at the wall, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I owed it to the unconscious woman to witness every single thing Charlie did.

  Charlie pulled a phone out of his pocket, and held it aloft. The camera flash lit up my unconscious face. Satisfied, Charlie tossed the phone on the bed and buried his face in my hair. Then he unbuckled his belt and reached inside his boxer shorts.