The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  All of a sudden, the screen went black.

  A clink, as a tumbler of whisky appeared on the desk.

  ‘Drink it,’ said Rowley.

  ‘What happens next?’ My voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

  ‘Drink it, Sophie.’

  I picked up the glass; it felt as heavy as a rock. I gulped it down, my eyes watering.

  Rowley crossed to the window and stood with his back to me, hands in his pockets. ‘It’s not clear what happens next although I think we can assume–’ He stopped, then strode over to the drinks trolley and snatched up the decanter. He poured us both another measure and drank his in one. ‘The police want to talk to you, but I’ve told them you’ll need some time. To get your head around things.’

  I couldn’t speak. The only night I’d ever stayed at Charlie’s was just before Christmas. The night Charlie flew to Geneva. But I would have remembered if he’d . . . I stared at the computer screen, at the space where the video had played.

  Bleating an apology, I hurled myself through Rowley’s door and sprinted to the toilet. I only just made it in time, throwing up over and over until I sank, shivering, onto the floor.

  *

  Ten minutes later, I was tucked in a dark corner of the Anchor & Hart and Kate was stomping back from the bar with a tray of tequila shots and a stony look on her face. She shoved one towards me, then downed hers and slammed the empty glass on the table.

  ‘Wait till I get my hands on that fucking pervert.’

  I picked the edge of my fingernail, staring hard at the table. I couldn’t shake the images from my eyes. Charlie’s hand on my leg, my breasts, my . . . I swallowed. The parts of my body he’d touched burned and itched. I wanted to tear off my clothes and scorch my skin under a melting-hot shower. I wanted to wash every trace of Charlie Swift off me.

  I turned to Kate. ‘Charlie was supposed to be in Geneva that night. He gave me a place to crash. I was in a bad way. He looked after me. I–’ My voice tremored. ‘I’ve seen him almost every day since then, Kate. How did he do that? Carry on as if nothing happened.’

  I pulled my sleeves down over my hands and leaned into Kate as scenes from the past month played out in my head: Charlie sitting on my desk, howling with laughter at YouTube clips of drunk people falling off things (his favourite web channel); tossing the new J Crew catalogue on my desk so I could pick him out a new suit (‘This one’s going shiny at the knees.’ Mock horror face. ‘Do I have shiny knees, Kent?’); taking a detour via my desk most days to bring me a Starbucks coffee, always with a fake name written on the cup, generally someone small: Tinkerbell, Smurfette, once Danny (‘Danny?’, ‘Devito,’ he chuckled, sidling off before I could swipe him with my foot). Did this sound like the behaviour of a man who’d sexually assaulted me?

  Kate stroked my hair. ‘You know, we haven’t even discussed the other bombshell. Charlie poisoning Emily. Lansdowne wants to hang Charlie out to dry. His wife lost a baby last year. Almost full term.’

  I closed my eyes, only half listening. ‘How did I not know it happened? I should have known, right? My body . . . it should have told me. That I was . . . that I was . . .’

  ‘Raped.’ Kate’s voice was soft but I could see the fire in her eyes.

  I clamped my hand over my mouth as vomit slid up my throat. Suddenly, a memory from that night hit me. The bitter taste washed down with water. I thought Charlie had given me paracetamol, but was it something else? A drug to knock me out, and keep me out?

  He’s been poisoning me.

  Emily’s words slid through my mind and I dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘Kate, I think Charlie drugged me that night.’

  *

  An hour later I was drunk. Red-hot, steaming, ugly drunk.

  I clutched Kate as we made our wobbly way to the taxi rank. ‘Can’t go home. Need to work.’

  Kate squeezed my arm. ‘You need to sleep.’

  I waved a finger in the air, then prodded her in the shoulder. ‘I can see two Kates, and neither is drunk.’

  She wiggled her arse. ‘My extra padding soaks up the alcohol. Come on, get in.’ She bundled me into the cab and gave the driver my address. ‘Sleep this off, then tomorrow we’ll make a plan. And call me. If you need anything. I mean it.’

  I clung on as the taxi pulled away from the kerb. The images from the video swam in front of my eyes. The sound as Charlie unbuckled his belt. I opened the window and gulped down the warm, sooty air.

  My phone rang and I fumbled around in my bag trying to find it.

  Durand’s voice was soft. ‘Sophie, are you OK?’

  The cab braked suddenly and I plummeted to the floor and banged my head. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  ‘Drunk.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Cab.’ I hauled myself up and took a deep breath. ‘Going to be sick.’

  Durand sighed. ‘Ask him to pull over.’

  I rapped on the window. ‘Stop the cab.’

  The driver took one look at my face in the mirror and hurtled towards the kerb. I fell out the door and vomited. I was still clutching my phone and I held it to my ear. ‘Just ruined my shoes.’

  ‘Sophie, get back in the cab. It’s late.’

  I leaned on the taxi door and waggled my eyebrows at the driver. ‘There’s a policeman on the phone and he says he’ll arrest you if you don’t take me home.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck, love,’ he said, narrowing his small eyes. ‘One more and you’re out.’

  I climbed back into the car; sweat was pooling under my arms.

  ‘Is there anyone at home who can look after you?’ said Durand.

  I opened my eyes. ‘You’re still there?’

  ‘You won’t be alone, will you?’

  I pictured my empty, silent house. ‘Loads of people. All the people. Can’t move for people.’

  ‘Why do I get the impression you’re lying to me?’

  ‘Cos you’re a know-all.’ I leaned my head against the window, trying to stop the cab spinning.

  ‘Look, I know how you operate, Sophie. You’re going to push everyone away and pretend you’re fine. But let me help you. Meet me at Florian’s café on Marylebone High Street at nine tomorrow. I have a favour to ask. And it might provide a distraction from . . . everything.’

  I closed my eyes, lulled by the rocking cab. ‘Why are you so nice to me?’

  ‘Because I need a favour.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’ I slid further down the seat.

  There was a pause. ‘Because we’re friends.’

  ‘Friends.’ I tried the word out for size. ‘Don’t friends tell each other things? Real things. Not who left fingerprinty-things on the doorknob. Or which DNA swap was tampered with.’

  ‘Swab.’

  ‘Shut up. I mean, real things. About their lives and stuff.’

  Durand cleared his throat softly. ‘Do you have a real thing you’d like to share?’

  I could picture the suppressed smile on Durand’s craggy face and a warm feeling spread through me. ‘You go first.’

  I heard the sound of a TV being turned down. ‘OK. I’m supposed to be at a charity fundraiser tonight but I told the organiser I had food poisoning so I could stay home, watch Alan Partridge and eat an M&S lasagne.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘What charity?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Friends, remember?’

  Durand sighed. ‘Starlight.’

  ‘Kids with cancer? Wow, you bastard, I wish I’d never asked.’ The taxi swerved and I slid to the right. ‘Ow!’

  ‘Your turn,’ he said, with a mouth full of food.

  I rubbed my head where I’d bashed into the window. ‘Are you and Whatsername together now?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You know. Pretty chin. Nice plait.’

  A beat. ‘You mean PC Waters?’ Durand chuckled. ‘She’s a colleague. A junior. It would be against the rules
.’

  ‘Do you always stick to the rules?’

  ‘Not always.’

  I opened the window a crack more as my stomach lurched. ‘So, who would you date? An astronaut? A tea-lady?’ The driver was giving me a death stare in the mirror and I waved at him. ‘A journalist?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether we’re talking Battleaxe Barb from the Post or–’

  ‘Or who?’

  ‘That redhead at The Times. Christina someone?’

  I snorted. ‘Christina Gulliver? She’s married.’

  ‘She is?’

  ‘Dunno. Maybe,’ I said, feeling irritable as I pictured Christina’s long legs and swishy hair. ‘Would it make a difference?’

  ‘Breaking up someone’s marriage isn’t my style.’ Something about the way Durand said it triggered off a warning bell in the back of my mind, but I was fading fast. We were driving through Knightsbridge and the Harrods fairy lights glittered across my vision.

  I slid down the seat. ‘It’s a no to dating reporters, then. Unless they’re Christina Legs-Up-To-Her-Armpits Gulliver.’

  ‘Not exactly what I sa—’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘You’re an idi—’

  ‘Loud and clear, friend.’

  Durand made an exasperated sound. ‘Soph, can you remember where we’re meeting tomorrow?’

  ‘Mmm.’ I could feel sleep tugging me downwards.

  A sigh. ‘I’ll text you the details. Get home safe. And call me if you need anything.’

  I held the phone to my ear long after Durand hung up, drifting off into the darkness. I was grateful when the cab driver shook me awake because, this time, when I dreamed that Tommy was coming for me, he wasn’t alone.

  He had a tall, handsome accomplice, with a dark fringe and a killer smile.

  21

  Florian’s was an Italian café chain that fell short of the authentic Italian experience by dint of its weak coffee, Polish waiters and German techno music. I pushed the door open, grimacing as the white lights grated against my eyes. An enthusiastic cleaner had gone overboard with the bleach and I covered my nose, willing my stomach to settle.

  Durand sat in the corner, beneath a print of St Marco’s Square in Venice. His long legs stuck out either side of the table and the sun streaming in from the skylight turned his hair burned copper.

  He was poring over the paper, squinting at something.

  I dumped my bag on the floor beside him. ‘Just wear your glasses. I won’t judge.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘After last night’s performance you don’t get to judge anyone.’

  I felt the colour hit my cheeks as snippets of our conversation ran through my mind. What possessed me to ask if Durand had a girlfriend? Was I seventeen?

  I cleared my throat and slid onto the chair opposite, just as a short, dark-haired waiter appeared at my shoulder.

  He gave me a smarmy smile. ‘What can I get you, beautiful lady?’

  ‘Large black coffee. Extra shot, please.’

  As he melted away, Durand closed his newspaper. ‘Sure you don’t fancy a Bloody Mary?’

  I shuddered. ‘I barely even remember getting home.’

  ‘I take it those aren’t the puke-stained shoes,’ he said, peering under the table.

  The waiter reappeared and set a large mug down in front of me, leering. ‘Anything else, bellissima?’

  As the waiter disappeared, Durand rolled his eyes. ‘Does the brazen approach ever work?’

  I gazed out the window, distracted. ‘Maybe you should try it some time.’

  ‘Don’t need to.’ Durand cracked his knuckles and pointed at his hair. ‘Gingers are having a moment. Prince Harry is paving the way.’

  I forced a smile. ‘Ron Weasley is probably more your level.’

  ‘Harry Potter’s sidekick? Charming.’

  ‘Who got the girl in the end?’

  Durand held my gaze until I dropped my eyes to the table.

  I heard him sigh. ‘Are you going to mention the tape at all?’

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to think about that tape, let alone talk about it. I was lying when I told Durand I couldn’t remember getting home. It turns out I wasn’t drunk enough. I’d thrown myself into bed and pulled a pillow over my head. Alone for the first time, the silence was deafening. The image of Charlie kneeling over me burned the inside of my eyelids. All of a sudden, the bed tilted and I clutched the blanket as my breath came in short stabs. Then, with no one around to see, every emotion I’d fought to repress came shooting out of me. I stuffed the duvet in my mouth to drown out the noise. That was when I counted out the blue pills, wondering how many it would take to plunge me into a thick, black sleep with no end. For a brief moment, the idea of checking out was so tempting it scared me. I stared at the pills until an image of the small, unconscious woman on Charlie’s bed drifted through my mind. I couldn’t abandon her now.

  ‘Sophie,’ he broke off, emotion colouring his voice. ‘For the record, what Swift did to you . . . I want you to know, we’re going after him, hammer and tongs.’

  I nodded. ‘Hammer and tongs.’

  ‘And I’ve arranged for PC Waters to take your statement. Thought you might prefer a familiar face. You know, pretty chin, nice plait.’

  I appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood, but the thought of reliving that night and making a statement turned my stomach.

  This morning I’d made a detour to the family doctor on Cadogan Gardens: an olive-skinned Frenchman who’d known me since I was a teenager. I didn’t have an appointment, but Dr Betrand ushered me in anyway.

  ‘Everything OK, Sophie?’ he said quietly, after I asked for an STD check.

  I stared hard out the window, at the red-brick building opposite, and half-shrugged, not wanting to say the words out loud.

  Dr Betrand coughed once, then told me he’d rush the results through, and call me later today.

  Sensing my distress, Durand scooted his chair forward and cleared his throat. ‘Right, shall we talk about that favour before you change your mind?’

  ‘Does it involve nailing my former friend, Charlie Swift?’

  Durand’s face turned serious. ‘Sophie, what I’m about to tell you is so far off the record it exists in another dimension.’

  As he tapped his fingers on the table, I noticed that the faint tan line on his ring finger had almost disappeared. I did the mental calculations in my head. Had it really been six months since his wife left him?

  ‘Sophie?’ Durand gave me a questioning look. ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I forced myself to focus.

  ‘I want you to keep an open mind, which won’t be easy, given what you saw yesterday,’ he said. ‘But, listen. Certain people working on this case believe the evidence points in one direction – and one direction on–’

  ‘By “certain people”, you mean DCI Golden,’ I said, picking up my spoon and stirring my coffee.

  Durand’s eyebrows dropped. ‘If you’re going to interrupt me we’ll be here all day.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The case against Charlie Swift is compelling. He was sleeping with the victim, the weapon used in the attack came from his apartment, and then there’s the fact that–’

  ‘He’s a fucking rapist?’ I took a swig of coffee, biting down on the china. ‘Sorry, won’t interrupt again.’

  Durand’s fingers twitched, moved a fraction closer to mine. ‘I’m worried that other avenues aren’t being chased because they don’t fit the narrative.’

  I frowned. ‘Other avenues? You mean another suspect?’

  ‘I mean closer to home.’

  I shook my head, not understanding.

  Durand ran a hand through his hair, then rested his elbows on the table. ‘I’ve been in this game a long time. The guys I work with; they’re family. DI James Flynn took part in the police search of Charlie’s apartment. The second phone that contained the videos, Emily found it in a
shoebox underneath a floorboard in the spare room. Along with the abortion drug.’ Durand paused, taking a sip of coffee. Then he fixed me with his shrewd, grey eyes. ‘Flynn says that shoebox wasn’t there when police searched the flat.’

  I leaned back and folded my arms. ‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Trust me, Flynn isn’t the kind of man who would lie to save himself. Sometimes the police don’t catch every detail first time around. It happens. Flynn wouldn’t have a problem telling me that. If it was the truth.’

  I frowned. ‘So what are you saying? That the shoebox was put there after the search? By who? The police?’

  Durand shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’

  I gave him a long look. ‘But that’s not what you’re thinking.’

  Durand chewed the inside of his cheek, waiting for me to piece it together. Closer to home.

  My cup slipped, spilling coffee on the table. ‘You think Emily planted that shoebox?’

  ‘It’s a theory.’

  I dabbed the coffee with the corner of the paper tablecloth, my mind spinning. ‘Why on earth would Emily plant the phone? It only makes Charlie look more guilty.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what she wants.’

  ‘Are you seriously suggesting she’s framing her own husband?’

  ‘I’m suggesting nothing,’ said Durand. ‘I’m only asking you to look at the evidence. The powers that be believe the phone was missed in the first search, which fits their Charlie theory. But if Flynn is telling the truth, it throws the whole thing open. It means someone is manipulating the evidence.’

  I rubbed my eyes, trying to absorb Durand’s words. ‘But if Emily planted the phone, it means she’s known all along that Charlie was sleeping with Sabrina. And she would have . . .’ my voice trailed off. I swallowed hard. ‘She would have seen what Charlie did to me.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Durand’s voice was soft. ‘The videos were protected by a security app.’

  I blinked, trying to slow my thoughts down. ‘But couldn’t someone else have planted the phone? Someone who broke into their flat after the initial search?’

  Durand shook his head. ‘We’ve had a watch on the place, in case Charlie reappeared. I mean, it’s possible, but unlikely.’