The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘But Charlie did reappear. He attacked Emily in the kitchen.’

  ‘So she says.’ Durand’s voice was calm, measured.

  I stared at him. ‘You can’t possibly think Emily faked the attack.’

  ‘According to Emily’s statement, Charlie batted the phone out of her hand. The phone that contained footage of Sabrina, of his assault on you. If Charlie was really there, why didn’t he take it with him? Why leave incriminating evidence behind?’

  I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again. Durand had a point. ‘What does Golden say to that?’

  He shrugged. ‘That Charlie panicked when he realised Emily was on the phone, and he ran.’

  ‘That’s possible, right?’ I thought back to that night, when I answered Emily’s call. She’d sounded like she’d had the shock of her life. Could that really have been an act?

  Durand sighed. ‘Look, all I’m saying is that if Flynn is right and the phone was planted then Emily is lying about a lot of things. She is not the victim she’s making out.’

  She’ll play the perfect victim. Sinead’s words drifted into my head and I pushed my cup away, feeling sick. ‘Why isn’t Golden entertaining this option?’

  Durand turned the teaspoon over in his big hands, a muscle working in his cheek. ‘He’s new. He doesn’t know the boys like I do. But if Flynn tells me that shoebox wasn’t there, I believe him.’

  I studied Durand’s face, wondering how close he was to this. Sure, Emily was a possibility. But there was another explanation: Flynn was lying.

  ‘How do you know all this if you’re not even on the case?’ I said. Durand glanced down at his fingers and something clicked in my head. PC Waters. That’s why they were so close. ‘You’re being updated behind Golden’s back?’ For the briefest, sharpest moment I actually pitied Golden. Then Durand rubbed his eyes and I saw the exhaustion and concern chase each other across his face.

  My gaze softened. ‘Sam, why are you taking so much time off?’

  He pinched the top of his nose and closed his eyes. When he opened them again I saw the struggle, the desire to confess; it was on the tip of his tongue. But he swallowed it down and shook his head. ‘You’ve heard the theory. What do you think?’

  ‘What’s Emily’s motive? She finds the phone a while back, sees what Charlie’s done but sits on it hoping they can work through their problems,’ I said, scraping my hair back into a ponytail. ‘Then Sabrina is killed, so Emily cuts her losses and pretends to find the phone and Charlie is outed as a baby-killing maniac?’ It was possible. It fit with what I’d discovered about Emily’s desire to control the story. ‘My question is: if she lied about the phone, what else is she lying ab—?’

  A thought struck me and I rolled it around in my mind before saying the words out loud. ‘Wait, the shoebox. You said the abortion drug was hidden there too?’ Durand watched me carefully, absolutely still. ‘So, if Emily knew about the phone, she knew about the medication. She knew Charlie was drugging her.’

  ‘That’s one explanation,’ he said and I frowned, wondering how much darker this was going to get. ‘Another is that she was administering the medication herself.’

  ‘What?’ The word came out half-laugh, half-shriek.

  Durand shrugged. ‘I have no idea why a married woman would take drugs to force a miscarriage. But, say Charlie was abusive and she felt unsafe. Or she didn’t want children but hadn’t told him. Or perhaps no one drugged anyone, and it’s just what Emily wants us to think.’

  I rested my head in my hands, feeling exhaustion sweep through me. ‘But all this hinges on Flynn’s word. If he’s mistaken,’ or lying, I almost added, ‘then Emily’s in the clear. There’s no reason to believe she’s a liar. Also, something else doesn’t add up. Where is Charlie while all this is going on?’

  Durand tilted his chair back. ‘The team have received more calls about possible sightings. Oxford, London, Bournemouth, even as far as Sheffield.’

  ‘But if Emily is lying about the attack, why isn’t Charlie defending himself?’

  ‘I can’t answer these questions. I’m only drawing your attention to certain anomalies before the press conference.’ Durand glanced over his shoulder. ‘The feeling at the Met is that Emily needs reining in. Every blog posts whips the public up. Golden is trying to handle her. He’s suggested that instead of writing another blog, she makes a televised appeal to Charlie. She’s agreed to let journalists ask questions.’

  ‘It’s a risky strategy.’

  Durand nodded. ‘But Golden thinks they’re closing in and Emily is his secret weapon.’

  ‘Why is Golden so adamant Charlie is guilty?’

  ‘When you’re the Senior Investigating Officer, you have fourteen tons of information thrown at you. It’s a skill to sort the wheat from the chaff. Throw in a personal bias and things can get . . . muddled.’

  ‘Personal bias? You mean his father.’

  ‘There’s a reason why he’s fixated with a Herald journalist.’ Durand massaged his temples and sighed. ‘Look, I need to know whether my theory about Emily has legs, and that’s where you come in. At the press conference, I want you to ask Emily if she staged the attack at her apartment.’

  I froze. ‘Are you nuts?’

  Durand shifted forwards in his chair. ‘Hear me out. Emily is a blogger; she’s good with the written word, good when she has time to think things through. But I want to put her under pressure and it’s the only way I can do it without formally bringing her in for questioning. I’m not officially on the case, remember.’

  I dropped my hands into my lap and gave a shrill laugh. ‘But Emily’s my friend. OK, she thinks I’m shagging her husband and won’t return any of my calls, but still. I can’t do that to her.’

  ‘Firstly, Emily knows what Charlie did to you. Golden has shown her the video. Secondly, I think your involvement in the story might force more of a reaction.’ Durand kicked back in his chair. ‘Listen, I know it’s unorthodox but a woman is dead. Think of Sabrina Hobbs. We owe it to her to get to the truth. If Emily has played any part in the death of an innocent woman, I need to know.’

  I clinked my spoon against my cup. Durand knew me too well; appealing to my sense of justice was a smart move.

  I sighed. ‘I need to run this past Rowl—’ My phone rang and I glanced at the screen. ‘Sorry, this could be important, do you mind?’

  Durand shrugged, and turned to get the waiter’s attention.

  I hit ‘answer’. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Sophie?’ A man’s voice, softly-spoken. ‘It’s Gordon Brennan. Charlie Swift’s stepfather. Look, I’ve only just got round to opening all the letters. I’ve had so many, you see. I didn’t realise you knew Charlie. But, of course you do. He’s mentioned you before. You’re friends.’

  I swerved the oncoming image of Charlie pawing at my unconscious body and cleared my throat. ‘Thanks for calling, Gordon.’

  ‘Sophie, I need your help. People are making up their minds about Charlie before he’s had a chance to defend himself.’ A pause while he took a breath. ‘Please. They don’t know the real Charlie.’

  I closed my eyes, wondering if maybe, just maybe, this was the real Charlie all along. ‘Would you be willing to talk to me face to face, Gordon?’

  I could hear the sound of voices in the background. Gordon’s voice shifted, ‘What time is it?’

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Ten fifteen.’

  ‘I have to go.’ He sounded distracted. ‘Come to the house, 23 Hindhead Close, Bournemouth. Today if you can.’

  ‘Gordon, I’ve got a press conf—’ The line went dead.

  Durand raised his eyebrows. ‘Everything OK?’

  I nodded; overcome with an overwhelming urge to cry. I dug my nails into the tablecloth and tried to push through the noise in my head: Charlie, Emily, Tommy. I was sick of liars, of not knowing the truth. When I looked up Durand was frowning at me.

  Suddenly he covered my hand with his and, for
a split-second, the air went still.

  Without thinking, I snatched my hand away. Then felt like an idiot.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t me—’

  ‘Don’t mention it, I shouldn’t ha—’ Durand fumbled with his wallet, his eyes still on the table where my hand had been. ‘The coffee’s on me.’

  Embarrassment coloured my cheeks. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. In the end I settled on an awkward wave, then scurried across the café, and out into the sunshine.

  22

  ‘You are not going to believe this.’ Rahid sounded breathless.

  ‘Slow down. Start again.’ I was standing outside St James’s Park Tube station, one hand clamped over my ear trying to drown out the sound of a fight between a pregnant woman and the van driver who’d almost hit her at a pedestrian crossing. I ducked back inside the Tube station, trying to find a quiet spot. My feet were sweating inside my shoes. A Tube journey on a hot day was always a low point in London. Throw in a hangover and it was sensory Armageddon.

  ‘Sophie, are you there?’ Rahid’s impatience vibrated through the phone. ‘Wait till you hear this. I’ve spent the past three days becoming an expert on Bert Hughes. From the ground up, like you taught me.’

  I fumbled around in my bag for a bottle of water, then cursed as I remembered I’d left it on the Tube seat. ‘Yep, go on.’

  ‘Two words: Eric Rowntree.’

  I pressed the phone against my ear. ‘What?’

  Rahid’s voice rose a notch. ‘Remember Rowntree’s wife, Linda? She kicked him out in October. There was a rumour she’d hooked up with another bloke.’

  I nodded, vaguely remembering the poor sod who’d been chased by every news outlet. ‘Allen something?’

  ‘Allen Holmes. Turns out the rumours were true.’ Rahid paused and I glanced at my watch. The press conference was due to start in ten minutes.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder. ‘What’s this got to do with Bert?’

  ‘Wait, I’m getting to it. The night Rowntree broke into Linda’s house and murdered his family, Allen Holmes was there. He turned up an hour earlier. Probably for a shag. Anyway, when Rowntree pitched up, Allen, being the chivalrous sort, ducked out the back door and legged it over the wall.’

  A group of school kids in front of me started shouting at someone across the road and I darted into a doorway. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because there is CCTV footage of Allen entering the house.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘The petrol station opposite Linda’s house.’

  Up ahead, New Scotland Yard glinted in the sunlight. I crossed the road, shielding my eyes from the glare. ‘But the petrol station’s CCTV wasn’t working. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘It’s all bullshit. Someone paid an employee for the tape.’

  ‘What?’ I slammed to a halt.

  ‘It goes like this: Allen assumes he’s been caught on CCTV. Even though he’s innocent, he doesn’t want to get dragged into the Rowntree mess. He panics and turns to his best mate for help. A mate who has connections.’

  I shook my head, bewildered. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘His best friend is a guy called Simon Hughes. Bert’s dad.’

  I’d reached the entrance to New Scotland Yard, but I hung back, letting a TV news crew in. ‘You’re saying Bert Hughes made that tape disappear? Why would he break the law and risk everything?’

  Rahid sighed. ‘I’ve been piecing the guy’s background. It’s not pretty. A tough Manchester upbringing. Parents split when he was small. Moved South with his dad when he was fourteen. His dad’s a bully. Nothing Bert has done is ever good enough.’

  ‘His son becomes a rich lawyer and that’s not good enough for him? Christ.’ I recognised the fat silhouette of Stuart Thorp sloping towards me. I dropped my voice. ‘So you think Bert’s dad pressured him to buy up the evidence?’

  ‘It fits, doesn’t it? And if Sabrina found out about this . . .’

  ‘It gives Bert the mother of all motives for her murder.’ I flashed my press pass at the desk and hurried towards the meeting room, feeling as if my feet weren’t touching the ground. What was the Wicked Whisper on LegalLens? Sticking her beak in will end in tears.

  I hovered outside the door for a moment, looking around for water. ‘How did you figure it out?’

  I heard the smile in Rahid’s voice. ‘When I was researching Bert, I found a picture of his dad with Eric Rowntree. It was taken at the Battersea Rise bingo hall in the late nineties. Linda and Allen are in the photo, too. They all know each other. So I tracked down people who know them and started asking questions. Just like you taught me.’

  I grinned. ‘Then you know what I’m going to say next.’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t have the attendant on record yet. But I’m working on his moral conscience. He feels sick about the whole thing. He knows he’s destroyed the one piece of evidence that will convict Rowntree of murdering his family.’

  I nodded. ‘Keep at him. This is huge, Rahid. You need a good run at this if you’re going to make this stick. Does Rowley know?’

  ‘Should I tell him yet?’

  A journalist opened the meeting room door; the seats were filling up fast. ‘Look, the press conference is starting any moment. And then I’m driving down to Bournemouth to meet Charlie’s stepdad. Fill everyone in. I’ll see you back at the Herald tonight, or first thing tomorrow. And Rahid?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Great work.’

  *

  I pushed open the door and immediately locked eyes with Jemma Williams from the Tribune, one of the reporters who’d left me a voicemail asking for a quote about the rumours that I’d slept with Charlie. I ignored her and slid into a row near the back. From the other glances, I could tell that word was spreading fast.

  I pulled out my Dictaphone and checked the batteries, still reeling from Rahid’s bombshell. His discovery was a potential game-changer. If Sabrina found out that Bert had broken the law, and confronted him, who knows what he might have done to keep her quiet? The link between this and the other story of the moment, Rowntree, was going to blow this sky-high. I needed to give Rahid time to make it watertight.

  I closed my eyes, feeling the chair digging into my sweaty back. Twenty-four hours ago, finding out that Bert had a strong motive for Sabrina’s murder would have buoyed me up. But then I saw that tape.

  A wave of panic swept through me and I inhaled deeply through my nose, counting my breaths, just like Dr Spado taught me. One. An image of Charlie, so familiar it hurt. Tugging on his fringe, standing in his usual awkward stance with one leg wrapped round the other. Two. The night in the bar: I’m not a good husband. Three. Charlie unbuckling his belt.

  Panic gave way to anger and I gripped the chair so hard my knuckles hurt. How could he? How could he? Even if Charlie didn’t kill Sabrina, nothing, nothing, would ever make up for what he did to me.

  I loosened my grip on the chair and slumped forwards. What was it Rowley always said? Never let emotion cloud the goal. That is the truth, it’s always the truth. As much as I wanted Charlie strung up for assaulting me, if he didn’t kill Sabrina, then he didn’t kill her. No one should go down for a crime they didn’t commit.

  Behind me, a desperate cameraman knocked over a chair trying to get a good angle. I craned my neck and could only just see the table at the front of the room. Press conferences weren’t always this packed out, but everyone had been given a heads-up that Emily was making an appeal. And Emily was big news. The pretty, blonde wife of an alleged killer who wasn’t afraid to speak out had captured the nation’s imagination. By blogging her experience, she was sharing her nightmare with people in real time; they were discovering aspects of the investigation as she did.

  But the country still couldn’t decide if she was a victim, or a nutcase, or both. For some, Emily represented everything that was wrong with modern life. She was too vocal, too ready to overshare; guilty of putting herself at the cen
tre of this story and detracting from the real victim: Sabrina. I didn’t entirely disagree. So far, the column inches devoted to Charlie and Emily far outstripped those devoted to Sabrina. Killers trumped victims. And, as the link between the killer and the victim, Emily trod the line separating the two. Which is why the room was packed to the rafters.

  Still, feminists hailed Emily as a trailblazer; a woman who was refusing to be defined by the actions of her husband, who was breaking the mould of a spouse caught in the middle of a press gangbang. Many felt protective of her – Emily’s vulnerable streak played well with the mainstream media. Sinead’s words drifted through my head again: she knows exactly what she’s doing . . . she’ll play the perfect victim. I shivered, looking around for Durand.

  I pulled out my notebook and wrote today’s date. My mouth was bone-dry and I wished I’d managed to get my hands on some water. I spotted Durand leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his foot tapping the floor. The skin on my hand lit up where he’d touched me and I clenched it into a fist. Durand must have sensed me looking because he glanced over and caught my eye. I resisted the urge to look away, watched as he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and started typing. Seconds later, my phone beeped. I read his text message with raised eyebrows, then scribbled down the new information.

  I shifted in my chair, feeling uneasy. Was I really going to set Emily up, in front of all these people? An inside tip-off always comes with a risk. It’s not unheard of for the police to leak incorrect information on purpose. Rowley wasn’t a hundred per cent behind the plan to confront Emily, and neither was I. Emily was a friend. I felt uncomfortable putting her on the spot after everything she’d been through. A little voice in my head piped up: if you’re friends, why hasn’t Emily reached out to you after seeing that tape?

  Suddenly, the door opened and DCI Golden appeared, his face set into a stiff mask. He glanced at the audience once, then strode towards the table. Everyone’s eyes were on the door, waiting. At last Emily appeared. Her blonde hair was pulled into a low bun and she was wearing a neck brace. She turned her whole body awkwardly to look at the room, her big blue eyes flicking nervously over the crowd. I tried to catch her eye but she didn’t see me.