She smoothed down her navy, long-sleeved dress and darted towards Golden who pulled out the chair for her. They were joined by Dolores Robinson, one of the Met’s press officers, who tottered towards the desk in a too-tight pencil skirt. A memo had gone out to the media specifying that the press conference would be pre-recorded, not live, which made me wonder whether they were concerned about what Emily was going to say.
When everyone was seated, Golden cleared his throat and leaned towards the bank of microphones on the desk. ‘Good afternoon, folks, we’ve called this press conference to update you on the inquiry into Sabrina Hobbs’s murder. Over the past forty-eight hours, we have received an increasing number of calls from members of the public who believe they have seen the suspect, Charles Swift. As you can imagine, it is taking considerable time and resources to follow up each call.
‘But,’ Golden ran his eyes across the room, ‘we believe we have had a breakthrough. At 6.40 p.m. yesterday, the suspect was caught on CCTV leaving a supermarket in Bournemouth and again on CCTV footage at a newsagent’s on Rockwell Road nearby.’
My head snapped up. Rockwell Road. Why did that ring a bell? I fumbled through my notebook, stopped at the interview with the Bugle’s Jeff Johnson. The new Christ Clan on Rockwell Road. That was one hell of a coincidence.
Golden sipped his water, swooshing it round his mouth. ‘We will shortly be releasing those CCTV images but suffice to say, we’re confident the suspect is in Dorset and we are prioritising calls from that area.’ He cast his gaze to the left and gave Emily a quick smile. ‘With that in mind, I would like to hand over to Emily Swift, the suspect’s wife, who wishes to say a few words.’
For a moment, Emily looked startled, then Golden dipped his head towards her and whispered something in her ear. Emily nodded, then shifted her gaze to the TV camera in the middle and licked her lips.
‘Before I start, I’d like to thank the staff at UCLH for taking such great care of me since the attack,’ her hand fluttered to her neck brace, ‘and to DCI Golden and the team for being so supportive at this difficult time. I’d also like to thank the many, many people who’ve reached out to me on my blog, or through social media. Your kind words have helped more than you know. And now, I have a message for my husband, Charlie.’
Emily was staring at a spot above our heads, chewing the inside of her cheek. A ripple ran across the crowd while we waited, and waited.
Eventually Golden gave her a nudge.
‘Charlie, so much has happened in the past twenty-four hours. I’m going crazy trying to piece this mess together. The only thing I can imagine is that you are suffering. You are sick, and you need help.’ Emily reached out a hand to steady herself, her voice wavering. ‘I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. I know you didn’t mean to hurt our babies,’ her voice broke and she glanced at Golden. ‘I know you are not a bad person. But, please, baby, come home. We will fix this. I am here for you. Never forget: I’m here for you.’
A taut silence settled over the room and I stared at Emily. I’m here for you. Where was the fight? Where was the spark? The feminists wouldn’t be happy with that. Was Emily really standing by Charlie after everything he’d done? Or was this a tactic she’d agreed with Golden to bring Charlie in?
I glanced over to where Durand stood. He’d moved away from the wall and was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight.
‘Thank you, Emily,’ said Golden, patting her arm. ‘Right, we’re going to open the floor for a few questions.’
We all raised our hands and Golden pointed to a grey-haired man in the second row.
‘What other measures are being taken to apprehend the suspect?’
Golden moved the microphone a fraction. ‘I can’t be more specific than I’ve already been but, rest assured, we are working closely with Dorset Police.’
A sea of hands shot up again. Golden pointed at the woman who was sitting in front of me. She hesitated a moment, long enough for me to seize the moment.
Pretending I thought Golden had pointed at me, I sat up straight and cleared my throat. ‘This is a question for Emily.’
Emily’s eyes darted in my direction when she heard my voice.
‘It’s about the attack that occurred at your apartment two nights ago,’ I said, steeling myself. ‘Emily, could you comment on the rumours that you staged the attack?’
Emily flinched. ‘What rumours?’
Golden started to raise his thick hand but I jumped in. ‘In your statement, you said the last thing you remember is Charlie batting the phone out of your hand. But if the phone contained damning evidence, why didn’t Charlie take it with him?’
I tried to ignore the horrified look on Emily’s face and glanced down at the information Durand had just given me.
‘Emily, the Herald has discovered that the forensic testing on the phone has thrown up only one set of fingerprints: yours. You never mentioned he was wearing gloves. If Charlie had handled the phone like you say he did, where are his prints?’
Golden’s anger was as quick as a flame. He yanked the microphone towards him, but Emily put a hand on his arm.
She leaned forward awkwardly and her eyes fluttered close for a moment. ‘Sophie, the man I love wants me dead; he wants our children dead. I’ve been poisoned, attacked in my own home, shredded by the Press. Just,’ she covered her face with her hands, and her voice trembled, ‘give me a break. I’m doing everything I can to reach out to Charlie. To get through this . . . this . . . nightmare in one piece. For you to suggest any of this is my fault is . . . unspeakable.’ Emily sat back in the chair, her whole body shaking.
A brief pause, then the room erupted.
Golden stood up so fast his chair fell over. ‘OK, that’s all we have time for. Thank you for coming.’ He glared at me. ‘Dolores will email those images to you and we’d be grateful if you could include the helpline number in your write-ups.’
He guided Emily towards the door and I felt the other reporters giving me quizzical looks, unsure where my curveball had come from.
Durand was deep in conversation with Waters and I threw him a desperate glance, willing him to look at me. Emily didn’t crack under pressure. Now what?
Behind him, I saw Emily say something to Golden. His shoulders sagged, then he glanced in my direction and beckoned me over.
As I crossed the room, Durand met my eye and, for a split-second, I thought I saw a glimmer of doubt.
Golden glowered at me as I approached. Any chance I ever had of winning him over had evaporated. I hadn’t just burned the bridge, I’d shoved the red-hot embers up my arse.
‘You actually think I faked that attack,’ said Emily, her eyes wet with tears. ‘I might have known you’d take Charlie’s side.’
‘This has nothing to do with sides,’ I said.
‘I trusted you but you’re just like the others. All along you’ve been biding your time, waiting to stick the knife in.’ Emily’s cheeks quivered with rage. ‘Well, was it worth it in the end? I saw that video tape. You got what you always wanted.’
I stared at her. ‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, please. All those evenings you made Charlie work late,’ she said, brushing the tears away from her red face. ‘He might have been fooled, but I wasn’t.’
I kept my voice level. It wouldn’t help my cause to show I was rattled. ‘Em, did you watch that tape with your eyes open or closed?’
Emily gave a thin smile. ‘You can spin that video any way you like.’
Beside us, a group of reporters dragged their heels, trying to eavesdrop. I lowered my voice. ‘I was unconscious. Charlie assaulted me. Where’s the grey area?’
Emily raised a hand to her neck brace and her sleeve slid towards her elbow. She caught me staring at her scars and yanked it back down. ‘You know, Charlie always says how desperate you are. How you’ll use any excuse to keep him in the office.’ Emily’s eyes flashed. ‘Even your brother’s death.’
Any guilt I felt over what had
just happened vanished. ‘That’s bullshit, and you know it. Charlie and I have been friends for years; long before you married him.’
‘And that’s what kills you, isn’t it?’ said Emily, her voice rising. ‘All those hours you put in, and Charlie picked me. He picked me.’
An image of Charlie unbuckling his belt struck me between the eyes and I put a hand on the wall to steady myself. ‘Em, listen to me. Charlie told me he was flying to Geneva that night. That I’d have the place to myself. I–’
Emily shook her head, wincing as the movement jarred her neck. ‘Listen to yourself, Soph. You think you’re the first woman to throw yourself at Charlie? Sabrina did the same thing. He was going through a rough time and you both made it worse.’
Golden moved towards us with a dark look on his face, but Emily turned her back, cutting him out.
‘You have no idea what the last few months have been like for Charlie,’ she said.
I shook my head, bewildered. ‘Aren’t you done making excuses for him?’
Behind us, the room had almost emptied out. I spotted the Post reporter, Stuart Thorp, giving me a sly look.
Emily’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Charlie was sick.’
‘Clearly.’
‘That’s not what I mean. Since Vanessa’s he’s . . . he’s fallen apart. It’s not Charlie’s fault. None of this is Charlie’s fault.’ Emily’s voice dissolved and her eyes filled with hot, angry tears. She was wound so tightly she looked as if she’d shatter at the faintest touch. For a brief moment, I felt for Emily. I knew what it was like to believe in someone when no one else did. But then I remembered the tape. I’d seen Charlie’s fall from grace with my own eyes.
I took a breath, softened my voice. ‘Em, listen to me. The Charlie we thought we knew is gone. Maybe he never existed at all. He raped me. He attacked you. He killed an innocent woman. And he’s left you all alone to deal with it.’
Emily started to cry openly. ‘Don’t you see: he was doing it for me. Wiping the slate clean. I’m sorry that woman had to die, but who knows what kind of pressure she was putting him under?’ Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Golden watching Emily with an odd expression on his face. ‘Without Sabrina, we can start again. That’s why he needs to come home.’
‘Start again?’ I stared at Emily in disbelief. ‘Charlie’s facing a fucking life sentence.’
‘Stop it,’ Emily put her hands over her ears, and squeezed her eyes shut. The tears were coming thick and fast. ‘It’s not his fault.’
‘Then whose fault is it?’ The words screeched out of me. ‘If Charlie didn’t kill Sabrina, who did? You?’
I didn’t see it coming. But the slap was hard and loud. My cheek stung. For a moment no one moved. Emily’s gaze was like lava. The blood pounded in my ears. I pressed my hand to my face and watched, dazed, as Golden dragged Emily away.
Before he closed the door, Golden glanced back at me, and for the second time that day, I saw the glimmer of doubt in a policeman’s eyes.
23
Emily: 5 weeks before the murder
The rain pelts down and Emily sprints towards her front door. She misjudges a puddle and lands in it, kicking up filthy water. She is staring down at her muddy orange trainers and doesn’t see the man until she hits the top step.
Emily pulls out an earphone, catching her breath. ‘Um, can I help you?’
‘Are you Emily Swift?’
He holds a newspaper over their heads, but he’s so tall that Emily is getting drenched.
She fumbles for her key. ‘Who are you?’
‘Look, this is going to sound odd, but I have some information about your husband,’ he says and Emily’s hand tightens around the door handle. ‘Can I come in? I’m soaked.’
Emily lets the man into the hallway. She flicks the switch but the light isn’t working. She can smell him in the dark; the scent of coffee and cologne is heightened by the rain. Emily puts a hand to her cheek, knowing she’s bright red from her run. She has that sort of skin; everything is on the surface. She remembers her first eyebrow wax. Even though the beauty therapist furiously applied calamine lotion, she’d walked around with two pink caterpillars on her forehead for hours. ‘I’ve never seen skin so sensitive,’ the woman told her, transfixed by Emily’s forehead. Emily felt weirdly defensive. She wanted to peel down her pants, point to the scored skin on her hips and say, not so sensitive there, huh?
A faint light filters through the gaps in the far wall, which the builders haven’t got round to filling. The man shakes out his overcoat and Emily catches a glimpse of gold around his wrist. ‘Look, I’m sorry to be dramatic. If there was any other way of contacting you, I would.’
Emily looks up at him, wincing as she flexes her calf muscle. After the latest miscarriage the doctor told her she needed to lay off the running. Give her body a chance to rest. At first, she’d listened. Every morning she drank the fertility smoothie Charlie made, saying a silent prayer to the imaginary children in her head. Please stick around this time. Please let me be your mummy. She’s started dreaming about babies. The ones she lost, the ones she’s yet to lose. Not that she’s going to get pregnant again any time soon. Not with Charlie sleeping in the spare room every night. She’s become used to the vicious silence in the flat; the way they both adapt their schedules so they spend as little time together as possible. But Emily carries the weight of their failure inside her like a . . . baby. A dead baby, she thinks savagely, as her eyes flick towards the stranger in her hallway.
She needs an outlet, an escape. Sternus, the man from the cinema, has been bugging her with daily text messages, and Emily knows it’s only a matter of time before she relapses. So this morning, she pulled on her orange trainers and hammered her usual route round Regent’s Park.
Emily nibbles her thumbnail. ‘How do you know my address?’
The man glances at the carpet. ‘I’ll explain everything. I–’
He stops as the front door opens and an elderly lady in a cream mac and shiny black boots appears. She gives them a nod, then rifles through her post.
The man lowers his voice. ‘Can I buy you coffee somewhere? I just want to talk.’
Emily glances at her neighbour, then down at her sodden running kit and sighs. ‘Let’s just go inside.’
The flat is cold; a draught shivers across Emily’s back. The damp smell has returned, except now it’s tinged with sewage. It’s worse down in the cellar. It smells like something’s died there. She really must get it looked at. Emily gestures towards the sofa, then she spreads a grey throw over the armchair and sits.
The man reaches into his overcoat pocket for something and Emily combs through possible scenarios. Judging by how nervous he is, the news isn’t good.
He pulls out a business card and hands it to her. ‘Here, this is me.’
Emily takes the card and stares at it. Bert Hughes: Junior Partner, Hamilton Law.
‘Look, I almost didn’t come,’ he says, loosening his tie and undoing his top button. ‘But I’ve been going over this in my mind, and I really think it’s the right thing to do.’ Bert’s mannerisms feel exaggerated, rehearsed; it sets Emily’s teeth on edge. She twiddles her diamond pendant, waiting. ‘Your husband is sleeping with my colleague and I thought you should know.’
Emily goes still. She pulls her necklace so hard it cuts into the back of her neck. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you think I should know?’ Her voice sounds weirdly calm; it freaks her out.
Bert frowns. His eyes go to the ceiling. ‘Because it’s the right thing to do. He’s married. To you.’ He falters. ‘I mean, don’t you want to know he’s having an affair?’
An affair. The arm of the chair is digging into Emily’s ribs. The drab, grey light coming through the window makes her feel as if she’s underwater. Emily runs her eyes over Bert’s face. His cleft chin reminds her of Gavin Lyle, a boy from school. She lost her virginity to Gavin when she was twelve, in the woods b
ehind the dining hall. The night before, her parents had a huge row about money. Funds were tight in the Danson household but that didn’t stop Emily’s mum throwing down eighty quid on a novelty teapot to add to her collection. Rows of them cluttered the surfaces in their house. The newest, shaped like a cat curled in a basket, was front and centre on the sitting room mantelpiece. When Emily’s dad spotted it after a long day in the office, he lost his temper. Emily remembers trying to get his attention, shaking her small head at him to stop shouting at Mummy because she knew what would happen next. Her dad yelled, called her mum ‘profligate’ and she hadn’t known what it meant. Her mum stomped into the sitting room, returning with the Oxford dictionary. Moments later she flung it at her husband’s face, shattering his nose. The following day, Emily sought out Gavin Lyle and led him into the forest. It was only later she found out that Gavin told everyone at school Dumpy Danson’s fat arse nearly suffocated him.
For a moment, Emily can smell the heady scent of pine needles and wonders if her mind is playing tricks on her. Then she glimpses the diffuser on the coffee table: Autumn Pine.
Emily shifts her weight, breathes out. ‘Um,’ she glances at the business card on her lap, ‘Bert. Can I just . . . are you romantically involved with this woman?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s just that I don’t think you’re really here for my benefit.’
Bert fidgets with the metal strap of his watch, as though debating something in his head. ‘We’ve been together since last summer. On and off. It was pretty casual.’
‘Casual. Huh.’ Emily blinks; her eyes are dry. ‘And yet, here you are.’
Bert shakes his head and a lock of hair falls across his forehead. ‘I’m not the bad guy here.’
Outside, a screech of brakes punctures the air, followed by a chorus of car horns. Emily would give anything right now to be far away from the city, away from the noise, the dirt, the disappointment.
The Perfect Victim Page 20
