The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘Who is she?’ she says and her voice is almost drowned out by the rain hammering on the window. But she knows Bert has heard her.

  ‘Sabrina Hobbs.’

  ‘And how do you know that she’s . . . that she’s,’ Emily digs her fingernails into the palm of her hand, ‘sleeping with my husband?’

  A muscle flickers beneath Bert’s eye and he rubs it with a tanned finger. ‘Because she told me. When she broke up with me. Apparently it’s been going on for months.’

  Months? Emily fights to keep her face in check. She feels like she’s in a movie scene. One of those dramatic moments in life where nothing feels real. Oh, this is the scene where the heroine finds out her husband is a lying, cheating prick.

  But, amongst the hurt and pain and shock, she also feels something else: relief. There’s a real, tangible reason why her marriage is caving in. Proof that she’s not going mad. For a moment Emily feels like punching the air: I told you! I knew it!

  Instead, she massages her ribs where the arm of the chair has been digging in.

  ‘Tell me about Sabrina,’ she says softly.

  Bert crosses an ankle over his knees and leans back. ‘She’s a Partner at my law firm.’

  ‘What does she look like?’

  The muscles in Bert’s face tighten. ‘She has long red hair the colour of a winter sunset, and the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen.’

  Emily’s throat catches and she pretends not to notice this stranger spreading rain and dirt across her white sofa. ‘So, she’s your boss?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. She recently got promoted. Why?’

  ‘It probably explains why else you’re here.’

  Bert’s lips screw into an icy smile. ‘Do you know what your husband told Sabrina? That your marriage is a mistake and he’s going to leave you.’

  Emily flinches. She uncoils herself and lurches to the window. The rain is beating down so hard, Delaware Street is deserted. She wants to smash this man’s head through a window. But she knows Bert isn’t the one she’s angry with.

  Emily turns to face Bert. She asks again, ‘How do you know where I live?’

  He hesitates. ‘I followed Sabrina.’

  ‘She’s been here?’ For a fraction of a second, the mask slips and Emily’s eyes dart around the room, looking for signs of this woman. An image: black-lace knickers crumpled in the back of Charlie’s sock drawer. Of course.

  Emily’s skin starts to purr and she clutches hold of the windowsill. ‘Um, do you want a proper drink?’

  She doesn’t wait for an answer; stumbles into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of vodka from the freezer. Emily splashes large measures into two glasses, then knocks hers back neat. She pours another, then plucks a lemon from the fruit bowl and a knife from the drawer. As her hands close around the cold steel, a vibration sweeps through her skin.

  Emily leans over the counter, squeezing the lemon between her hands. She breathes in the citrus scent, trying to focus. Bert’s words swirl round her head: your marriage is a mistake . . . he’s going to leave you. All of a sudden, Emily recalls the divorce lawyer’s business card she found in Charlie’s pocket. She pictures everyone’s faces when they hear the news. Her book is due out in three months. Team Us: How to Go From Newlywed to Forever Wed, they’re calling it. Her publisher, Libby, is thrilled. She wants to use a photograph of Charlie and Emily on the cover. Emily slumps over the counter. She’ll be a laughing stock. Dumpy Danson, the marriage guru who can’t keep her own marriage afloat. Emily slams the knife back in the drawer. She refuses to be shed like yesterday’s skin. She will not let Charlie destroy her.

  Piss off, Dumpy Danson. I’ve never liked you anyway.

  Emily presses her forehead against the fridge door, listening to the clock ticking on the wall. Then she squares her shoulders and returns to the sitting room.

  Bert is flicking through a cycling magazine but he tosses it on the table as she hands him a drink. He slugs half of it down in one hit. Emily’s eyes go to the dip in his chin; they follow the line of his jaw, down his neck to his broad shoulders. Her fingers twitch, as though a current is racing through her. She knows Bert has noticed.

  The atmosphere shifts and he blinks at her slowly.

  Emily chews her lip. The noise in her head kicks up a gear. She looks out the window and fixes her eyes on the slate-grey sky behind Bert’s head. Then she sets her glass down on the table. She drops to her knees, and crawls towards Bert. She unzips his trousers. He freezes, his brow puckering. He grabs her hand, then slowly releases it. Emily squeezes her eyes shut and takes him in her mouth. With each thrust, Emily pictures Charlie and the red-haired woman doing the same thing in this exact spot. All this time she’s been blaming Lizzie and Vanessa for driving a wedge between them.

  But now there’s someone else to blame.

  24

  Present Day

  As I pulled into Hindhead Close, I checked my phone. Nothing from Dr Betrand yet. Nor anyone else. Ever since I found out Charlie had been spotted by a CCTV camera on Rockwell Road, I’d been trying to reconnect with the Bugle’s Jeff Johnson. Reporters often talk about hunches, or gut feelings. A good journalist has five senses, plus an extra one. The fact that Charlie was spotted so close to Christ Clan was significant. I just didn’t know why yet. So I planned to pay the charity a visit while I was in Bournemouth, and I wanted Jeff’s counsel first. But it seemed Jeff had other ideas.

  I forced the car door open and could just about make out white-tipped waves hurtling along the beach. The howling wind whipped my hair into a frenzy and I dropped my car-key on the wet pavement. Cursing British summertime, I dipped my chin into my collar and crossed the road.

  Number 23 was a salmon-pink thirties bungalow that stood behind a threadbare lawn. A broken gutter hung over the lip of the roof and water was gushing down the broken tiles. One of the windows at the front had been smashed and the curtains were drawn across the small, white leaded bay windows at the front, giving it a hostile, closed-up air. But as I scurried up the path, I noticed the flower pots dotted along the front patio were well-tended and filled with scented blooms.

  I rang on the doorbell, eyes on the sticker in the window. Jesus is love.

  Footsteps sounded on the other side and I heard a clank and jangle as a chain was released. The door opened an inch and an elderly man peered out. He had a neat moustache peppered with grey, and wore thick glasses, the kind that magnified the eyeballs.

  I smiled. ‘Gordon, it’s Sophie Kent.’

  His face lit up. ‘Yes, yes. Come in.’

  The hallway was painted green, but the paint didn’t quite reach the edges. The whole interior had a distinctly DIY look about it. Gordon led me into a small, dark kitchen. There was a stench, like rotting bins. I scanned the room, wrinkling my nose. Dirty plates were piled on the counter and a fly buzzed over the sink. The bin in the corner was overflowing. Something was leaking out the bottom. Gordon pulled his brown cardigan around him and shuffled towards the armchair in the corner. After a moment, Gordon went back to the newspapers he’d moved to the table, and started piling them back on the armchair. Suddenly he froze. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost 2.15 p.m.,’ I said, glancing at my watch.

  Gordon hobbled across the kitchen and fiddled with the button on a small black radio.

  ‘. . . But the warm weather is over for now. The worst of the storms will be in the South where severe weather warnings are in force. Torrential rain, flash-floods.’

  Gordon patted his pockets, blinking owlishly. ‘My pen and pad, where are they?’

  The distress in his voice surprised me. I scanned the room and strode over to a small table laid out with a notepad, pen and magnifying glass. ‘Do you mean these?’

  Gordon snatched them off me. ‘What did he say? Flash-floods. Weather warning. In May. Huh.’ He scribbled something down then settled into the green armchair and placed his knotted hands on his knees.

  I looked around f
or somewhere to sit. ‘I was very happy when you called, Gordon,’ I said, perching on the edge of the armchair opposite him. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  I frowned. ‘Well, about Charlie.’

  Gordon’s forehead puckered and he shook his head. ‘What’s he done now?’

  I opened my mouth to ask Gordon if he was messing around when I remembered Dominic’s words: Gordon’s not quite all there, if you catch my drift.

  ‘Tea, dear?’ Gordon limped over to the kettle and pulled two mugs out of the sink.

  I sighed, and wandered over to him. ‘Here, let me do it.’ There was mould growing in the bottom of the mugs. I gave them a rinse, then opened the fridge to find milk. The stench knocked me backwards. I clamped my hand over my mouth. Thick, grey gloop puddled along the bottom of the drawer. I spotted a milk bottle, but the milk was practically solid.

  I turned to face Gordon. ‘Um, you’re out of milk. Is there a shop nearby? I can nip out.’

  ‘No matter. I didn’t really want one anyway.’ He sat back down in his armchair with a sigh.

  I held my sleeve up to my nose, trying to get the putrid smell out of my nostrils, and marched over to the curtains. ‘Let’s get some air in he—’

  ‘No!’ It came out as a wail. ‘Keep them closed. I don’t want to see them.’ Gordon started to rock. ‘They throw things at the house. Put things through my letterbox.’

  ‘You mean vandals?’

  Gordon pulled his glasses off and wiped his eyes. ‘Charlie’s all over the news. People know who I am. They think I’m hiding him here.’

  ‘Have you told the police?’ I asked and Gordon shook his head. I crouched down beside him. ‘Does anyone come round to help you?’

  Gordon pulled off his glasses and rubbed them on the sleeve of his cardigan. When he slipped them back on, he smiled at me. ‘Charlie always told me how pretty you are.’

  I squeezed his hand; Gordon’s mottled skin was paper-dry. ‘We need to talk about Charlie.’

  Gordon raised his watery blue eyes to mine. ‘Have I offered you a tea, dear? I can’t remember–’

  ‘You did, thank you. But I’m fine.’ I paused. Up close I could see a patch of white stubble along Gordon’s jaw where his razor had missed. ‘I’m so sorry about Vanessa. I only found out a few days ago. Charlie never told me she died.’

  ‘Poor Ness,’ Gordon rubbed his thumb with a swollen finger. ‘She tried but this business with Charlie. She couldn’t see it.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘That he loved her. Underneath it all. All Ness saw was his anger and his hate. Charlie was just a boy when he cut her out of his life. Ness drank, which made things worse. It was a vicious circle.’ Gordon gave a small shrug. ‘Some people are hardwired for unhappiness. Ness didn’t want to stop drinking, you see. She wanted to forget. What is it they say? The first rule of recovery is that you have to want to get better.’

  A deep ache settled in my jaw, and I realised I was clenching my teeth. I said that line to Tommy so many times over the years, it lost its meaning.

  Gordon pulled his cardigan more tightly around him, his eyes drifting towards the clock on the wall. ‘Remind me when it gets to 2.45 p.m. Weather report.’

  I settled back against the chair, biding my time. ‘Where did you and Ness meet?’

  A smile spread across Gordon’s face. ‘The local picture house was doing a Hitchcock special. We were the first two there and got chatting. Ness was wearing a woolly hat but when she took it off she had the most beautiful chocolatey curls. Took my breath away. At the end of Rear Window, I invited her to dinner. A new fish and chip shop had opened across the road. They had two types of vinegar.’ Gordon pinched the end of his nose, and his eyes softened. ‘We talked all night. She told me I was the first grown-up she’d spoken to in over a month. Can you imagine? She was lonely, adrift. She didn’t mention Charlie at first. Kept him secret. She thought it would put me off. His name slipped out while we were feeding the ducks in the park. Charlie was only eight, she told me, and the centre of her world. I was so nervous when I met him. But we hit it off. He was a good kid.’

  ‘And you married soon after?’

  Gordon shook his head, his eyes crinkling round the edges. ‘Lost count of the number of times I proposed. But Ness wouldn’t have it. Said it would be daft to wear white in church when she already had a son. I didn’t mind. It was more for Charlie’s sake.’

  Gordon pushed himself off the chair and shuffled to the old-fashioned bureau in the corner. He handed me a photo frame. It was a photograph of a little boy wearing navy shorts and a green T-shirt. His leg was in plaster and he was sticking out his tongue. A younger Gordon had a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. His woody-brown hair swept back off his forehead. Without his moustache his lips looked thinner.

  ‘Always was small for his age, bless him,’ said Gordon. ‘That was taken just after the car crash. I bought Charlie a bike after that. I didn’t learn to drive until later in life, you see, and I thought it would be better for . . .’

  As he trailed off, I stared down at the photograph in my hand, remembering Dominic’s words: Charlie protected her in ways a little kid shouldn’t have to.

  ‘Why didn’t anyone take Charlie away from his mum, Gordon? Keep him safe. He was just a kid.’

  Gordon’s eyes sharpened. ‘Ness wasn’t a bad person. She could be kind and loving. And she worshipped that boy. But when she drank she forgot about everything, and everyone. I saw what it did to Charlie. Why do you think I stuck around?’

  He sniffed and pulled out a tissue. ‘After we split up, things got worse. Vanessa would call to say Charlie had disappeared. God knows where he went. Then there was the fire . . .’

  Gordon drifted off, watching something play out in the air in front of him.

  ‘There was an accident. At their home.’ He picked a piece of flint off his cardigan. ‘Charlie never spoke about it. But after the fire, he refused to go back. It crucified Vanessa; she tried to kill herself. I found her with her head in the oven.’

  ‘When did you last see Charlie?’ I said, pretending not to notice the tears wetting Gordon’s eyes.

  ‘He’s not been here, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Gordon sighed and glanced towards the window. ‘I keep expecting him to show up. I still leave the key under the flowerpot for him. I just want to know he’s–’ Gordon’s voice cracked and he took a long shaky breath. ‘’Course here is the last place Charlie would come.’

  ‘Because it’s too obvious?’

  Gordon shook his head. ‘Because he hates me. Told me that the last time I saw him, the day Ness died. Charlie turned up here, in a real temper. I figured Ness had done something stupid. But it was me he was angry with, not her.’ Gordon closed his eyes and, when he opened them, his gaze drifted towards the floor. ‘Made all sorts of demands. Wanted to know why Ness had changed her will. She asked for my help with it, you see.’

  ‘What did the new will say?’

  ‘She wanted to leave some money to a religious group, a charity.’

  I stared at him. ‘What’s it called, this group?’

  Gordon sighed. ‘Charlie got it in his mind that I’d somehow pressured Ness. But it wasn’t true.’

  I leaned forward, and put my hand on Gordon’s, my heart starting to race. ‘Can you remember the name of the organisation?’

  He gave my hand a squeeze. ‘I thought it was odd, you know. The place shut down long ago. Which wasn’t surprising. I’ve lived in this area my whole life. I heard the rumours. But once Ness’s mind was made up there was nothing anyone could do about it.’

  ‘Gordon, the name?’

  He picked at his sleeve, and I noticed it was crusted with a yellow stain. ‘It reopened, you know. Different person in charge now. For the best. The leader was a nasty man. People used to say they sacrificed goats there, or sheep. Bred the poor animals especially for it.’ He caught my look and sighed. ‘It’s calle
d Christ Clan. Which I always thought was a weird name. Clan. Doesn’t sound very godly, does it? Reminds me of the Ku Klux Klan.’

  Vanessa left money to Christ Clan? I drummed my fingers on the chair, trying to keep the adrenaline out of my voice. ‘Did Vanessa say why she was leaving money to this organisation?’

  Gordon pulled out a stained handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Ness was a religious sort. Joined a cult when she was a teenager. She was impressionable. Always searching for something. God knows she needed some lightness in her life. She lived for that boy. It was tragic, watching it play out. They both loved each other, but couldn’t show it.’

  Something Gordon said earlier struck me and I frowned. ‘That was the last day you saw Charlie? You didn’t see him at Vanessa’s funeral?’

  To my horror, Gordon’s bottom lip quivered. ‘Charlie told me I wasn’t welcome.’

  ‘He stopped you going to her funeral?’

  Gordon nodded. ‘I’m the closest thing Charlie has to family. What is it they say: you hurt the ones you love. Listen, Charlie isn’t a bad kid. There have been plenty of times over the years that I’ve worried about him. But he’s proved me wrong every time. And he’s had his share of heartbreak.’

  ‘You mean Lizzie?’

  Gordon smiled and pointed towards the bureau, to the wedding photograph of Charlie and Lizzie on display. ‘Lovely lass, she was. Tragedy what happened to her.’

  ‘I heard Charlie blames Vanessa for her death.’ Gordon’s shoulders drooped, but he didn’t answer. I sighed. ‘Have you ever met his second wife, Emily?’

  ‘Once or twice. Seems nice enough, I suppose.’

  I waited for him to elaborate but he pushed himself to the edge of his chair, then stood up. He hobbled towards the filthy kitchen and started rifling through cupboards.

  ‘I had a glass in here somewhere. The medication I’m on, makes my mouth as dry as a rag.’

  I watched Gordon, feeling a stab of pity. ‘I don’t suppose you have a pair of rubber gloves, do you?’ I said, rolling up my sleeves.

  As I ran the taps, I found an ancient bottle with a dribble of soap at the bottom and started wading through the pile of dishes.