The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  *

  An hour later she’s back in their apartment and Charlie is on his way to God knows where. Emily curls up on the sofa picturing Charlie in the arms of the red-haired woman. She knows now that Charlie is going to leave her. How could she be so stupid to think otherwise? Charlie never had any intention of doing the right thing. He was just biding his time, planning his escape. Emily scratches at the four-leaf clover scab on her hip through angry, exhausted tears.

  Suddenly she hears a thud and looks up.

  What was that?

  Emily pulls herself up and walks unsteadily into the hallway. Other than a distant siren, all is quiet. She’s about to turn round when she notices the cellar door is open and the light is on. She frowns. Was that open when she got home?

  A prickling sensation creeps down her neck. Emily steps across the hallway and sticks her head round the cellar door. Nothing unusual. As she thumps down the steps, she gives herself a talking to. Maybe she’s misjudged Charlie. His mum just died; he’s going through something at the moment. He’ll come back to her when he’s ready. She just needs to stick it out. Emily steps over a pile of laundry and scans the cellar. She’s about to leave when she spots something sticking out from behind the washing machine. It’s Charlie’s West Ham hoody. His favourite sweater. What’s it doing behind there?

  Emily has a bad feeling, deep inside her bones. She feels inside the pockets and pulls out a piece of paper. Emily looks at the image; the fuzzy background, the speck that looks like nothing but is, in fact, everything. A tiny dot, a baby, a whole life.

  That’s funny, I don’t remember giving Charlie a copy of my last baby sc—

  Emily’s eyes flick to the words printed in the top left corner. The air around her goes still.

  She looks closer, at the three words that change everything.

  Patient: Sabrina Hobbs.

  28

  Present day

  The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a needle sticking out of the back of my hand. I took a deep breath, inhaling warm, disinfectant-laced air and moaned as a stinging pain sliced through my neck. The dark-skinned man in the white coat looked up from his clipboard.

  ‘Good morning, Sophie.’ His voice was warm, and he came towards me with a large smile on his face. ‘My name is Dr Chatterjee. I’m an ENT surgeon at the Royal Bournemouth. How are you feeling?’

  I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  ‘Here, drink this.’ He handed me a paper cup, then took out a torch and shone it in my eyes. ‘We’ve put you through your paces since you’ve been here, but you’ve passed with flying colours. Both the nasendoscopy and the neck CT came back clear. There’s no fracture and only minor oedema so we moved you out of the High Dependency Unit.’ He glanced towards the shut door. ‘Now, there’s a police officer waiting outside to take your statement but, please, take as much time as you need.’

  I winced as I swallowed the warm, stale water.

  ‘Swallowing, talking and breathing are going to be a little uncomfortable,’ said Dr Chatterjee. ‘And the redness in your eyes will fade, but it’s perfectly normal after what happened.’

  I turned my head away as fragments of memory ricocheted through my brain.

  The scratch of wool against my neck.

  The sound of my throat closing.

  The Starling.

  Charlie.

  I dropped the cup and water splashed across the white floor. ‘How long have I been here?’

  Dr Chatterjee bent down to pick up the cup. ‘Since yesterday evening.’ He wrapped cool fingers around my wrist to check my pulse.

  When he was done, I hoisted myself further up the pillows. ‘You can send the police officer in.’

  ‘Are you sure you–’

  ‘I want to get this over with.’

  Dr Chatterjee raised his eyebrows a fraction, then disappeared out the door. I heard the sound of a hushed, urgent conversation taking place and closed my eyes. When I opened them a familiar face was hovering, unsmiling, at the end of my bed.

  I stared up at Durand. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What do you think?’ He strode over to my bed, stopping a couple of inches away, as if there were an invisible wall between us. For a moment, I forgot about the pain in my neck.

  Durand tore his gaze away from my face and looked at the window. Raindrops hit the glass like bullets. ‘It’s been coming down like this all night. Flash-floods all across the South. We’ll go over your statement when you’re feeling ready but,’ he turned to face me, his eyes full of fire, ‘what the hell were you thinking?’

  I was about to open my mouth to protest when I caught a flash of humour in Durand’s eye. ‘You’re joking?’

  He gave me a tight smile. ‘Would it help if I told you I wasn’t?’

  I shook my head and a searing heat spread through my neck. ‘Sam, listen,’ I said, trying to breathe through the pain. ‘The doctor didn’t get into the details.’

  Durand unbuttoned his jacket. His pale pink shirt was creased. ‘Are you sure you want to–’

  ‘Please.’

  Durand heard the despair in my voice and took another step towards me. Then he sighed. ‘He would have killed you had it not been for the interruption.’

  ‘The interruption?’

  ‘You left your notebook in the pub. The reporter ran out to give it to you. Saw what was happening. He chased your attacker but didn’t get very far.’

  An image of Jeff’s waxen face came to mind. ‘He’s not well.’

  ‘We owe him a huge debt, though. He rang the emergency service–’

  ‘Wait, my notebook. Where is it?’

  ‘It’s in your bag.’ Durand gave me an incredulous look. ‘That’s what you’re worried about?’

  I ignored him, pulling the corner of my hospital gown over my shoulder. ‘So, my attacker got away?’

  ‘The last twelve hours have been busy,’ Durand said, rocking back and forth on his heels. ‘Bournemouth isn’t my jurisdiction, obviously, but I go way back with the Superintendent. He fast-tracked the forensics on your car.’ I picked at the frayed edge of the sheet, focusing on my breathing. ‘The perpetrator didn’t leave much behind,’ Durand continued. ‘A single hair, in fact. But a single hair is all we need.’

  I raised my gaze and the look on Durand’s face told me everything I needed to know.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. I know this isn’t–’

  ‘Don’t.’ I forced a smile that hurt my teeth. ‘Look on the bright side, if Charlie wants me dead, I must be getting close to the truth.’

  Durand didn’t return my smile. ‘The question is: did Charlie follow you to the pub, or did someone alert him to the fact you were there?’

  I glanced out of the window, trying to piece together those last moments. Jeff, Fred and I were the only ones in the pub. I remember a group of kids hanging around outside as I arrived. Then it hit me: Dolly Summerville. I’d asked her about the Old Goat pub.

  My eyes flicked to the ceiling. I didn’t want to give anything away until I’d spoken to Rowley.

  ‘So, what’s the plan, Sam?’ I said, attempting to lighten my voice.

  Durand poured a cup of water, then handed it to me. ‘The area is on lockdown. Charlie won’t get far.’

  I sank back into the pillow, wishing I couldn’t hear the doubt in his voice. ‘Do people know? About the attack, I mean. Is it out there?’

  ‘We tried to keep a lid on it but news travels fast. Especially when a local reporter sees an opportunity to get his name in lights.’

  I smiled, in spite of myself. ‘Good for Jeff.’

  ‘But not good for us. We look incompetent for letting Charlie slip through the net again. There’s call for Golden to resign his post.’

  ‘Wow, things must be bad.’ A huge gust of wind struck the window and the casings rattled.

  ‘There’s something else.’ Durand turned to face me, his grey eyes flat. ‘Emily is missing.’

 
I sat up so quickly the pillow fell off my bed. Durand bent down to pick it up and, without thinking, leaned in close and slid it behind my back. The gesture was so intimate, it took us both by surprise. Durand sprang backwards and I pretended not to notice the colour in his cheeks.

  I pushed my hair behind my ear, trying to order my thoughts. ‘How long has she been gone?’

  ‘Since the press conference. She told a friend she was going for a run to clear her head and never came home. A blue hatchback was seen speeding away from the area around that time. We’re still trying to trace it.’

  I scooted up the pillow, frowning. ‘We know Charlie was definitely in Bournemouth by the evening because he attacked me.’ I counted the hours out on my fingers. ‘Christ, the timing’s tight. I mean, not impossible, but–’

  Durand shot me a look, then moved away from the bed and perched on the edge of the table, nudging the pile of newspapers onto the floor.

  ‘What is it, Sam?’ I said, feeling the sharp edge of dread spike through me. Durand wasn’t normally fidgety, and I could see the strain in his shoulders from my bed.

  He bent down to pick the newspapers up. ‘Between you and me, I still don’t think Emily adds up.’

  Something about his tone made me go cold.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ I asked, flatly.

  Durand crossed his arms and gave me a long look. ‘When the team went to search Emily’s apartment things were missing. Clothes, her wallet, her phone. Her fertility medication. Almost as if–’

  ‘She planned to disappear.’ I sat up straighter.

  Suddenly my phone rang and I glanced at the screen. ‘It’s the office. I should really take this.’

  Durand stood up and rebuttoned his jacket. His voice sounded stilted. ‘I’ve got to follow up on some things. Your car is still with forensics. Not that you should be driving anyway. I’m heading back to London in a couple of hours.’ He cleared his throat, his eyes on a spot above my head. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘Thanks, Sam. I’d like that.’

  Durand nodded once, then strode out.

  I picked up the phone.

  ‘Sophie, it’s Philip Rowley. I’m here with the news team, and Austin and Helena Schriver from HR.’ There was a pause. ‘Let me assure you we’re taking this very seriously. An attack on a Herald employee is an attack on all of us.’ I raised my eyebrows, picturing Rowley and Lansdowne trying to contain themselves in front of HR.

  ‘Soph? It’s Kate. How are you, love?’

  ‘I’ve been better,’ I said, watching the rain slide down the glass.

  Kate sighed. ‘The Met gave us a heads-up on the forensics from your car. We know it was Charlie. Did he say anything to you?’

  I closed my eyes and put a hand to my neck. ‘It happened so fast. One minute I was starting the engine, the next . . . I saw him, in the mirror. Only for a second.’ The memory made me reach for my water cup.

  ‘Do you know Emily’s been kidnapped?’ asked Kate, jumping into the silence.

  ‘Guys,’ I dragged my nail along the polystyrene surface, ‘there’s a possibility there’s more to Emily’s disappearance than meets the eye.’

  I filled them in on Durand’s suspicions about Emily.

  ‘Do you think she’s just had enough of the limelight and is lying low, or is this something else?’ asked Rowley.

  ‘Who knows? But at the press conference she was a woman on the edge.’ I pictured Emily’s ferocious expression, without Sabrina, we can start again. There was deluded, and there was plain unhinged.

  Kate whistled. ‘But her face is everywhere. Where the hell would she go?’

  I flicked the corner of my blanket and sighed. ‘I know Emily. She wouldn’t run unless she had an iron-clad plan in place.’

  ‘Which begs the question: does she have help?’ said Rowley, ‘And, if so, from whom?’

  ‘Charlie?’ I recognised Mack’s voice. ‘Come on, it’s possible they’re in this together, right?’

  The room went quiet.

  ‘In the meantime, it’s blowing up out there,’ said Kate. ‘The media is blaming DCI Golden for putting Emily in the line of fire at the press conference. I doubt he’ll be in the job much longer.’

  Will Durand be reinstated? I considered the fact he was down in Bournemouth. Was he checking on me because he cared, or was I a route back to his old job? I shook the feeling away just as Lansdowne piped up.

  ‘Kent, Austin here. Glad you’re OK.’ His voice was stilted and wooden. ‘Can you give us your movements leading up to the attack? We need to file a report.’

  I blinked, trying to clear the fog from my brain. ‘Initially I went down to speak to Charlie’s stepfather, Gordon. But then I followed a lead.’ I filled them in about Christ Clan, pausing every now and again to sip water and catch my breath. ‘Christ Clan sucked Charlie in and spat him out. He wasn’t just a member. He was part of the inner circle. The source I interviewed identified Charlie as a kid they used to call the Starling. Bore the brunt of Marlon’s cruelty.’

  I stared at the Christ Clan leaflet I’d pulled out of my bag.

  ‘When Vanessa’s drink problem turned Charlie’s home toxic, he had nowhere else to go. The reporter I met compared Christ Clan to The Hunger Games. Sadistic mind games. Systematic violence. Pitting the boys against each other. Brainwashed the kids in his group. Told them they had to purify their souls with water, fire and blood.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Rowley in his trademark nasal voice.

  I told them what Fred revealed about the rituals: the bathing, the fires, the animal sacrifices. All the talking was taking its toll on my throat and I gulped down more water.

  Lansdowne mumbled something, then he spoke up. ‘Kent, I still don’t see what this fucked-up cult,’ he broke off to apologise to Helena for his language, ‘has to do with Sabrina Hobbs.’

  I sighed. ‘One of the casualties of Christ Clan was a girl called Samantha Hartley. She and Charlie were in a relationship, until she cheated on him. She ended up face-down in a river. Marlon claimed it was an overdose but there were rumours she was drowned. And she had two triangles carved into her wrist. A sign of the Golden Flock. Sabrina, I think, had the same markings on her wrist.’

  ‘Christ, this puts Charlie in context,’ said Kate. ‘All this time we’ve struggled to reconcile our version of Charlie with this cold-hearted killer. But when you factor in his childhood and the Christ Clan . . .’

  ‘And this religious organisation is the one Charlie was researching?’ asked Mack.

  I nodded. ‘I think he was reading up on Hector, the son. There’s another link, too. Charlie’s stepdad, Gordon, told me his mum changed her will right before she died. She left a chunk to Christ Clan.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mack.

  ‘I’m not sure yet but–’ I thumped down my cup as a thought occurred to me. ‘How have I not seen this before? Charlie’s first wife, Lizzie, his mum, his mistress. All the women in Charlie’s life are dead.’

  Eventually Mack spoke. ‘But Vanessa and Lizzie’s deaths were accidental.’

  ‘Were they?’ I closed my eyes, willing the theory to tighten in my head. ‘Marlon was a real piece of work; he blamed women for his shortcomings.’ I told them what Jeff told me about Marlon’s experimental cult in the seventies; when he tried, and failed, to spread his seed. ‘His sadistic attitude towards women would have filtered through to the angry, vulnerable young men he led. What if it was indoctrinated into Charlie at a young age that women were the root of all evil?’

  ‘You think Charlie is punishing the women in his life,’ said Kate.

  I leaned away from the pillow, yanking my tube with me. ‘I think my source is wrong about Emily being involved. Think about it: Charlie’s mum ruined his life. Samantha cheated on him, so did Lizzie. Sabrina aborted his child. Emily . . . well, we know things weren’t good between them.’

  ‘And you?’ Kate’s voice was quiet.

  ‘Sophie got too cl
ose to the truth,’ said Rowley.

  A sharp, taut silence filled the room.

  I pulled my hair into a ponytail, thinking out loud. ‘Sacrifice. Purifying your soul. Fire, water, blood. Think about it: how did these women all die?’

  ‘Samantha Hartley drowned,’ said Kate, and I could picture her checking them off against her fingers. ‘Lizzie drowned. So did Sabrina. But that doesn’t fit because Vanessa fell down the stairs drunk and–’

  ‘Vanessa was killed by a fire,’ I said, quietly. ‘All their deaths were caused by water or fire.’

  There was a brief pause, then everyone started talking at once.

  Rowley called order. ‘Sophie, are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

  I gnawed on a fingernail, desperately trying to keep hold of my thread of thought. ‘Listen, I’ve heard over and over about a fire that occurred when Charlie was a kid in 1988. Nearly gutted the house. After that Charlie moved out and wouldn’t speak to his mum for years. What if that fire wasn’t accidental?’

  Kate cleared her throat. ‘You mean, Charlie tried to kill his mum once already?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s possible. And when it didn’t work he decided he was done with her. Disappeared from her life.’

  ‘Why didn’t Charlie try again if he failed to kill his mum in that fire?’ said Mack.

  I sighed. ‘I don’t know. Friends credit his stepfather with being a stable influence. Maybe the desire left him after–’

  Kate cried out. ‘Wait, when did you say the fire was?’

  ‘April 1988.’

  ‘Which is the same month Samantha Hartley died?’

  I nodded, running my eyes down the page of my notebook. ‘And the Christ Clan closed down that year, too.’

  I heard the adrenaline in Kate’s voice. ‘All those things happened within months of each other. Don’t you think –’

  Mack cut Kate off. ‘Earth to Bournemouth. I don’t mean to be the harbinger of doom, but are you really suggesting that Charlie is responsible for four deaths spanning three decades?’

  I leaned back against my pillow. ‘Look, it’s worth considering the possibility that this doesn’t start and finish with Sabrina Hobbs. There are no notes on Samantha Hartley because there was no investigation, but we should take a look at Vanessa and Lizzie’s post-mortems.’ I pictured Dr Sonoma. ‘I have a source. Let me see what I can do.’