The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘Will other people have drawn the link between Charlie and the Christ Clan?’ asked Rowley, and I heard the pinch in his voice at the prospect of the new angle being snatched from under the Herald’s nose.

  I shrugged. ‘Not unless they had access to his internet search history. No one has got to my sources, yet. Not even the police.’

  A phone rang in the background.

  Rowley sniffed. ‘Let’s talk rundown. Sophie, see if you can get your hands on Vanessa and Lizzie’s post-mortems. And do you feel up to writing a first-person piece on your attack?’

  I swallowed thickly. ‘Sure.’

  ‘I still think we need to go big on Emily’s disappearance,’ said Lansdowne. ‘People are invested in her now.’ He paused. ‘Although if what you’re saying is true, Sophie, she’s probably already dead.’

  My hand tightened round my notebook. Please no.

  ‘That was my source at the courthouse on the phone,’ said Kate, sighing. ‘The Rowntree jury have reconvened and are in deliberation.’

  I frowned. ‘I’d completely forgotten about that. Did Rahid get his petrol station source on the record?’

  ‘Fucking right he did.’ Lansdowne broke off again to apologise to Helena. ‘We’re tying up the loose ends now. Rahid’s been trying to get hold of Bert Hughes all morning for a quote. No answer.’

  There was a knock.

  ‘Guys, I have to go,’ I said as Dr Chatterjee reappeared holding his clipboard.

  Rowley cleared his throat. ‘Let’s speak in a couple of hours.’

  Dr Chatterjee curled his stethoscope, frowning. ‘I can hear by the hoarseness in your voice that you’ve ignored my advice to take it easy. You know, it’s not only the physical injuries we have to take into account.’ Dr Chatterjee pressed the stethoscope against my back and the feel of cold metal against my skin helped me to focus.

  ‘How long until I can leave?’

  Dr Chatterjee sighed. ‘Your vitals are good. The nurse will take the cannula out of your hand and then you’re free to go. But, you’re not leaving here alone.’

  I shook my head.

  After Dr Chatterjee left, I opened my laptop and stared at the white screen. Seconds later, I slammed the laptop closed and hurled it to the end of the bed.

  Charlie wants me dead.

  I’d never have believed it possible until I saw his eyes in the rear-view mirror. I knew hate when I saw it.

  I rubbed my eyes, feeling wrung out. Outside the rain was easing. The sooty black clouds gave way to steady grey, casting a pale light over my room. My breathing gradually slowed, but I felt hollow and raw. I sighed and opened my bag, remembering the phone number for Les Miller, the father of the boy who was put in hospital by Christ Clan. I heard Jeff’s strained voice: Blow it apart. For those kids.

  My eyes landed on the letters I’d found at Vanessa’s house. I untied the red and white string, grateful for the distraction.

  The letters were written on white paper that had yellowed over the years. Each contained a couple of lines of childish scrawl. I unfolded the top letter and settled back against the pillow.

  Mum,

  Are you happy at the way life has turned out for you? Is this what you wanted? I won’t forgive you. Ever. I won’t forgive you.

  I read the next.

  Mum,

  Let me come home. Please, just let me come home. I want to be a normal family. Why can’t you see that?

  And the next.

  Mum,

  I’ve done bad things because of you. I will do more bad things if you don’t let me come home. No one you love will be safe. This is your fault. It’s all your fault.

  Ten minutes later, I’d read the lot. The letters alternated between despair, love and hate; Charlie’s anger embedded in every pen line. I lay back on the pillow, listening to the sound of my pulse in my ears. All this time, the people who knew Charlie thought he’d broken off all contact with Vanessa. Here was proof they were wrong.

  I turned the letters over in my hand, felt the weight of them, pictured Charlie, hunched over the desk, stabbing at each page with his pen, thrusting them into the postbox, wondering if this time his mum would respond. Is this why Charlie was so bitter towards his mum? Because she rejected him? I reread the final letter.

  Mum,

  You’ll never be alone again. I’m watching you. I see everything. You can’t see me, but I see you. Always.

  I stared out the window as an idea began to form in my mind.

  Then I picked up my phone.

  29

  I closed the taxi door and stared through the trees at Vanessa’s home, The Ridings. The cottage’s white façade was scorched black, and all that was left of the thatched roof was a line of timber frames that poked out like a ribcage. The fire had mauled the right-hand side of the house so badly that I could see through the exterior to an upstairs bedroom. On the front lawn, a rusted sculpture of a boy on a swing lay on its side.

  There was no sign of Gordon.

  I sighed, then pulled out the scribbled number Jeff Johnson gave me in the pub. I sat down on a grimy brick wall underneath a large Horse Chestnut tree and dialled Mark Miller’s dad, Les.

  The phone rang and rang and I was about to hang up when a gruff voice answered.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Is that Mr Les Miller?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name is Sophie Kent. I’m calling from the London Herald newspaper. Do you have a moment to talk?’ Silence. I folded the piece of paper in half and put it in my pocket. ‘Mr Miller?’

  The flick of a cigarette lighter, an inhale. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked, expelling smoke.

  ‘Your son, Mark.’

  ‘What about him?’

  I kicked the ground with my toe. ‘I’m trying to track him down.’

  Another inhale. ‘Why?’

  I licked my lips. As a reporter, you get a sense, a feeling. You learn to hear the different notes in a person’s voice. An inflection that could lead to a quote, a piece of information. Or a flatness that means you’re going to get nothing. Les’s voice fell somewhere in between. Hostile but curious. I had one shot at this.

  ‘Les, I’ve come across some information recently. In connection with a story I’m working on. Your son’s name has come up and I wondered if you’d mind confirming a few details for me.’

  ‘This going in the newspaper?’

  ‘I can keep your name out of it, if you’d rather.’

  I heard him suck on his cigarette. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Were you aware that Mark was a member of a religious organisation in the eighties?’

  ‘So that’s what this is about.’ Les gave a thin laugh. ‘Yes, I know all about Christ Clan.’ A pause. ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Sophie.’

  ‘How old are you, Sophie?’

  I bit down on my frustration, desperate to keep him sweet. ‘Les, can we stick to the question?’

  He gave a cruel laugh. ‘I like a woman in charge.’

  I tapped my thumb against the notebook, fearing Les was going to turn out to be what Lansdowne would call a Tart. ‘Watch out for Tarts, Kent,’ he once told me between bites of a banana. ‘Tart are time-wasters; they’ll lift their skirts up all the way, then leave you with nothing but a hard-on and a hole in your story.’

  The sound of another cigarette being lit. ‘Me and the kid, we never got along. The stress that boy caused us. I wanted to send him back–’

  I frowned. ‘What do you mean “send him back”?’

  ‘But he got involved with that religious nuthouse and then he became ten times worse. We never knew where he was. And when he did turn up, he was covered in bruises. He was violent, always in fights. Angry.’ I closed my eyes, picturing a confused, angry child lashing out at those around him in the only way he knew how. Jeff Johnson’s words drifted into my head: Miller used to get knocked about badly at home. I clenched my jaw. Talking to morally dubious people was part of the job.


  ‘And he killed my marriage,’ said Les.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pam, she left me. It was his fault, I’m sure of it. And after everything she did for that boy.’ His voice dripped with hatred.

  ‘Were you aware of the rumours about Christ Clan? The abuse that went on there?’

  There was a pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you weren’t worried about Mark?’

  Les sneered. ‘It’s because of him I lost my wife. As far as I was concerned, Mark was their problem.’

  ‘Did you know Mark was hospitalised with severe injuries? In the late eighties?’

  Les sniffed loudly. ‘Don’t know, don’t care.’

  I raised my eyebrows, struggling to comprehend the hostility. ‘Did Mark ever mention a boy called Charlie Swift? Someone he knew at Christ Clan?’

  Les sucked on his cigarette. ‘Why do I know that name?’

  Somewhere a dog barked and I looked round. ‘He’s the guy in the news. He’s on the run. Killed his mistress.’ The words still sounded ludicrous when I said them out loud.

  Les laughed, a horrible high-pitched shriek. ‘Sounds like the sort of person Mark would know.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  There was a long pause. Long enough that I wondered if the phone had cut out.

  When Les spoke, his voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘About ten years ago. I came home from the betting shop and Mark was sitting at the kitchen table. Said he’d been doing some soul-searching and had come to realise I was one of the reasons he was so unhappy. I told him to get out but he–’

  I heard an odd noise. I pressed the phone to my ear and realised with a start that Les was crying.

  ‘Mark said he wanted his face to be the last face I ever saw.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I never saw it coming. The kettle, by his feet. He threw boiling water in my eyes.’

  ‘You mean,’ I chewed my lip as it dawned on me. ‘You’re blind?’

  I heard footsteps and looked up to see Gordon shuffling towards me.

  Les took a rasping breath. ‘He got his wish. The last face I ever saw was my son. See, I told you he was a nasty little fucker.’

  ‘Are you still in contact with Mark?’ I asked, giving Gordon a wave.

  ‘What do you think?’

  The phone went dead and I let out a breath.

  Gordon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What happened to your eyes? They’re very red.’

  ‘Long story.’ I blinked self-consciously, knowing how awful I looked.

  Gordon was wearing the same grey cardigan as yesterday, although I noticed a new stain smeared along the chest. When he leaned forward to hug me, he smelt of cooking fat.

  ‘I didn’t realise Vanessa’s house was so isolated,’ I said.

  Gordon looked over my shoulder at the two-mile lane that led back to civilisation. ‘Ness liked it that way.’

  We stepped over the debris of last night’s storm and I followed Gordon past tangled flower beds, my feet sinking in the waterlogged grass.

  Gordon stopped outside the charred front door and jangled a set of keys. I waited for him to unlock it but he didn’t.

  Eventually I stepped forwards. ‘Would you like me to go first?’

  Gordon shrugged. The key was stiff in the lock and it took both hands to open it. The door creaked loudly and I heard the scrabble of a creature darting across the hallway. I walked inside and was hit by a sooty stench that was ingrained in the walls.

  Gordon limped straight over to a painting on the left-hand wall. ‘I painted that for Ness.’

  I gazed at an oil painting of a small dog. ‘Wow, you’re talented.’

  ‘Couldn’t do it anymore.’ He held his hands out and I could see they were shaking. ‘I’d like to have had a dog. Maybe one day.’

  I left Gordon to his thoughts and scanned the narrow hallway. I flicked a switch and wasn’t surprised to find the electricity had been turned off. Pausing by the foot of the stairs, I stared down at the patch where Vanessa’s body had lain, the skin on my neck puckering.

  The acrid stench deepened in the kitchen and I covered my nose with my sleeve. The kitchen and the living area had borne the brunt of the fire. The low ceiling was studded with blackened beams, and ragged remains of a curtain hung limply against the grimy window. I ran my finger along the countertop surface, leaving a trail in the white ash. The fridge door was flecked with old bits of sellotape. A shopping list was tacked to the front, its edges curled and yellowing, the writing faded to nothing. I strolled over to the sink and looked out at the patch of grass outside. An empty washing line swung in the breeze. You can’t see me, but I can see you.

  I heard a noise behind me. Gordon hobbled across the kitchen and slumped down into a saggy red armchair.

  He gazed around listlessly. ‘Put the kettle on, dear.’

  ‘The kettle isn’t working, Gordon.’

  Gordon fiddled with his cuff and his eyes filled with tears. I strode across the kitchen and gave him a hug.

  ‘I taught Charlie to kick a ball out there,’ he said, staring over my shoulder at the garden. ‘Never liked to wear shoes. Used to trail mud through the kitchen. Feral he was.’ Gordon tried to hide his face from me but I could see his cheeks were wet. ‘Charlie was a good boy. I tried my best. I tried,’ his words dissolved into sobs, ‘but none of us could help Ness. No one could help her forget.’

  I pulled a wooden chair over to Gordon and sat down. Gordon had said the same thing to me yesterday. ‘What was Vanessa trying to forget?’ I said, gently.

  ‘Ness grew up here, you know. On this farmland. She was born upstairs in the pink bedroom. Her father was a wastrel. She got swept up in a local church group. Ran away with them. Travelled the country in the back of a minivan so the legend goes.’ Gordon stared down at his feet. ‘She was young, vulnerable. Got herself into a spot of bother with a man there.’

  I frowned. ‘What kind of trouble?’

  Gordon tugged at his sleeve, his eyebrows knitting together. ‘She never spoke to me about it, not sober anyway. But, well, you know. She was . . .’

  ‘Raped?’

  Gordon’s eyes snapped towards mine. ‘I think what happened set her up for a lifetime of misery. And there was nothing me, or Charlie, or anyone could do about it.’

  A bird’s high-pitched squawk cut through the air and Gordon flinched.

  I leaned forward in my chair. ‘Listen, that box in your house, the one with all Vanessa’s things. I found letters.’

  Gordon’s gaze was so blank, I wondered if he’d heard me.

  ‘You told me that Charlie cut all ties with his mum after the first fire but he didn’t,’ I said. ‘He wrote her letters, stacks of them. He must have written them while he was living with you. He writes about watching Vanessa, spying on her here. The letters are bleak.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect?’

  ‘Did you know he used to come here?’

  Gordon folded his arms and rocked forwards. His moustache twitched. ‘Far as I knew, he was in his room most of the time. Used to spend hours in there. Locked the door.’

  I nodded, keeping my face neutral. Lock the door, go out the window. Oldest trick in the book. I felt a wave of compassion for Gordon. He’d been woefully unprepared to take on an angry, scared child, but he’d done it anyway.

  I looked around the room. Seeing Charlie’s childhood home was depressing. The bare walls. The stark furniture. The dankness, the despair. No wonder Charlie craved something else. A community. Even if it was somewhere as toxic as Christ Clan.

  My eyes landed on a wooden door in the corner. ‘Where does that lead?’

  Gordon was checking his watch again. ‘It’s 12.13 p.m. Help me up.’ I hauled him out of the chair, and he shuffled over to his bag and pulled out a tiny silver radio. He switched it on and the kitchen filled with the crackling sound.

  I left Gordon surfing the airwaves and crossed the kitchen to the wooden door. I
unlatched it and pulled but it wouldn’t open. It took my full weight to lift the door. As it scraped against the stone floor, a blast of icy, damp air hit me in the face. A rickety wooden staircase sloped away into the darkness. I darted back to my bag and grabbed my torch then picked my way down the steps, stumbling on a loose plank of wood. I hit the cellar floor hard, sending up a cloud of dust. As I sneezed, a jolt of pain ran through my neck.

  The cellar was vast; it must have run the entire length of the house. I inched forwards, brushing cobwebs away from my face. As my eyes adjusted, shapes loomed into view. A water tank. A shelving unit laden with tools. An old lawnmower. A pile of boxes. As I neared the middle, a column of natural light spilled across the floor. I scanned the cellar trying to find the source. Tucked into the far right corner was a small window, brown with dirt.

  I heard a noise behind me.

  ‘Gordon?’ I squinted into the darkness. ‘Are you there?’

  My pulse was loud in my ears. I turned back towards the window and gave it a shove. A piece of the wooden frame came off in my hand but the window didn’t budge. It hadn’t been opened for years. I sighed. What was I expecting? Evidence of a secret entrance that Charlie was using to hide in his mum’s dilapidated cottage? It was too obvious; this was the last place Charlie would come. I threw the piece of wood on the ground and saw two mice scuttle away. I followed them with my torch beam and watched them disappear through a wall I hadn’t noticed before. It was almost hidden from view behind the washing machine.

  The cellar was creeping me out but I gritted my teeth and ploughed forwards. The wall was made of wood. I tapped it. Hollow. I ran my torch along it. In the top right corner was a hole just large enough to fit a hand. I dragged a crate over and climbed up. Then I put my hand through the hole and yanked the wood towards me. It came away in a cloud of dust.

  It was a hole, no bigger than a large cupboard. A dirty mattress lay on the ground. Sweet wrappers littered the floor, juice cartons, an old newspaper. I kicked it with my foot. The date: 14 June 1990. I heard Fred’s voice in my head: He had a talent for stealing into people’s homes. They never even knew he was there. Charlie hadn’t just spied on his mum, he’d been living here without her knowing.