The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  I crouched down and ran my torch along the wall beside the mattress. Small triangles, the size of ten-pence coins, were scratched into the stone. There were hundreds of them. I ran my fingers along the surface. Each triangle was filled in with dark paint. I leaned in closer. Was it paint? Or was it . . . I stumbled backwards and collided with someone.

  ‘What have you found?’ Gordon was holding onto the wall, eyes invisible behind his glasses. He’d done up the buttons on his cardigan wrongly.

  I blasted out a breath. ‘Christ, you scared me.’ I pointed my torch towards the shapes on the wall. ‘I think it’s blood.’

  As I spoke, my torch beam landed on a brick that was sticking out further than the rest. I gave the brick a tug and it came out. I flashed my torch inside.

  ‘Shit.’ The torch slid out of my hand and landed on the floor with a thud.

  ‘What is it?’ Gordon’s voice was weak.

  I picked it up with a shaky hand and aimed it at the hole. It was a perfectly preserved skeleton of a bird.

  ‘Any idea what type of bird that is?’ I said, in a shaky voice.

  Gordon was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘The long yellow beak. I’d say it’s a blackbird or a starling.’ I stared at Gordon, the hairs on my neck standing tall.

  I reached forwards and prised out the brick next to it. More skeletons. Spindly legs, claws, beaks. ‘How did they get in the wall?’

  Gordon made a strange gurgling noise. He backed away, and I had to grab him to stop him collapsing. I half-dragged Gordon up the cellar steps and the feel of his spine through his cardigan made me think of the pile of twig-like bones in the cellar. I took a deep breath and helped Gordon over to the chair.

  ‘I’d like to go home now, please.’ Gordon’s voice quivered and he slid his glasses up his nose revealing huge eyes.

  I didn’t blame him. I’d never wanted to leave somewhere so badly in my life. I helped Gordon pack away his radio and picked up my bag. As Gordon shuffled out of the kitchen, I shoved the cellar door closed, and that’s when I saw it. A small hole right beside the handle. Large enough to peep through, small enough to remain unseen. You can’t see me, but I can see you. This is where Charlie had stood, spying on his mum.

  I locked the front door and went to join Gordon on the grass.

  ‘What just happened in there?’ Gordon’s eyes were cartoon-large behind his thick glasses.

  I led him towards his battered blue Golf. ‘Are you going to be OK, Gordon?’

  He stopped by the car, clutching his bag to his chest, taking short, sharp breaths. ‘Ness was in so much pain. She tried to drink through it and she turned her son into a monster right in front of me. I never realised.’ Tears spilled down his cheeks. ‘What kind of stepfather am I?’

  I pulled Gordon into a fierce hug. ‘You were the only stable influence in Charlie’s life. He mentioned you often. Why else do you think I badgered you so much when everything kicked off? You’re the person I thought he’d turn to. I’m just surprised he hasn’t.’

  Gordon stiffened in my arms. My breathing tightened. ‘Have you seen him?’ I said, pulling back and staring at him.

  ‘I wasn’t lying yesterday. He hasn’t come to my house. But I did see him once.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I came here Tuesday night to check on the place. Charlie was standing in the garden. I called out to him, but he ran.’

  My mind was whirling. ‘He was here Tuesday?’

  The day after Sabrina’s body was discovered.

  Gordon faced me, his eyes red, his lip trembling. ‘I’ve been leaving food out for him. He must be starving.’

  I felt a prickle run through me and I glanced towards the wall of bushes swaying in the wind.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Gordon.’

  I opened the car door and helped him in. Then I raced round to the passenger side.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK to drive?’ I said, slamming the door.

  Gordon nodded and started the engine. As he pulled away from The Ridings, I looked back over my shoulder wishing I could unsee the image burned on my vision forever.

  Tiny, buried bones.

  30

  Durand opened the passenger door of his black Toyota and I sank gratefully into the car. The smell of coffee clung to the upholstery and, as I slung my bag on the back seat, I spotted a mountain of empty paper cups in the footwell.

  I jabbed a thumb towards them. ‘That’s one hell of a caffeine habit you have there.’

  Durand switched on the engine, shrugging slightly. ‘Everyone needs a vice.’

  He glanced in his mirror, then eased the car out of the Royal Bournemouth’s car park. His auburn hair was brushed back off his face and the light softened his features. I wanted to ask why he was really here, visiting me in hospital, giving me lifts. Business or pleasure, sir? The weirdness of the last twenty-four hours hit me and I giggled.

  Durand glanced at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Something funny?’

  I shook my head, and lay back against the seat. The leaden sky was still threatening rain; the atmosphere was oppressive, dank.

  ‘When did you last eat?’ said Durand, braking as we approached a roundabout.

  ‘This morning. Unidentified brown sludge, courtesy of the hospital chef.’ I ran my tongue over my teeth, grimacing as I realised I hadn’t brushed them.

  Durand leaned across me, then opened the glove box and threw me a KitKat. ‘Lunch of champions.’

  I wasn’t hungry but I took a bite anyway, happy to replace the staleness in my mouth with a bunch of E-numbers.

  Durand put his foot down and we joined the main road. A few drops of rain hit the windscreen, then stopped. ‘How’s your neck?’

  I put a hand to the tender spot on either side. ‘Sore. Is there any word on Emily?’

  Durand’s hands tightened on the steering wheel but he didn’t respond. I’ll take that as a no. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking about your Emily theory,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure she has it in her to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, not given how much attention she’s received. She would have had to lie to all of us for such a long time.’ I waited for Durand to speak and, when he didn’t, I finished the last of the KitKat and scrunched the paper into a ball.

  Durand’s phone rang, and he reached out to hit ‘answer’, then obviously thought better of talking on speakerphone in front of me and shoved a Bluetooth bud into his ear instead.

  I let my gaze wander to the green fields flashing past, tired of the constant push and pull. It was hard enough navigating the professional waters between us, but the personal stuff was starting to mess with my compass. Was I imagining a connection that wasn’t there? I’d learned the hard way that crossing the line with a work contact brings nothing but drama. An image of Mack dropped into my head.

  Sam’s different, and you know it.

  I yanked my phone out of my bag, swiping the stupid thought from my head. I needed to focus. I scrolled through my inbox, replying to urgent emails and shelving the rest. The reporter, Jeff Johnson, wanted a quote from me to go in the piece he was writing about rescuing Charlie Swift’s latest victim. I replied to Jeff that he was my hero, and to give me an hour to come up with something good. I closed my eyes, feeling jittery. I couldn’t shake the memory of Vanessa’s house: the filthy mattress, the blood on the wall, the dead birds. I shuddered. All that time, Charlie had been secretly living in the house, out of sight and . . . I frowned as the seed of an idea took root in my head.

  Durand hung up and tossed his phone onto the cup holder. Then he turned on the radio. A Status Quo track was playing.

  ‘Nice tunes, Granddad.’

  ‘Don’t diss the Quo,’ he said, tapping the steering wheel in time to the music. I rolled my eyes at him, just as the sun emerged from behind a cloud. It flooded the car with light and I noted the lines around Durand’s eyes, the veil of stubble along his jaw. He’d lost weight, a lot of weight.

  I drummed my fi
ngers on the armrest. ‘Who was that on the phone?’

  ‘Where am I dropping you?’ he said, ignoring my question.

  Two can play at that game.

  ‘The Herald, please.’ Durand didn’t need to know where I was planning to go from there.

  I felt his glance. ‘Shouldn’t you have an afternoon off?’

  ‘There’s no rest for the wicked.’ My tone was light, but I could tell by Durand’s silence that he didn’t approve.

  ‘Maybe it’s time to rethink your priorities.’

  ‘I’m happy with my priorities, actually,’ I said, bristling at his tone.

  Durand leaned forward to turn off the radio. ‘Shouldn’t your priority be staying alive?’

  ‘Sam . . .’ I fired off a warning shot, irritated by Durand’s ability to go from sensitive to condescending in the blink of an eye.

  ‘Listen to me, Sophie,’ Durand’s voice was studied, calm but I could see the tightness in his jaw. ‘I care about you and I’m going to regret it if I don’t say something. You never used to be so reckless. I’ve lost count of the number of times in the last few months I’ve had to–’

  ‘What?’ I said, breathing through the anger. ‘Worry about me? No one asked you to.’

  ‘You’re no use to Tommy if you’re dead,’ he said quietly.

  I wrenched my eyes away from Durand and forced them to my hands. I was holding my phone so tightly, my knuckles had turned white. ‘You are such a hypocrite.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘So, my personal life is open to discussion but yours is off limits?’ I bit down on my anger, but it was too late. The fury tasted sharp on my tongue. ‘Clearly something is going on in your life at the moment, but I wouldn’t know because you don’t budge an inch. Well, you can’t have it both ways. You don’t get to comment on my baggage, just like I don’t get to comment on yours. Because it’s none of my business. And you’ve made fucking sure it stays that way.’

  Outside the sky was darkening and the clouds looked as if they were going to break any moment. Up ahead a sea of red taillights greeted us. I swore under my breath at the prospect of being trapped in the car with Durand, when he finally spoke.

  ‘A long time ago I made a mistake. My wife, Jen, and I were married for four years when it happened. A slip-up. One night only. I never saw the woman again.’ Durand cleared his throat and focused on the road in front. ‘Turns out I’m not a very good cheat. The choice I made sat with me until I couldn’t bear it anymore. I confessed to Jen, who was devastated. But we found a way through. I worked harder at my marriage than I did at anything.’ He broke off and stared out the window. ‘Then, last October, the woman – the mistake – turned up at my office.’

  Other than the steady tick of the engine, the car was completely silent.

  ‘She said I had a daughter. Have a daughter.’ Durand paused and took a breath. ‘She never told me. Would never have told me, I don’t think, if the little girl wasn’t so ill.’

  Durand raked a hand through his hair, then pulled on the steering wheel and turned sharply into the outside lane.

  ‘My daughter has cancer. Ovarian. She’s only six. Anyway, her mother wasn’t happy with the care she was getting. She tracked me down to ask for help. It was a bolt out of the blue, obviously. I needed time, but that wasn’t an option. She agreed to a paternity test and, when it came back positive, I transferred the funds. I didn’t mention anything to Jen because I wanted to pick the right time. But she saw the bank transaction, and it all came out. While she had come to terms with my betrayal, she couldn’t accept the permanent reminder of it. She – we – have struggled to have our own children . . .’

  Durand’s words trailed into nothing and a heavy silence stretched through the car.

  Eventually I cleared my throat. ‘What’s her name? Your daughter.’

  ‘Elodie.’

  ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘Twice. She’s a redhead, too.’ I heard the smile in Durand’s voice. ‘It was her birthday last week. I visited her in hospital. Took her a doll. She told me she’s too old for dolls. Turns out I have a lot to learn about being a dad.’ His voice caught on the last word and, before I could stop myself, I reached out and squeezed his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry about Jen. About your marriage. But how lovely that you have a daughter. And a chance to help her.’

  Durand looked at me uncertainly. ‘You think?’

  I gripped his arm harder. ‘Sam, you’re the most decent man I know. Elodie is lucky to have you in her life. Taste in music aside, obviously.’

  Durand’s laugh echoed around the car. The smile lingered on his lips for a second, then he seemed to remember himself. ‘I’ve got so much time to make up. I worry Elodie thinks I don’t care.’

  ‘She’ll understand.’ My hand was still on Durand’s arm; I pulled it away. ‘Maybe not right now, but give it time. Just because you haven’t been in her life until now, doesn’t mean you can’t make up for lost time. My father has been around since the day I was born and he’s never given a shit about the whole parent thing. It’s what you do now that counts.’

  Durand glanced at me. ‘Did you know your father has reached out to DCI Golden following your attack?’

  I froze. ‘He what?’

  ‘He wants to know what measures Golden is taking to keep you safe. He’s made the same call to your editor at the Herald.’

  I shook my head in disbelief, feeling a complex mix of emotions. My father’s instinct was to control, to pull strings, to influence. But he lacked the one thing I needed from him: love. It bothered me that after all this time he could still get under my skin. ‘To the outside world, my father almost passes for human,’ I said, under my breath.

  Durand arched an eyebrow. ‘You think he doesn’t care?’

  I heard the judgement and sharpened my voice. ‘I think it’s telling that my father spared the time to call the police and my boss, yet didn’t get around to calling me. Hell, I’d have settled for a text. Hi, daughter, heard you almost died. Thinking of you.’

  ‘I’m sure it comes from a good place.’

  ‘Can we talk about something else?’ I said, my eyes on the road. Ahead, the line of traffic started to move and Durand shifted the car into gear.

  ‘Once Elodie’s finished her next round of treatment, I’ve promised her a trip to EuroDisney.’

  I smiled, in spite of myself. ‘Will you wear the Mickey Mouse ears?’

  ‘She says she wants me to dress up as Olaf from Frozen. I don’t know what either of those things are.’

  He looked so forlorn, I laughed. ‘I will educate you in all matters of Disney, DCI Sam Durand.’ Durand indicated right and slid into the outside lane. I waited a beat. ‘What about Elodie’s mum?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Any chance of that relationship going anywhere?’ I kept my voice light, eyes on the road.

  ‘She’s not really my type.’

  ‘What is your type?’

  Durand blinked. ‘Stubborn.’

  I felt the air grow heavy and cleared my throat, scouring my mind for a distraction. ‘Sam, earlier. When I mentioned Emily, you shut me out. Has something happened?’

  Durand tapped his thumb on the steering wheel, as if deliberating something, then he nodded towards his phone. ‘Click on Videos and check out the latest one.’

  I picked up the phone, my pulse quickening. When I pressed ‘play’, the screen went dark, then lit up to show a marble interior, with a waterfall in the corner.

  ‘Wait, I recognise this . . . it’s Hamilton Law?’

  Durand nodded. ‘The first few frames were caught by their security camera. The rest were picked up on the northern corner of Manchester Square.’

  I watched as a red-haired woman in a cream mac crossed the lobby and pushed through the revolving doors. The footage cut to outside the building, where she hurried, head bowed low towards Hinde Street.

  ‘When was this?�
�� I said, watching Sabrina disappear from view.

  ‘Two days before her murder.’

  I waited, but nothing happened. I was just about to say something when I spotted movement. A blonde woman appeared from behind a parked car and darted after Sabrina.

  I squinted at the screen, at her black exercise gear, her bright orange trainers.

  Emily.

  Durand checked his rear-view mirror and pulled out to overtake a coach. ‘When Emily went missing, Waters and I went back to the drawing board and took another swing at all the evidence.’

  ‘So, all this time Emily has known about Sabrina?’

  ‘Of course, this doesn’t mean anything on its own,’ said Durand. ‘Just because she lied about Sabrina doesn’t mean she’s guilty. But it raises more questions about her reliability.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Christ. What does Golden think abou—’

  Durand’s phone rang. He jammed in his earphone and grabbed it out of my hand.

  I glanced out the window, trying to absorb what I’d just heard. If Emily was lying about Sabrina, what else was she lying about? With a start, I remembered Sinead’s story about the girl at school who threatened to blow Emily’s cover, her carefully constructed façade. Emily had pulled no punches when she got her revenge.

  ‘Are the SOCOs there yet?’ The strain in Durand’s voice made me look up. He thumped his police emergency light on the dashboard. ‘Tell Golden I’m on my way.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said as Durand put his foot down and the car surged forward.

  ‘We’re making a detour.’

  I could tell by the tension in his jaw that he’d crossed back into professional mode. I wouldn’t get anything else out of him. I grabbed hold of the armrest as we weaved between cars, praying Durand was as good a driver as he was a detective.

  Ten minutes later, Durand turned off the main road and we raced down a series of narrow streets that led to a collection of large grey warehouses. At the far end was a secluded car park, which was lit up with flashing blue lights. Police cars and fire trucks lined the outside. In the centre was the skeleton of a blue car; its tyres melted into nothing. Durand barrelled towards the police van that was parked at an angle behind it.