The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘Shit, sorry.’

  Kate didn’t respond; she was already aiming her torch into the hole. After a few seconds, she sat back on her heels and pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘There’s a tunnel. Not huge, but definitely big enough to crawl through.’

  There was a bang as a blast of wind knocked over a plastic bin at the top of the steps and we both jumped.

  I let out a nervous laugh, then nodded at the tunnel. ‘Where do you think it leads?’

  ‘I don’t know. Could be an old sewer tunnel. Or–’

  A faint tapping noise drifted through the tunnel. Kate stiffened and motioned for me to switch off my torch. I hit the button and we were plunged into darkness. We leaned towards the opening in the wall.

  There it was again; a metallic tap-tap-tap. Then another noise. A low cough.

  Kate stiffened. ‘Weak spot. Let’s call the cops.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘No buts. I’m pulling rank.’ She moved away from the tunnel, and I saw a rectangle of light floating in the air as she unlocked her phone. ‘Hang on, what if there’s another way out at the front of the building? One of us should wait round there?’ She sighed. ‘I’ll go. Can’t get a bloody signal down in this stairwell anyway. Will you be all right?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, hoping Kate couldn’t tell I was lying.

  I heard the sound of Kate’s boots running up the steps and I tried to calm my breathing. I moved closer to the tunnel and strained my ears. The sounds had vanished. I shifted my weight and pressed a hand against the brick wall.

  The brick wall.

  I closed my eyes and all of a sudden I was back in Vanessa’s cellar, surrounded by carvings and blood and tiny skeletons. A sour taste spread across my tongue. And then I saw myself slumped on Charlie’s bed; drugged, vulnerable; could feel his hands on me, hot and probing. I refused to give in to the panic. I needed a distraction. I pulled out my phone and opened Jeff’s email.

  The attachment shows Hector Marlon’s membership database; every person registered at the new Christ Clan.

  Look at entry 43.

  I clicked on the attachment and scanned the list of names. My eyes landed on number 43, and the air went out of my chest.

  Name: Thomas Kent

  Joined: 2013

  Location: Bournemouth Clan Centre

  Known family: Antony & Harriet Kent. Sister, Sophie (The London Herald).

  Notes: drug-addiction, self-harmer, serial fantasist. Suicide risk. Deceased.

  Tommy? Christ Clan? I slid to the ground in disbelief. It was like two worlds colliding. I should have known; I should have felt him there, in the fabric of the place. How had I missed it? Suddenly I realised why the graffiti cross logo felt oddly familiar. I’d seen it before: the blue keyring dangling from the zip of Tommy’s beaten-up backpack the last time he showed up at my house. What was it Damo said that night in the bar? Tommy bounced with different crowds. City, coast, wherever he could disappear to.

  I fell back against the wall.

  The Post-It note with my name on it. This was the reason Charlie had drawn my attention to Christ Clan. He’d discovered the same thing about Tommy. My heart hammered in my chest. I stared down at my phone in disbelief.

  Thomas Kent. Self-harmer. Serial fantasist. Deceased.

  The black letters danced in front of my worn-out eyes. The walls seemed to close on me, shrinking the space, trapping me. Like those tiny birds.

  I stood up and paced round the stairwell, desperately trying to count out my breaths and hold the panic attack off.

  Help me, Soph. Tommy’s voice was loud in my ear, broken and pleading, like it was in the voicemail he left me the day before he died. The phone call I never returned because I was so angry with him. If I’d answered the phone, would he still be alive?

  Help me, Soph. I rocked backwards and forwards, trying to clear my head of Tommy’s voice. Why hadn’t he told me about his condition? Why hadn’t he told me about Christ Clan? Images flew at me: Tommy, trapped behind six-foot gates. Tommy, dirty and desperate. I blinked and the pin-sharp image of two figures plunging a syringe into Tommy’s arm burned in the air. It was supposed to look like an overdose. An accident, or suicide. A homeless junkie. No one would care. As I doubled over, gulping down air, a thought knocked the breath out of my chest. Samantha Hartley. She was injected with a fatal overdose, then tossed in a river. The same thing happened to Tommy. Was it a coincidence, or was this Christ Clan’s method of getting rid of people? Had Tommy unearthed something at Christ Clan? Something that meant he had to be silenced?

  I’m coming for you, Soph.

  Tommy’s voice again, only mean and thin. I heard a laugh. I flinched as Tommy’s face hovered in front of my eyes. It looked so real. Silvery-white hair, eager smile, small nose bridged with freckles. I could smell the peppermint on his skin. I reached out to touch him and the vision shimmered. Then his eyes started to rot in his skull and he held up a knife.

  I’m coming for you, Soph.

  I scrabbled backwards. Was this how it was going to be now? The new knowledge twisting and shaping my memories of Tommy?

  The panic reared up and plunged its teeth deep into my skin. My hands hit the stone floor. My ears filled with the sound of laughter; a vicious laughter that sent me shooting forwards. I was at the mouth of the tunnel, climbing, clawing, dragging myself onwards. My chest was so tight I could hardly breathe. Was Tommy really murdered? Was everyone lying to me? Had Tommy really wanted me dead?

  I could hear the sound of Tommy’s ragged breathing. A thud thud thud. Rustling.

  I froze. Those sounds weren’t in my head.

  Someone else was in the tunnel.

  I breathed in a rancid smell, heard a grunting noise, something scraping against the floor. Then the sound was coming towards me.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I squeezed back round and started to scrabble forwards. I’d crawled in so far, I couldn’t see the tunnel opening anymore. My hands scraped along the sharp floor, kicking up dust. The noise grew louder. He was gaining on me. I clawed faster, the sharp stone floor cutting into my hands. My blood was on fire. I knew I was making a noise but I was desperate to get out before he caught up with me.

  I threw a glance over my shoulder, not knowing how much space there was between us.

  ‘Sophie?’ Kate’s urgent whisper echoed down the tunnel. I groped in the darkness, towards the sound of her voice.

  ‘He’s behind me, Kate!’

  A white light flashed ahead. Kate’s torch. A growl pierced the air over my shoulder. I was twenty feet away from the entrance. Fifteen feet. Ten.

  I reached out to grab hold of the opening, when a hand closed around my ankle. It dragged me backwards and I screamed, hitting the stone hard. I felt the weight of him as he clambered over me. Then the sound of a sickening crack outside.

  I lay still, my heart pounding in my ears. My ankle burned; I could taste the dust at the back of my throat.

  ‘Kate,’ my voice sounded like it was coming from far away. ‘Are you OK?’

  A faint groan. ‘I’m bleeding. My head.’

  I hauled myself forwards and squirmed out of the tunnel. Kate was lying in a heap at the bottom of the steps. I scrabbled towards her, switching on my torch with trembling hands.

  Kate was grey and her teeth were chattering. ‘He hit me. He fucking hit me.’

  In the distance, a siren pierced the air. I pointed the light towards Kate and saw a trail of blood running down her face. I glanced back at the opening in the wall and licked my dry lips. ‘Listen, do you think you can make it to the end of the alleyway by yourself?’

  Blood was dripping onto Kate’s jacket and she raised a hand to assess the damage. ‘Why?’

  I clenched my jaw and looked her in the eye. ‘Don’t you want to know where that tunnel leads? After everything that bastard’s done to us, I’m damned if we’re not getting the story.’

  Kate held my gaze, then nodded once. ‘We’d better
get an award for this.’

  She squeezed my arm, then crawled towards the steps. I clamped my torch between my teeth and ducked back inside the tunnel. The rancid smell I noticed before was stronger now. I crawled forwards, ignoring the cuts in my hands. Just after the point where I’d turned round, the tunnel veered sharply to the left. I followed it round and slammed to a halt, staring in amazement.

  The tunnel had opened out into a space that was about six feet high and ten feet long. Along one wall was a grimy sleeping bag and a pile of clothes. I kicked the empty whisky bottles out of my way and edged forwards. In the corner stood a bucket that was filled to the brim with faeces. The stench was like nothing I’d smelt before. An upturned box stood next to it, with wires running along the floor. I shone the torch around the space. The walls were covered with tiny carvings. Triangles, painted a thick dark red. I knew blood when I saw it. I clamped a hand over my mouth, retching violently. With some effort I pulled myself together and grabbed my phone. I snapped pictures; my flash illuminating the space with a cold, white light. I turned to face the final corner, and spotted something on the floor. Plastic cords, crusted with blood. They’d been cut. Next to them were Emily’s orange trainers.

  I stumbled backwards and cried out as I half-fell through a hole in the wall. It was the tunnel, narrowing back into the same size as the one I’d crawled through. I swallowed thickly and forced myself through the gap. I had to know where it led. Seconds later I found myself at a dead end. I ran my hands over the surface of the wall. It’s made of wood.

  An image of Vanessa’s cellar raced through my mind. The fake wall. I swivelled round onto my bottom, and kicked against the wood with both feet. It fell away and a cool, damp breeze hit me in the face. I slithered out of the tunnel and knocked into something. I dropped my torch and fumbled around in the darkness. It was a laundry basket. Next to it was a washing machine. I scrabbled past the shelves filled with tools and rusty paint tins and raced up the rickety wooden staircase. I stumbled towards it and groped for the door handle. One push and I was out.

  I blinked as a soft, yellow light hit my eyes. Then I lurched forwards.

  Into Charlie and Emily’s hallway.

  33

  I woke up, jagged and raw, and fumbled for my phone: 5.01 a.m.

  I lay back, forcing my breathing to slow and my muscles to soften. I’d barely managed four hours sleep. After giving the police a statement and accompanying Kate to hospital, my head finally hit the pillow at one in the morning. Kate had barely spoken to me at the hospital. I knew she was angry. I’d taken an unnecessary risk and she’d paid the price. Nine stitches along her hairline. I couldn’t explain myself even if I’d wanted to. After Emily’s death, and the bombshell about Tommy, my mind had dipped into its darkest hollows.

  In that moment, I didn’t care who came for me.

  I shifted onto my side and saw two blue oblong pills sticking out from under my pillow. Last night I’d craved the artificial peace they’d bring. But, just as I was about to knock them back, I heard Durand’s voice in my head: You’re no use to Tommy if you’re dead. I stuffed the pills under my pillow and lay there, forcing myself to feel everything. And I realised something. Despite his condition, Tommy had never hurt me. He managed to control his urges, and I owed it to him to do the same.

  The watery dawn light lit my bedroom like a dreary painting. I pushed myself up to sitting and stretched my arms over my head. I needed caffeine and a shower. Today was going to take every ounce of strength I had. Rowley had emailed me late last night with a battle plan and I was determined to deliver the goods, not least because I was worried Kate would tell Rowley how reckless I was last night. I didn’t want to give him an excuse to fire me again. Once Emily’s death was made public, we’d be in the throes of a full-scale media storm. Given the Herald’s starring role, Rowley was gunning for blanket coverage. Legal were checking through the Rowntree/Bert Hughes exposé, and in the meantime Rowley wanted to go big on Emily. The fact that she was snatched leaving a police press conference only worsened the deal for the Met and Rowley wanted us to publicly call for Golden’s resignation. He also wanted a spread on Charlie’s life, boxouts on the Christ Clan, an updated timeline of events, and two double-page spreads on Emily: the woman who’d divided a nation. I pictured the scorched car and the silhouette on the front seat. A lump caught in my throat. I was supposed to be Emily’s friend but the last time we saw each other, I’d called her a liar in front of a room full of people. I should never have listened to Durand, should never have put Emily through that.

  Now I’d never get the chance to say sorry.

  I sat cross-legged on my bed and spread out my notes, scouring everything I had: Sabrina’s last known movements; the emails between her and Charlie; the derogatory comments on LegalLens.com, interview notes with Charlie’s friend, Dominic, with Emily’s friend, Sinead, with the reporter Jeff Johnson, and former Christ Clan member, Fred. I reread Charlie’s letters to his mum, Emily’s blog posts, the newspaper cuttings on Christ Clan. Then I started to type.

  An hour later, I sagged against my pillows feeling drained. I glanced at my phone, half-expecting an update from the Met’s press office to say Charlie had been arrested. But there was only an email from Rowley, asking if Emily’s death was official.

  I rubbed the grit out of my eyes, then glanced at the clock, wondering if 7 a.m. was too early to call Durand. Moments later my phone beeped with an email from the general pathologist, Dr David Sonoma. He’d attached Vanessa’s post-mortem and said he’d call when he got to work. I opened the attachment and studied the report, my eyes drifting to the stark diagram. Vanessa’s body was covered in abrasions and scars.

  I took a swig of cold coffee just as my phone rang.

  I picked it up.

  ‘Have you learned nothing from me over the years?’ The fury in Durand’s voice made me flinch.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘How dare you contaminate a crime scene.’

  I blinked. ‘You mean Charlie’s flat. Look, I’m sorry, I needed–’

  ‘To get the fucking story. Yes, I’ve heard that before.’

  I raised my eyebrows; Durand never swore.

  ‘Sam, I–’

  ‘And next you’ll want a favour from me. You don’t get to trample anywhere you please, making my job ten times harder in the process, and then expect me to help you out.’

  I could feel the anger building in my chest. I rubbed my eyes. I knew I should get off the phone as fast as possible. I was exhausted and ill-equipped for a fight. We’d broken new ground yesterday in the car and I didn’t want it to go to waste. As a last-ditch attempt, I tried for conciliatory.

  ‘Sam, you’re right. It was stupid of me.’

  ‘Damn right it was stupid.’

  ‘Fine, I get the fucking message.’

  ‘Not to mention dangerous, and unprofessional and–’

  ‘Unprofessional. Don’t make me laugh.’

  Durand’s voice hardened. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  I shook my head and glared at the ceiling. ‘Thanks to you Emily died thinking no one believed her.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s–’

  ‘Fair? You think I don’t know what’s been going on?’ I clenched the duvet as a tide of adrenaline and exhaustion and stress and fury spilled out of me. ‘You’ve been trying to undermine DCI Golden from the outset. You thought you could handle someone else being in charge, but you can’t. I know exactly why Golden irritates you. Because he’s young and successful and you can’t fucking stand it.’

  ‘Sophie.’

  I ignored the warning in Durand’s voice. ‘The more I think about it, the dodgier that press conference feels. It was about undermining Golden, wasn’t it? You could have gone to him with the evidence but you didn’t.’

  ‘That’s because I genuinely believed Emily was hiding something. It was the most effective way for–’

  ‘Bollocks,’ I gave a shrill laugh. ‘You wer
e show-boating. Using me to go behind Golden’s back. Pretending you gave a shit about me so I’d do your dirty work.’

  ‘I haven’t pretended anything. I do give a shit about you, although God knows why when you’re such a pain in the arse.’

  ‘You know what pisses me off the most?’ I rocked onto my knees and shuffled towards the edge of the bed. ‘You play the straight guy but you’re wors—’

  ‘You’re being childish.’ Durand’s voice could have cut glass. ‘I can’t talk to you in this state. You need to calm dow—’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me to calm down. Thanks to you, Emily is dead. Charlie is free, and he’s probably coming for me next. For all I know he’s watching me right–’

  ‘Sophie!’ Durand’s shout stopped me in my tracks. He gave a sharp sigh. ‘I wasn’t going to do this over the phone. I thought you deserved to hear it in person.’

  I punched the pillow next to me. ‘Hear what?’

  ‘Charlie isn’t coming for you.’

  I looked up. ‘You’ve caught him?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  I blinked furiously as my frazzled brain scrabbled to keep up. ‘Sam, I don’t foll—’ As I started to speak, it hit me and the phone went heavy in my hand.

  When Durand spoke, his voice had softened. ‘Dental records confirmed it an hour ago. The body in the car: it’s Charlie.’

  I made a strangled noise, then doubled over, snatching down what little breaths I could from the airless room.

  ‘There was a suicide note. In his flat,’ said Durand.

  I steadied myself against the bedside table as an image of the blackened car flashed across my vision. ‘But that car was . . . Charlie set himself alight?’

  ‘I can’t go into details. Not yet.’

  ‘Sam, please.’ The agony in my voice reverberated down the phone. For a moment, neither of us spoke. I pictured Durand staring down at the ground, chewing his lip.

  ‘All I can say is this: yesterday’s storm meant the fire didn’t burn for as long as it was supposed to.’