The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  I looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, there’s evidence this wasn’t suicide. That Charlie might have been held captive somewhere.’

  ‘He . . . what?’ I tried to stand, but my legs went from under me. I thought back to the secret room. The restraints, the blood. I lurched to the window and yanked it open, desperate for air. ‘But, the tunnel. If Charlie was already dead, who was that?’

  There was a pause. ‘That’s what we’ve been working through the night to ascertain.’

  As I hung out the window, breathing in the air that sliced through my tender throat, my mind screeched to a halt. ‘What about Emily?’

  A beat. Then Durand’s voice, grim and flat. ‘There’s no sign of her. She’s disappeared into thin air.’

  34

  As I ricocheted out of the lift, the newsroom lights flooded my vision like molten glass.

  Kate folded her arms when she spotted me. ‘Well, if it isn’t our resident masochis—’ She stopped dead as she noticed my expression. ‘Are you OK?’

  I shook my head, numbly. ‘Charlie’s dead.’

  Kate froze. ‘The police got him?’

  I glanced towards Rowley’s office. Through the open door, his bald head bobbed up and down behind piles of paper on his desk. The next thing I knew, I’d careened straight into his office without knocking.

  Rowley opened his mouth to bawl me out, then he saw my face. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Charlie. He’s dead. And, fuck,’ I collapsed on the chair opposite his desk and buried my head in my hands, ‘fuck fuck fuck.’

  Someone squeezed my shoulder and I peeped through my fingers to see Kate kneeling next to me, her dark eyes solemn. Behind her, Mack and Rahid had filed into the room and were filling the chairs, eyeing me warily.

  Rowley peeled off his glasses. ‘Rahid, close the door.’

  ‘Kent, what the fu—’ Mack began, then closed his mouth. I presumed Rowley was signalling him to shut up and I was grateful. My thoughts thrashed around my skull; I couldn’t compute Durand’s words. Charlie was held captive.

  I pulled myself upwards, out of my own head, and stared at the window. ‘The body, in the car last night. It’s Charlie.’

  A collective gasp, then everyone started talking at once.

  Rowley raised a hand, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘Let Sophie finish.’

  With a shuddering breath, I related what Durand had told me. ‘I don’t know any more than that, but there must be something concrete in the post-mortem that’s pointing to the fact that Charl—’ I pressed my lips together as I felt tears burn the back of my eyes.

  Kate’s grip tightened on my shoulder. ‘But if Charlie was dead by the time we went to his apartment, who was that in the tunnel?’

  I shook my head, unable to hold back the tears any longer.

  Rowley leaned forwards, his leather chair creaking loudly, his face ashen. ‘So, let me get this straight. The police think Charlie was murdered? That someone is setting him up? What about Emily? Do they know where she is?’

  Emily.

  I stared at Rowley. ‘I haven’t even updated you all. It didn’t seem relevant when I thought Emily was dead but . . .’ I filled them in on the CCTV footage from Hamilton Law.

  ‘Emily knew about Sabrina this whole time . . .’ Kate’s hand flew to her mouth.

  I nodded, trying desperately to tug at the corners of my flailing thoughts. ‘I thought she was the body in the car, but . . .’

  Rahid rattled his pen between his teeth and I glanced at him. ‘What’s the latest with Bert Hughes? Did you get hold of him?’

  ‘He’s disappeared into the ether,’ said Rahid. ‘Hasn’t shown up to work, not answering his door, and his phone’s switched off.’

  My phone rang and I snatched it out of my pocket, then glanced round the room. ‘I have to take this.’

  I bolted across the newsroom and flung myself onto my chair.

  Then I drew in a long, shaky breath and answered the phone.

  ‘Morning, Sophie,’ said Dr Sonoma.

  ‘David, I – um . . .’ My words came out in a hoarse whisper.

  There was a pause. ‘Are you all right?’

  I closed my eyes. ‘Charlie Swift.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sonoma cleared his throat. ‘Unexpected.’

  I lunged for the bottle of water on my desk and gulped it down. The shock was starting to subside and I had questions. I jabbed my fingernails into my palm, forcing myself to focus. ‘What happened to Charlie?’

  ‘Sophie, you know I’m not at liberty to speculate.’

  I dug my teeth into my lip so hard I tasted blood. ‘David, the past week has been . . .’ I closed my eyes, focused on the metallic taste in my mouth. ‘If there is a chance my friend didn’t kill Sabrina, I need to know.’ My voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Please, I need to know.’

  A long silence. I could sense Sonoma running through options in his head. I stared at my chipped nail varnish, saying a silent prayer that he would trust me enough to put me out of my misery.

  ‘Charlie’s body, Sophie. It was in bad shape. There wasn’t much to go on. But,’ Sonoma sighed heavily, ‘there is evidence that he was restrained when the car was set on fire.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sonoma’s voice took on a detached, clinical quality. ‘When a body is burned, the contraction of the muscles forces them into a pugilistic stance. A boxer’s stance, if you will. But if a body is restrained when it’s set alight, the bindings will prevent this muscle contraction. Well, for as long as the bindings remain intact.’ I picked up my pen to take notes, but my hand was shaking so much I couldn’t write. ‘I was able to test parts of the right-hand side of the body, where the fire didn’t fully catch. There were deep welts in the victim’s wrist along with fragments of plastic. My forensic lab contact tells me the material is consistent with the plastic ties found in the cellar where Charlie was held.’

  I raised my eyes to the ceiling, as tears spilled down my cheeks. ‘Has Charlie been there this whole time?’

  Sonoma softened his voice. ‘As I said, there’s not a whole lot to go on. But, given the abrasions and sores I’ve found on the areas of skin undamaged by the fire, I’d hazard a guess that the victim has been imprisoned for a considerable length of time.’

  I closed my eyes, allowing the tears to drop onto my lap. An image of the putrid cellar burned in my mind. The stench, the blood, the blackness. What did Charlie go through down there, trapped, terrified, with no one to hear him?

  Without thinking, my eyes drifted to Charlie’s desk, as if I half-expected to see the heap of dark curls and everything would be OK. Hey, Soph, want to grab a bite after this is all over?

  The pain was unbearable. I took a breath and my hand went to my neck. ‘David, there’s something I don’t understand. If Charlie has been in the cellar this whole time, how did his hair end up in my car the day I was attacked?’

  Sonoma gave a short, dry cough. ‘As far as I can see there are two options. Secondary transfer is one. One of Charlie’s hairs ended up on the killer’s clothes and, when he attacked you, it was deposited in your car.’

  ‘What’s the second?’

  ‘It’s an even longer shot. According to the forensic report, the hair sample taken from your car comprised only the shaft of the hair, and not the follicle, or the root. Without the root, all you can test for is mitochondrial DNA, which is passed on to children through their mother’s DNA.’

  I shook my head, not following. ‘Can you translate this?’

  Sonoma chuckled. ‘Sorry. I’m saying that the hair sample from your car could also match a sibling.’

  ‘Except Charlie’s an only child, so, great.’ I slumped forwards in my chair and lay my forehead on the desk.

  Sonoma drew in a breath. ‘Listen, Sophie, we can talk about Vanessa’s post-mortem later if you need some . . . time to yourself.’

  I blinked, appreciating his tact. �
��No, I’m fine.’ I sat up straight and pulled my file towards me, determined to hold it together. ‘I was looking for signs of foul play,’ I said, sifting through my papers until I reached Vanessa’s post-mortem, ‘but that was obviously before I found out about Charlie.’ The fact I had Vanessa post-mortem now felt like a betrayal.

  ‘Look, as I’m on the line, I’ll give you my thoughts,’ said Sonoma. ‘Vanessa’s official cause of death was smoke inhalation. The level of alcohol in her bloodstream, coupled with the fall down the stairs, was certainly enough to render her unconscious. The only possible irregularity is the way that she landed when she fell.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, according to the report, Vanessa’s body cleared the bottom step entirely. I would have expected a shorter spillover.’

  I drummed my fingers on the desk, picturing the narrow, dingy hallway. ‘What are you saying? That someone pushed her?’

  Sonoma took a long breath. ‘Or she took a running jump, which isn’t likely, not with that much alcohol in her system. But I didn’t perform the PM so it’s difficult to be certain.’

  I heard people in the background and Sonoma must have covered the receiver with his hand because the voices turned muffled.

  My eyes drifted across the crude diagram of Vanessa’s body. I leaned forward.

  That’s odd.

  Sonoma was back. ‘Sorry, Sophie. The vultures are circling. I’ve got a meeting with the Board now. Is there anything else?’

  ‘David, what’s that marking on Vanessa’s stomach?’

  A pause. ‘Judging by the position, I’d say it was the result of a C-section.’ I heard a voice in the background and Sonoma sighed. ‘I must go. Take care, Sophie. And my condolences for your loss.’

  The line went dead and I sat there, staring at the space in front of my eyes. Something flickered at the back of my mind. I closed my eyes, trusting my instincts enough not to force it.

  Charlie’s voice drifted into my head. What was it he once told me about Vanessa? The last favour she did me was four decades ago when she squeezed me out of her you-know-what.

  Charlie was a natural birth. He was born 7 August 1975. My hands went to the stack of items Gordon had given me. I rifled through until I found the two photographs of Vanessa in hospital, cradling Charlie in her arms. I raked my eyes over each photograph. The background was identical in both. Light grey curtains, custard-yellow walls. Vanessa was wearing the same checked-green hospital gown, her arms clutching a baby wrapped in blue. But in one photograph, a newspaper was folded on the bed. I squinted at the picture, trying to make out the headline. Who killed the Owen girl? I typed the words into my search engine and the Herald’s archives came up. I held my breath as I trawled through until I spotted it. I opened the front page and zoomed in on the date. 14 May 1973.

  I stared back at the photograph. At the two bundles of blue.

  As I leaped up, my chair hit the floor with a thud.

  35

  Emily: present day

  The cold shivers across her skin, burrows inside her pores. Emily curls up for warmth, covering her nose with her cardigan. The smell of sewage is so intense she can taste it. Emily blinks, trying to adjust her eyes to the gloom. It’s silent other than the distant noise of birds. The floor beneath her is cold and jagged. She runs her palm along it. She tries to remember what happened. One minute she was running. The next she was being lifted off the ground. Dragged backwards. A sting in her arm.

  How long have I been here?

  She crawls forwards, feeling her way round the stone wall. She hears something. A cough?

  Emily presses herself against the wall. Her breath jabs her ribs.

  Footsteps. A jangling noise. Something scraping against the stone. Emily holds her breath. A torch beam hits her in the face. She scrambles her fists over her eyes as pain shoots through her head.

  She can’t see the figure behind the light.

  ‘Please.’ That’s all she can muster. The light comes closer.

  Emily looks up and, for a split-second, the torch beam wavers and Emily catches a glimpse of the man behind the light.

  She doesn’t see much.

  She doesn’t need to.

  Emily starts to cry. He strides towards her and she thinks he’s going to say something.

  She doesn’t see the fist coming until it’s too late.

  36

  ‘This isn’t about Emily at all.’ I skidded through Rowley’s door, my brain on fire, then spread Vanessa’s post-mortem and the photographs of her in hospital on his desk. ‘Vanessa had another child. In 1973; two years before Charlie was born. Same hospital, different baby.’ I jabbed a finger at the desk. ‘Charlie always said he was an only child.’

  Four pairs of eyes stared at me in unison as I related what Dr Sonoma told me. ‘The hair from my car, it was a match for Charlie. But my source said it could also have come from a sibling.’

  Kate picked up the photograph of Vanessa cradling her baby. ‘You think she gave her kid up for adoption?’

  I grabbed her sleeve. ‘You know what I’m going to ask.’

  Kate pulled out her phone, heading for the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Kate had delved deep into the National Adoption Agency for a story she’d worked on two years ago when twelve-year-old Ayisha Nadim was kidnapped from her school in Balham. The city feared the worst for the little girl with dark pigtails and large, dark eyes. But nine agonising days later Ayisha was found unharmed in a council flat in Aldgate. The perpetrator was her birth mother, Radha Sabberwal, a distraught woman barely out of her teens, whose strict Muslim parents bullied her into giving away a baby born out of wedlock. Radha had watched Ayisha from a distance until, one day, she cracked. Covering herself in a lace-trimmed hijab, similar to the one she’d seen Ayisha’s adoptive mum wear, Radha strolled into the playground and led the little girl out by the hand. Ayisha, assuming she was one of her mummy’s friends, went willingly. Kate’s inside source worked closely with the Herald to break the adoption story, which ultimately narrowed the field for the increasingly desperate police. The girl was reunited with her family and, in a happy twist, her adoptive parents reached out to her birth mother and offered to let her into their daughter’s life. We all remembered the story because, in our line of work, happy endings are few and far between.

  ‘So, where’s Emily, then?’ said Rahid, frowning.

  Mack dismissed him and puffed up his chest, the way he always did when he was feeling overlooked. ‘Look, I know this isn’t going to make me popular, but is anyone else concerned that we’ve got six spreads ready to go on Charlie the killer? What the fuck are we going to do?’

  I gave him an incredulous look. ‘We’re going to find out what really happ—’ Kate appeared in the doorway with an odd expression on her face. ‘What is it?’

  She closed the door and ran a hand through her brown curls. ‘You’re right. There was an adoption. December 1973. The record shows the baby’s mother as Vanessa Swift, father unknown.’

  I chewed my fingernail, watching her closely. ‘Does it say who the adoptive parents are?’

  Kate perched on the edge of Rowley’s desk. ‘This is where it gets interesting. The baby’s first name is registered as Mark. And he went to a local couple: Pamela and Les Miller.’

  I froze. ‘Miller? Mark Miller?’

  The Christ Clan kid. I heard Jeff Johnson’s rasping voice: he was beaten to a pulp. Hospitalised.

  I shook my head at Kate. ‘That doesn’t make sense. I spoke to his dad, Les. He never said Mark was adopted.’

  Kate shrugged, glancing at her notebook. ‘Well, according to public record he is Vanessa’s son.’

  I thought back to my conversation with Les Miller. The stress that boy caused us. I wanted to send him back. At the time I thought it was an odd phrase.

  My brain spun along in a vacuum. I had ingested so much information in the last few hours, I felt giddy. All of a sudden Rowley’s office
felt overbearingly hot and I yanked off my sweater. Father unknown. I thought back to what Gordon had told me about Vanessa’s past.

  I tossed my sweater on the chair, then paced to the window, trying to order my thoughts. ‘OK, Charlie’s stepfather, Gordon, told me that Vanessa was raped in the early seventies. What if she got pregnant?’

  Kate chewed her pen. ‘That would explain why she gave the baby away.’

  I stared out of the window at the line of traffic snaking along Kensington High Street in the morning sun. The sun glinted off a bus’s windscreen and I blinked.

  ‘Shit, think about all the times in the past week Charlie has been spotted. CCTV picked him up at the bank in Bournemouth. Emily claimed she saw him in their apartment, Gordon saw him at Vanessa’s house, I saw him in my car,’ I whirled round to face Kate. ‘Don’t you see: Charlie was trapped in the cellar the whole time . . .’

  ‘. . . so the man you all saw must look like Charlie,’ she finished.

  I lunged for my bag and dug out the Christ Clan leaflet. ‘What if we’ve been barking up the wrong tree? What if Charlie had nothing to do with Christ Clan at all and the kid standing behind Laurence Marlon in this picture is his half-brother?’ I thought back to my conversation in the Old Goat pub with Jeff and Fred. Fred had identified the boy in the photograph as the Starling. But he said none of them used their real names. I was the one who had made the leap and assumed the Starling was Charlie.

  Rowley, who’d been silent up till now, cleared his throat. ‘Sophie, tell us everything you know about Miller.’

  I sat down. ‘Well, up till now, I knew Miller as the kid who was hospitalised after one of Marlon’s sadistic games went too far. I assumed the Starling was the one who put him there. It never occurred to me that Miller and the Starling could be the same person.’ I recalled Fred’s words: Marlon loved him, but he gave him the roughest ride, too.

  ‘Do you think Mark knew he was adopted?’ asked Rowley.

  ‘I don’t know. I mean Les never even mention—’ The fog started to lift and I grabbed my file. The letters. I scattered them across the desk.