The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  I won’t forgive you. Let me come home. I want to be a normal family. Why can’t you see that? No one you love will be safe. This is your fault.

  ‘Charlie didn’t write these,’ my voice was breathless, ‘Mark did.’

  Mack tilted his chair back and scratched his head. ‘OK, so say this kid Mark gets kicked out of his adoptive home, joins Christ Clan, grows up warped. And then what? Waits three decades then kills his half-brother’s mistress, Sabrina Hobbs? That’s ludicrous.’

  ‘OK, let’s look at the evidence,’ I said, leaning against Rowley’s desk. ‘Start with Mark as a kid. His adoptive father is a fuckhead; Mark drifts into a sadistic cult where life gets even worse. He tracks down his birth mother and places his future happiness in her hands, but she doesn’t want to know him.’ I pictured the scene in Vanessa’s cellar. ‘He hides out in her home and spies on her.’

  ‘And, as far as he’s concerned, little brother, Charlie, has taken his place,’ said Kate, frowning.

  ‘So why not kill Charlie back then?’ said Mack, dropping his chair down and fidgeting with his sleeve in an attempt to look at ease. ‘I mean, if he’s so–’

  ‘Say that again,’ I said, staring at Mack.

  ‘If he hated Charlie so much, why not kill him back then?’

  No one you love will be safe. I hadn’t understood that line until now. I paced in front of Rowley’s desk. ‘Charlie’s childhood accidents. They weren’t accidents.’

  Kate raised her eyebrows. ‘Come again?’

  ‘Think about it. In the space of eighteen months – at the period we know Mark is involved in Christ Clan – Charlie is concussed falling out of a tree, totals his bike, breaks his leg in a car crash, and almost dies in a fire. Charlie-Cat, his friends called him. Nine lives. Except Charlie wasn’t accident-prone, he was being targeted.’

  Mack touched a bony finger to his quiff. ‘Forgive me, Kent. But that’s four times Mark tries and fails to kill Charlie. I mean, there’s shoddy work, and then there’s just plain–’

  ‘Perhaps the aim wasn’t to kill Charlie.’ I thought back to the birds in the cellar wall. He buried them alive, because he could. ‘Perhaps the aim was to torment Vanessa, to remind her that he’s there; that no one is safe.’

  ‘Christ, no wonder she drank,’ said Rahid.

  Kate frowned. ‘Why didn’t Vanessa report him to the police?’

  I shrugged. ‘Lack of evidence? I don’t know. Maybe she really was drunk enough not to care.’

  Mack rolled his eyes. ‘This still doesn’t explain what triggered Mark off now. I mean, he’s had three decades in between to fuck around with Charlie and Vanessa and he hasn’t done so.’

  I tapped my fingers on the desk, irritated as I realised Mack had a point.

  I turned to Rahid. ‘Can you run a search on psychiatric units across the country? See if Mark Miller was admitted anywhere.’

  As Rahid bustled out of the room, my eyes landed back on the letters. Pages and pages scratched with black, spiky words. I pictured an angry, wounded teenager, struggling to find his place in the world.

  Suddenly it hit me.

  ‘Despite everything, Mark wanted to be close to his mum,’ I said, picturing the cellar hideout; a whole life contained within ten square feet. ‘When you’ve dedicated your life to obsessing over one person, what’s the worst thing that can possibly happen to you?’

  Kate’s eyes widened. ‘That person dies.’

  I stood up so suddenly, I knocked a picture frame off Rowley’s desk. ‘That’s the trigger. Don’t you see? All this time, Mark never gave up hope that one day his mum would open the door to him and they’d sail off into the sunset.’ I bent down to pick up the picture. ‘The moment Vanessa died, that hope died with her.’

  Rowley pressed his elbows onto the desk and steepled his fingers together. ‘So, with Vanessa gone, there’s only one person he can take it out on?’

  I nodded. ‘The man who stole his life, and his mum’s love. We already know Mark is capable of revenge. He blinded his adoptive father, for Christ’s sake. And Charlie is everything Mark could never be: successful, popular, loved.’ My voice cracked and I glared at the ceiling. ‘What better way to exact revenge than dismantling his reputation? Making the world see him as a degenerate, a liar, a murderer. And then killing him.’ I gripped hold of the picture frame. ‘Mark buried himself so deeply in the walls of Vanessa’s home, she never knew he was there. He did the same thing with Charlie and Emily. He’s been toying with them ever since Vanessa died. Mark had access to everything; their phones, their clothes—’

  ‘And the murder weapon,’ said Kate.

  Mack leaned forwards and narrowed his eyes. ‘Then riddle me this, Kent. Why Sabrina? Why not go after Charlie’s wife?’

  I set the frame down on Rowley’s desk. ‘Because, by dragging Charlie’s mistress into this, Mark is showing us that he’s a cheat. That’s already a black mark against his character.’

  Mack shook his head and the light rippled off his shiny hair. ‘For this Miller guy to have pulled this off, we’re talking monumental levels of deception.’

  I leaned forward. ‘Stealing into people’s houses; harassing, tormenting. It’s what he does; it’s all he’s ever done.’

  As I spoke, Rowley wandered across to a safe that was built into a walnut cupboard.

  ‘There is one way we can settle this,’ he said, punching in the code.

  He pulled something out, then turned towards me. Our eyes locked in a shared understanding and I gave him a nod.

  Rowley fiddled around at the back of his computer. I sat down next to Kate and clutched the arms of the chair, as if trying to anchor myself to something solid. The screen lit up and Rowley hit ‘play’.

  I tried to pretend it wasn’t me lying on the bed. That it was some other blonde; comatose and moments away from a sexual assault. But the bitter taste in my mouth spread before I could stop it. I dug my nails into my palms and forced my eyes to stick with the screen.

  A dark-haired figure crossed in front of the camera, tugged the sleeve of his hoody, then leaned over me. Mack and Kate knew its contents but they hadn’t seen the footage.

  Kate stiffened as the man began to undress me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mack’s head dip, his hand cover his mouth.

  By the time the man unbuckled his belt, I knew.

  ‘He doesn’t show his face,’ I said, flatly. ‘He knows exactly where the camera is.’

  A tense silence stretched through the room. I closed my eyes, trying to blot the image from my eyelids.

  ‘Mark knew I was alone in the apartment. It was too good an opportunity to miss. He wore Charlie’s hoody to make it look as if–’ I stopped, folding over and stifling a sob. All this time I thought Charlie had betrayed me in the vilest way possible. ‘He’s been playing us all from the beginning. Hiding in plain sight this whole time.’

  Mack was clenching his teeth so hard I could hear them grate against each other. ‘Christ, Kent. That video. I should have – are you–’ He sprang up and stood at the window with his back to us.

  Kate put her arm around me and buried her face in my hair. ‘We’re going to get this fucker.’

  ‘He hasn’t put a foot wrong,’ said Mack, as he raked a hand through his hair, sending it shooting in different directions.

  ‘Not quite.’ My voice was small but firm. ‘That skirt is still hanging in my wardrobe. Mark’s DNA will be all over it.’

  Rowley’s gaze flickered over me, and the edges of his face softened. ‘I’ll organise a car to take you home to get it.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Kate, pocketing her phone.

  There was a knock at the door and Rahid appeared, hopping from one foot to the other, too distracted to notice our tense faces. ‘Sophie, your hunch was right. Miller’s latest stint was at Boscombe Mental Asylum. He left March last year. I just got off the phone with a health officer there and . . .’ He paused, finally sensing the fraught atmosphere in t
he office. ‘What’s going on?’

  I slid forward in my chair. ‘What did the health officer say?’

  Rahid’s eyes ran over my face. ‘She received a call from a guy who claimed to be Miller’s brother, not long after Miller was discharged. He said he was trying to trace Mark.’

  I stared at him. ‘That must have been Charlie. So Mark was reunited with Vanessa?’

  Rahid shook his head. ‘That’s just it. The health visitor felt there was something odd about the call. Charlie wouldn’t give his name, you see. She knew Mark would agree to meet his brother – he’d written to his mum countless times over the years but never heard back, so she knew he was open to reconnecting with his biological family. But, because of Mark’s fragile mental state, the approach would need to be made gently. Her gut told her she didn’t have the full story. When Charlie rang again the following week for an update, the health visitor confirmed Mark’s existence, but told Charlie she’d need to set up a face-to-face to discuss taking it forward. Apparently Charlie thanked her and told her he’d changed his mind and had no interest in taking it further.’

  ‘Why would Charlie keep them apart?’ said Kate. ‘Finding her other son could have helped Vanessa straighten herself out. Was Charlie protecting her?’

  ‘He was punishing her,’ I said, quietly, starting to gather my things from Rowley’s desk.

  ‘Do we think Emily’s still alive?’ Mack’s question came like a dart piercing the air.

  ‘All the time there’s no body, then there’s hope,’ I said. ‘We just need to find–’

  My notebook had fallen open on my interview notes with Fred. I read the scribbled blue words and blinked.

  The place where it all began.

  An explosion of images in my head.

  Fire. Water. Blood. Christ Clan. Bones in the wall.

  I stared around the room, my voice hoarse. ‘Shit, I know where Emily is.’

  37

  Emily: present day

  Emily leans back against the cold stone, her eyes pinned to the bottom of the door. As the bar of light fades, her windowless prison slides into darkness. She isn’t sure how long she’s been here but long enough to unpick the sounds outside. An animal bleating. The harsh cawing of a bird. The snarl of a lone motorbike. Emily shivers; the cold buckles around her like sheet metal. The man hasn’t returned. When he left, Emily had screamed herself hoarse; crawled round her cell, scrabbling at the rock with numb hands, searching for a way out. The only thing she found was a rusty water trough; the stench of stagnant water had made her retch.

  The man left her a bucket to use as a toilet, but it is filling up, and the air is growing even more putrid and sour. All she can do is wait. Her eyes grow heavy, she rests her head on her arms.

  Sometime later – minutes? Hours? – Emily hears the low thrum of a car engine. It cuts out and the silence is piercing. Footsteps. Emily scrambles backwards into a corner, wishing she’d found something to use as a weapon.

  The rusty screech of a key turning in a padlock. Suddenly the door scrapes open and a low hiss of terror comes from the back of her throat. The figure is holding a lantern and Emily squints into the light. She can see a lean, muscular build; dark jeans, a red woollen hat and a red scarf that obscures the lower half of his face.

  Emily opens her mouth but all that comes out is a muffled squeak. The man sets the lantern in the corner then retraces his steps, walking high on his toes. He returns with a wheelbarrow that’s filled with something Emily can’t see. He is humming the same three notes over and over.

  He stalks towards her. Emily tries to melt into the wall but he grabs her by the arm, drags her forwards, slams her hands together. She feels the cold bite of handcuffs; smells whisky and stale sweat, tinged with something else she recognises. As the man reaches for the lantern, his sleeve pulls back and she spies a tattoo: two red triangles, pointing in different directions. A memory stirs deep inside her.

  She stares up at him. ‘Wait, I know you.’

  The tattoo. She closes her eyes as the memory sharpens: his hand on the back of her head, pressing her down, filling her mouth.

  Emily snaps her eyes open and stares at him, her voice cracked and raw. ‘The cinema. You’re Sternus?’

  The man cricks his neck and slides off his jacket. Underneath he’s wearing a rumpled grey shirt with spots of sweat under his arms. Emily whimpers, not understanding. The man who called himself Sternus had messaged several times after the cinema, but she’d ignored him. Emily screws her eyes shut. How could she have been so reckless? What did she expect?

  She takes a breath, searches for some common ground, a thread of some sort. ‘Look, I’m sorry. About not replying to your messages. I’m married. I made a mistake. My husband, I love him and . . .’ She tails off as the man straightens up and cracks his knuckles.

  Emily can feel his eyes on her and she holds her breath. There is a dangerous stillness about him.

  ‘What would you say if I told you we were going to start a new life together?’ he says. The man’s scarf muffles his voice and Emily has to lean towards him to hear properly. ‘If I told you your clothes, your passport, are in the boot of my car. Everything you need is right here. Would you come with me?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Emily clamps her arms over her knees, making herself as small as possible.

  The man crouches down so he’s level with her. The light from his lantern throws shadows over the part of his face that’s visible. ‘Your husband is a cheat, a liar, a killer. And you say you still love him. You sure I’m the one who’s mad?’

  Emily’s eyes flicker to the ground and, as the man lifts his hat to scratch along his hairline, a tuft of dark hair escapes.

  ‘Funny how there are never consequences for men like Charlie. We should have had the same chance in life. Except someone decided my life wasn’t worth it, and his was.’

  Emily’s mouth is dust-dry and she runs a tongue over her teeth. ‘What are you talking about?’

  He laughs darkly. ‘You’ve talked a good game in public about standing by your husband. But behind closed doors it’s been a different story, hasn’t it? How long did it take you to lose faith in him, days? Weeks? Even before I came on the scene the trust was fading.’

  Anger creeps into her voice. ‘You know nothing about my marriage.’

  ‘I know everything about your marriage.’

  He starts to hum, the same three notes, then reaches into his pocket, holds something up between filthy, nail-bitten fingers. ‘Thanks for these, by the way.’

  Emily’s nostrils flare as she recognises her white knickers. ‘How did you get those?’

  The man rocks back on his heels, humming. Then he gives a thin smile. ‘These have got me through many dark moments. And the other mementos I’ve taken. Do you know what you smell like?’ He holds the knickers to his nose and inhales, his eyes never leaving her face.

  Emily bites down on her fist. ‘You’ve been in my flat?’

  The man stuffs her knickers back in his pocket. ‘Do you know how beautiful you look when you’re asleep? Those silk pyjamas with the little bow on each strap.’ Emily starts, as she remembers the day she came home from work to find them spread out on her bed. A muscle is twitching in his right cheek. ‘Of course, it was easier to watch you once Charlie moved into the spare room.’

  ‘Stop!’ Emily screws her eyes shut. ‘Why are you punishing me?’

  ‘You?’ The man blinks slowly, his eyes hardening. ‘This has got nothing to do with you.’

  He kneels down beside her; Emily recognises the same damp, peaty smell from the cinema. He clicks his tongue against his teeth. ‘Do you know what it’s like to be abandoned before you’re barely old enough to open your eyes? Four hours. That’s all I had with her. Then she handed me over for a lifetime of misery.’

  Questions flood Emily’s brain, but she bites her tongue, waits out the silence. Eventually, he reaches into his pocket. She hears a soft snick, the opening of a knife.
<
br />   The man grips her arm, runs his finger along the milky skin on the inside of her wrist. ‘Ssshhh,’ he says. It sounds like a sigh. ‘You should enjoy this. I’ve watched you slice into yourself for months.’

  He lays the blade against her wrist and draws it sharply towards him. The pain is familiar and, in spite of herself, Emily feels a moment’s peace. But he cuts too deep and she cries out. Eventually he sits back on his heels and Emily looks down through the blood. Two triangles, carved into her skin.

  The man places a metal dish under her wrist. With a sickening jolt, Emily realises he is collecting her blood. She tries to snatch her hand away but he grips it more tightly. The pressure makes the blood run faster.

  Emily’s eyes roll back in their sockets and she moans. The man is watching her. His grip loosens round her arm and he sits, stretches his long legs out in front of him, eyes on the ground.

  ‘The first time I saw my real family, I was hiding in the garden, behind the Horse Chestnut tree. My mum was cooking dinner; my brother was sitting at the table, colouring something in with a crayon. We looked the same, him and me. Except he was smiling. I watched her hug him; squeeze him half to death. No one had ever hugged me like that.’ He shakes his head, hunches over his knees. ‘I kept going back. I needed to know what was so special about him. By the time I moved into the cellar, I felt like I was almost part of the family. Except they never knew I was there.’

  The man stares into the darkness. Suddenly he pulls off his hat and scarf.

  Emily makes a strange choking sound.

  The man’s hair is curlier, his nose a fraction more crooked. Other than that, he looks just like Charlie.

  ‘I thought if my mum knew how much I wanted to be part of their family, she’d let me come home. I tried to sort myself out; distance myself from the Clan. I even got myself a girlfriend, Samantha. She was about the only good thing in my life back then.’ The man’s voice hardens. ‘But he had other ideas about her.’

  ‘Who?’

  He tears at the denim with his fingers. ‘We called him the Shepherd. Laurence Marlon. The Clan leader. He was the one who told me about my real mum. But not the full picture. I figured that out myself later.’ He clenches his teeth together, the corners of his mouth tightening. ‘It was Samantha who suggested I write to my mum. I put in the letter where she could find me. But she never came. So I wrote another, then another. You know where I found those letters? Stashed at the bottom of her wardrobe. You know what I also found? A letter she started writing to me. You’ve made a mistake. I don’t know who you are. Never contact me again.’