The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘Kate!’ I raked the darkness with my torch but I couldn’t see her. My gaze fell on something on the ground and I crouched down for a closer look. Was that blood? I inched forwards, following the trail with my torch beam. It ran across the gravel, in the direction of the forest. I hesitated for a split-second then turned back towards the hut. As I did, my torch landed on a man, standing ten feet away from me, his hands jammed in the pockets of his waterproof.

  ‘What are you doing?’ The wind carried his gravelly voice towards me.

  ‘I – I’m looking for someone. A woman. I think she’s inside this hut.’

  He edged towards me, on the tips of his toes. ‘That’s not possible, Miss. I’ve just been in that hut. Nothing but farming equipment in there.’

  I tightened my grip round the rock and shone my torch in his face. I couldn’t see much; he was wearing a woolly hat, and his chin was buried in a scarf. ‘Then you won’t mind showing me.’

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘And you are?’

  I raised my voice, hoping Kate could hear me over the wind. ‘My name is Sophie Kent. I’m a reporter from the London Herald.’

  He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You’d best talk to Hector. No one is allowed on Christ Clan property without speaking to him first. If you want, I’ll take you to him.’

  He took another step towards me and my light caught the trickle of blood running down his face.

  A sense of unease swept through me. I edged backwards, scanning the darkness for Kate. ‘No need to trouble Hector. I’m going now. Not really the weather for it, anyway.’

  As if to make the point, a violent gust of wind blew across the field, blowing a flurry of leaves at us. One snagged on the rim of his hat and, as he swiped it off, he nudged the hat backwards and the wind carried it off.

  For a moment, I just stared at him.

  The thick, dark hair, the high forehead and chiselled cheekbones. The similarity was so striking I let out a cry.

  A slow, thin smile spread across his face.

  I stumbled backwards. ‘Mark, don’t do this. You’ve made your point: Charlie is dead. Don’t let Emily suffer too.’

  Mark inched towards me and I could see the sticky patch in his hair oozing blood.

  ‘I know things haven’t been easy for you. Given up for adoption. Ending up in a place like this. But, your mum. It wasn’t her fault. She was damaged, and traumatised, and young. She couldn’t cope with a baby. That’s why she gave you up. Not because she didn’t love you.’

  ‘What the fuck do you know about my life?’

  ‘I know your mum was haunted by the choice she made over forty years ago.’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kate dart silently between huts. ‘She never forgot you, Mark. We’ve spoken to the health officer at Boscombe Asylum. She told us your mum was trying to track you down. She wanted to make amends.’

  The colour drained from Mark’s face. ‘Liar!’

  ‘It’s the truth.’ A little more digging had thrown up the stream of incoherent letters Vanessa had been sending the Bournemouth Adoption Service. Even though Vanessa never signed her name, the concerned clerk had kept them on file.

  ‘Why didn’t I hear from anyone, then?’ Mark swayed slightly.

  ‘Because Charlie chose to keep you and Vanessa apart. For reasons that were important to him but now seem . . .’ I faltered, as the full impact of Charlie’s decision hit me between the eyes.

  The wind roared around us like a chained animal and I raised my voice. ‘It doesn’t change the fact that Vanessa cared. She left half her money to Christ Clan, Mark. She must have known they could find you.’

  ‘What use is her fucking money?’ He sagged against the wall and I thought he was going to be sick. ‘So many times I’ve tried to make her see me. But she turned her back. And all the while I was two miles away, living in misery with adoptive parents who hated my guts.’

  ‘I spoke to your dad, Les. Why didn’t he tell me you were adopted?’

  Mark blinked slowly. ‘Because he’s a fucking liar. He couldn’t have kids of his own, but didn’t want to admit it to the world. He’s always kept up the pretence that I was his son. Even when things fell apart; even after Pam left and he kicked me out.’

  ‘Even after you blinded him.’ I kept my voice steady but Mark sneered.

  ‘Payback,’ he said, simply. ‘Meanwhile my real mum showered all her love on Charlie.’ He spat the name out. ‘Well, the Golden Child got what he deserved in the end.’

  ‘What he deserved?’ My voice twisted with fury. ‘You’ve been tormenting Charlie his entire life. And all because of a choice your mum made before he was born. Charlie couldn’t control that any more than you could. He did nothing to you.’

  ‘Wrong.’ Mark pushed himself away from the wall, his eyes narrowing into slits. ‘He stole my life. And then he stole her.’

  Mark ran a hand through his hair and the gesture was so Charlie-like, my knees almost buckled.

  ‘I was there the day Vanessa died. In the cellar. I watched them fight in the kitchen. Charlie was furious with her, for being so weak. She tried to run away from him, she made it up the stairs, but he followed her.’

  Mark’s breathing quickened and he let out a string of sobs like hiccups.

  ‘When Charlie pushed her, he killed any chance I had to make things right with my mum. He deserved to pay.’

  Charlie killed his mum? I blinked at him, forcing myself past his words. ‘But Emily doesn’t. Mark, you don’t want her blood on your hands.’

  Mark pressed a hand to his temple and winced. ‘Women are the root of evil. My real dad always told me that. I should have believed him; he tried to teach me that at Christ Clan.’

  ‘Your dad was at Christ Clan?’

  A pause. ‘He was the Shepherd.’

  ‘Your biological dad is Laurence Marlon?’ Gordon’s words rang loud in my head: Vanessa got swept up in a local church group, got herself into a spot of bother with a man there. The realisation flew at me so fast, I could only stare at him. ‘Marlon is Vanessa’s rapist?’

  Mark’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘He didn’t tell me about the rape, of course. He tracked me down when I was still living with my foster dad. He’d heard a rumour from someone that the bitch he’d raped all those years ago gave away his kid. He invited me to join Christ Clan, told me all about my real mum and how she’d kept me from him because she was evil. I thought I’d hit the jackpot with Marlon until he turned on me.’ A bleak look crossed Mark’s face and he rolled his eyes to the sky. ‘And then I found out the truth about what he did to her.’

  I hardened myself against the kernel of pity in my chest and cleared my throat. ‘Where is Emily?’

  Mark started to close the gap between us. ‘Don’t you see? I’ve purged them all. Water, fire, blood. My soul is finally clean.’

  I stood my ground, injecting a hint of steel into my voice. ‘Mark, where is she?’

  Mark crept closer, until he was close enough that I could see the differences between the brothers. Mark’s mouth was smaller, his dark eyebrows more pronounced. In another life, Mark’s eyes could have been warm and laughing like Charlie’s; instead they were dark and vicious. And trained on me.

  ‘You’ll never find her.’

  He rose onto his toes and sprang at me. I slammed backwards into the wall of the hut. There was a crunch and Mark stumbled, hit the ground, the shock turning his face white.

  Kate raised the rock again; her eyes blazing.

  Mark mumbled something and I held out a hand to stop her. ‘Wait! What’s he saying?’ I dropped to my knees and leaned towards him.

  Mark made a strange gurgling noise; his lips quivering. ‘If I die, your brother’s secret dies with me.’

  I froze. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Mark hacked up a cough and a torrent of blood poured down his face. ‘Tommy’s death . . . it’s tormenting you. I know–’ he coughed again.

  ‘What d
o you know?’ I gripped his jacket so tightly my knuckles cracked. ‘Do you know who killed him?’

  He stretched his mouth into a smile. ‘I’ve seen the whiteboard. In your house. You’re wrong–’

  I beat a fist against his chest. ‘You’ve been in my house?’

  ‘That little fag was hiding things from you.’

  I didn’t see it coming. The knife was inches from my head when Kate screamed. She slammed the rock into Mark’s face again, shattering his nose.

  He lay still and a keening noise pierced the air. It was coming from deep inside me.

  I rounded on Kate. ‘How could you? He was about to–’

  ‘Fucking kill you.’ Kate was breathing heavily; her wet curls plastered against her white face. She leaned across me and rooted around in Mark’s jacket pocket. Then she held up a silver key.

  I snatched it off her and lurched towards the hut. My hands were shaking so much I could barely get the key inside the lock. I tore the padlock off and fell through the door, bracing myself for a body.

  All I could see was a water trough, an old wheelbarrow and some tools.

  ‘Emily’s not here.’ I kicked the straw in panic.

  Kate raced into the hut and we worked over every inch with our torches.

  Suddenly, I pushed my hair out of my face. ‘What’s that smell?’

  Kate frowned. ‘Cement?’

  I strode over to the wheelbarrow. ‘Tools, gloves, cement. What was Mark doing in here?’ I pointed my torch at the floor. The wind screeched through a gap in the roof. My mind spun. Why would Mark need cement?

  I crouched down, staring into the darkness, trying to get inside Mark’s head. I thought back to the hideout under Charlie’s apartment, the filthy space in Vanessa’s cellar, the carvings. The birds. A piercing thought took shape in my head.

  ‘Kate, Vanessa’s cellar. We found bird skeletons hidden in the wall. Loads of them. Perfectly formed. They were buried alive.’ Kate shot me a look, her lip curling with distaste. ‘Don’t you see: Mark is the Starling. Those birds, they represent him.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘But why kill them if they represent him?’

  ‘Because that’s how he felt: trapped, helpless.’ I blinked as the idea sharpened. ‘This isn’t the Bunker. We have to dig deeper to find the Bunker. The fabric of the building. The walls.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Check the fucking walls!’ It came out in a shriek, and I stumbled forward, running my hand along the rough rock. My palm came away wet. I aimed my torch at the wall. The grouting between the rocks was damp.

  ‘Kate, quick.’ I grabbed the trowel and tossed her my torch. I scraped away at the cement, but it was painstakingly slow.

  Kate propped the torches up, then rifled around in her bag. She pulled out her house keys. ‘I’ll start this side.’

  We worked in silence, as the storm surged around us. Chipping, scraping, digging, clawing. My fingers were raw with cold, my eyes gritty. Every so often I threw a glance over my shoulder to check that Mark was still unconscious by the door. Eventually my rock started to loosen.

  ‘Help me out with this one.’

  Between us, we eased it out of the wall. A rank smell blasted from the hole. Kate made a retching sound.

  I covered my nose with my sleeve. ‘Emily?’

  Silence.

  Kate pointed to the next rock along and we got to work. Eventually it came loose. I grabbed my torch, took a deep breath and plunged my head through.

  There was something on the ground. I couldn’t make out what. I pushed my head in further, aimed the torch downwards. The smell was deep in the back of my throat. Then I saw it, a heap of blonde hair.

  ‘Emily? Can you hear me?’ I scrabbled at the rock.

  A loud bang pierced the air. I yanked my head out of the hole and looked at the door.

  Mark was gone.

  I gave a hiss of terror. ‘Where is he?’

  Kate grabbed the trowel off the ground and held it up.

  A man’s voice. A crackling noise.

  I looked at Kate. ‘Is that a radio?’

  Kate fell against me and dropped the trowel. ‘Halle-fucking-lujah.’

  Seconds later, a figure appeared at the door. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Morrison. Are either of you hurt?’

  I pointed at the gap in the wall. ‘Emily Swift. Please. Get her out.’

  The DI pulled out his torch and shone it inside the wall. His jaw tightened and he strode to the door. ‘Paramedics, now.’

  Kate shivered beside me. ‘There’s a man, Mark Miller. He was he—’

  ‘We’ve got him. He was trying to make his escape through the grounds.’

  Two paramedics raced towards us with foil blankets. ‘Put these round you. Let’s get you checked out.’

  We followed them into the night and I spotted a figure hovering by the ambulance and frowned. ‘Hector?’

  Hector Marlon’s face was bathed in a cold, blue light. ‘I’m so glad you’re safe. When I heard what he’d done I–’ He saw the expression on my face and gave a tight smile. ‘Dolly Summerville. You met her. Turns out Miller has worked a number on her over the past few months. Has got her doing all sorts of things for him. Bringing him food and water out here. She even travelled round getting money out with Charlie’s card to make police think he was alive and on the move.’ He shook his head. ‘Totally lovetruck. But when Mark asked Dolly to get the cement and tools, the scales fell away from her eyes and she freaked out. Came clean to me an hour ago.’

  ‘It was you who called the police?’ I shook my head, bewildered. What happened to Rowley?

  A loud shout came from inside the hut. Kate and I hobbled to the doorway. The team of officers had ripped an opening big enough to climb through and were on their knees, examining something.

  They lifted a blood-soaked figure on a stretcher and I clutched Kate’s arm. ‘Is she alive?’

  ‘Boss, take a look at this,’ said an officer.

  DI Morrison strode past and was given a torch. He peered into the gap then handed the torch back to his Deputy. ‘Get Forensics down here now.’

  I raised my eyebrows as he came towards us. ‘What’s in the wall?’

  ‘More like “who”,’ he said, blinking hard.

  We hobbled back outside in time to see Miller being thrown into the back of a police car. The paramedics had patched his head up with a bandage. He must have felt me looking because he turned and stared at me. Then he licked his lips, raised his hands to his nose and inhaled deeply.

  I stiffened and Kate nudged me. ‘I know you want to take a running kick at him, but there’s no need. I did it for you, after you ran into the hut. Three times in the bollocks. One for you, one for Emily and,’ she faltered, her eyes damp with tears, ‘one for Charlie.’

  I leaned into Kate, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘Let’s go back to London.’

  39

  One week later

  I stood with my back to St Mary’s Church, looking at the view. Even two miles from the coast, you could taste the salt in the air. I smoothed down my black dress and glanced at the knot of people gathering in the churchyard. Rowley, tanned and trim in a double-breasted suit, was talking to Kate and Mack. I took a deep breath, and wandered over to them.

  ‘All right, Kent,’ said Mack, sucking on a cigarette; his gold watch glinting in the sunlight.

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Since when do you smoke?’

  He picked a piece of tobacco out of his teeth. ‘I hate funerals.’

  Rowley slid on his glasses and checked his phone. He couldn’t spare much time away from the office; none of us could. Mark and Charlie’s story had exploded. It had sparked off a national debate about nature versus nurture, and how our care system had failed the vulnerable. Rowley had dedicated pages and pages to the two half-brothers from different sides of the track; to the mum who drank to forget her past; to the catalogue of errors that led to tragedy.

  Over the last w
eek, I’d fought hard for space to be made for Sabrina Hobbs, whose murder set the ball in motion, and who was unlucky enough to be plucked from obscurity by a psychopath hell bent on revenge.

  Rowley was concerned about Emily. It hadn’t taken long for us to trace Emily’s Tinder history. Or her relationship with Bert Hughes. It was Rahid who discovered Emily was sleeping with him. In his hunt for Bert, he came across CCTV footage of the pair kissing in the lobby of Bert’s apartment block. I was amazed. All that time Emily pretended to take the moral high ground, she’d been cheating on Charlie.

  ‘Don’t judge her, Soph,’ said Kate, sadly. ‘She thought her husband was a monster.’

  We’d agreed to let her alone; it was the least we could do for Charlie. But once the other press hounds caught her trail, God knows what would happen. The widow’s secret life would be a hard exclusive to turn down.

  Kate poked a stray curl under her hat. ‘You OK?’

  I shrugged, avoiding her eye. A car growled up the lane and I watched Dominic slide out. He was wearing a powder-blue suit and a fuschia bow-tie.

  ‘Interesting funeral attire,’ said Mack, stubbing his cigarette out on the paving stone. Then he gestured to the door. ‘Shall we get this over with?’

  ‘I’ll join you in a minute,’ I said.

  I could feel Kate and Rowley’s eyes on my back as I picked my way across the soggy grass to a bench beneath a beech tree. I sat down, running my tongue over my teeth, taking in the view. A silvery mist rolled across a landscape that was still blighted by last week’s storms: fallen trees, ripped-out hedges, debris across the roads. In the far distance, I could see the blue shimmer of the sea.

  At first I didn’t see her, half-hidden behind the trunk. A twig snapped and I looked round.

  Emily was dressed in a black satin coat and her blonde hair was pulled back into a low bun.

  I half-rose. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was over here.’

  Emily hesitated, then sat down next to me, eyes forward. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  It sounded flat, rehearsed. I nodded, studying her out of the corner of my eye. She had the glazed look of someone on a Xanax-high. I’d heard from Rowley that the hospital weren’t happy about discharging Emily, but she’d given them no choice.