The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  My eyes dropped to the bandage round her wrist. ‘Are you out for good?’

  She pulled her sleeve down. ‘The transfusion went well. But I have to take it easy.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘With my parents.’ She flicked her head towards a well-dressed couple, and I detected an edge to her voice.

  A leaf fluttered onto the bench; I picked it up and turned it over in my fingers. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t visit. The hospital staff were only allowing family in.’

  Emily clasped her hands on her lap and stared at them. ‘They were struggling with the media. Reporters dressing up as nurses and doctors.’

  It was said without malice. For a moment, we sat in silence, listening to the breeze stir the leaves on the branches above. I tapped my thumb on the bench, unsure what to say next.

  I shifted round to face her. ‘I’m sorry I–’

  ‘I really should–’

  I smiled. ‘Sorry, you go.’

  Emily flicked me a glance, twisting her diamond ‘E’ pendant around her neck. ‘Thank you. For . . . finding me in time.’

  I nodded, gazing skywards as a lump caught in my throat. ‘Emily, I’m sorry. The press conference. You have to understand, at the time–’

  She held up a pale white hand. ‘You were just doing your job. I get it, don’t worry. They’ve got what they need to charge him, you know. Kidnap, murder . . . sexual assault.’ She glanced in my direction and cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry you got dragged into all this.’ It was as far as she went, and I was grateful.

  There was so much I wanted to say to Emily but, all of a sudden, she stiffened. I followed her gaze to the vicar, who had just appeared in the church porch, his black robe swirling in the breeze.

  Emily gave me a quick kiss. ‘I need to talk to the vicar before Charlie gets here.’

  Her choice of words made my throat constrict; as though Charlie was running late and would roll up any second, flustered, apologetic, grinning.

  As she darted across the churchyard, I crushed the leaf between cold, angry fingers and tossed the shreds to the ground.

  ‘Room for a tall one?’ His deep, melodic voice loosened the knot in my stomach.

  Durand sat down and uncurled his legs. His eyes were ringed with purple, and his cheeks hollowed out; hardly surprising, given the circumstances. The night of my Christ Clan showdown with Mark Miller, Durand was at University College Hospital, keeping vigil at his daughter’s bedside. Elodie’s mum called him, frantic, an hour before everything kicked off to say that Elodie had slipped into a coma. The prognosis wasn’t good. She’d been moved to the ICU.

  I glanced up at him. ‘How are you?’

  Durand ran a hand through his auburn hair and crossed his legs. ‘Better now Miller has confessed.’

  That wasn’t what I meant, and he knew it.

  ‘It’s the most extraordinary story,’ he said. ‘Miller is about as screwed up as it’s possible to be.’

  I sighed. ‘Can you blame him? What Laurence Marlon did to those kids . . .’ I tailed off as a flock of seagulls circled overhead. Their squalls cut straight through me. ‘I hope you’re making Marlon a priority. The moron has probably been working on his golf handicap in the Costa del Sol all this time.’

  Durand leaned forward and bowed his head. ‘Marlon definitely didn’t emigrate to the Costa del Sol.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He gave me a look, and I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. ‘Because he’s spent the past fifteen years buried in the wall of that stone hut.’ I blinked at him. ‘One of the many crimes Miller confessed to. When he found out Marlon raped his mum, he snapped. After everything the man put him through . . .’ Durand shrugged. ‘He said he did it for Vanessa.’

  I noticed a loose thread on my jacket button and wound it round my finger. ‘During your interrogation with Miller, did he say anything about the day Vanessa died?’

  Durand gave me a sideways glance. ‘He might have mentioned it.’

  ‘Do you believe Charlie killed his mum?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  I pulled the thread until it snapped. The button spun onto the floor and landed by Durand’s foot. His fingers brushed against mine as he handed me the button, and I felt a jolt. I could tell by the look on his face, he’d felt it too.

  I cleared my throat and dragged my gaze to Emily, who was standing alone in the church portico. ‘Does she know?’

  Durand sighed. ‘Not yet. And it’s not as if Charlie can be charged with manslaughter.’

  I nodded, feeling light with relief.

  ‘What about Charlie’s first wife, Lizzie? Do you think there was more to her death than everyone thought?’

  ‘We considered it. Back when Charlie was a suspect. But there was nothing to suggest Lizzie’s death was anything other than a tragic accident.’ Durand picked a leaf off his trousers and flicked it onto the grass. ‘We caught up with Bert Hughes this morning.’

  I stared at him. ‘He’s reappeared?’

  ‘He was hiding out this whole time; one of his dad’s abandoned warehouses. Once Emily disappeared, Hughes wondered if being blackmailed was the least of his trouble. Anyway, he’s come clean about the part he played in covering up the Rowntree evidence. We’ll get him for perverting the course of justice.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Service starts in five minutes we should–’

  I put a hand out to stop him. ‘Sam, if I don’t ask this I’ll always wonder . . .’

  ‘It’s a dead end.’ Durand turned to face me, his gaze strong and steady. ‘When Miller broke into your house, he went through your stuff and pieced together fragments of your life. He was lying about Tommy. Exploiting your weak spot.’

  Disappointment stung my eyes and I nodded curtly, not trusting myself to speak.

  Durand’s voice softened. ‘That said, we’ve spent the last week interviewing members of Christ Clan. Turns out Hector Marlon was in a relationship with a blond man. The boyfriend died recently, broke his heart.’

  I whipped my head round. ‘Hector . . . and Tommy?’

  ‘You didn’t hear that from me.’ Durand buttoned up his jacket and stood up.

  ‘How is Elodie?’ The words were out before I could stop them.

  ‘She’s a fighter. She may surprise us all yet.’ Durand looked up at the sky and smiled. ‘Would you like to go for a drink once this is over? As friends, of course.’

  His grey eyes darted across my face and I smiled. I was about to respond when I spotted the hearse pulling up to the kerb. I put a hand out to steady myself and Durand’s eyes softened.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I pressed my lips together and nodded, as my heart splintered in two.

  *

  Kate had saved me a spot near the front of the packed-out church. I squeezed into the pew and she gave my arm a squeeze, just as Gordon shuffled past in a creased grey suit that hung off his gaunt frame. I tried to catch his eye but he was gazing at the floor and muttering under his breath. He slid in the row next to Emily, and I made a note to speak to him after, to find out if there was anything I could do to help.

  Suddenly the doors opened and a hush descended. As the organ broke into a sonorous version of ‘Ave Maria’, I stared up at the stained-glass window and bit down on my lip. I couldn’t look at the coffin. No matter how many times Rowley told me we weren’t to blame, I kept thinking about how Charlie was alive and under our noses the whole time. He was there the day I visited Emily, during the police searches, the press conferences, everything. He was alive, while we were chasing a ghost. Or a Starling. An image of Miller’s haggard face drifted into my head. I couldn’t blame Vanessa for pushing her rapist’s son away. But it was all so fucking sad. I thought about that lost little boy who just needed to know that someone was rooting for him. To know that he was loved. But Vanessa’s efforts came too late.

  The vicar lumbered up to the lectern and I clutched Kate’s hand, the corne
rs of my mouth bunched tight.

  My mind drifted back to Tommy’s wake. After I’d smashed up the library, Charlie picked me up off the floor and propelled me into the garden. He held my hands under the outside tap and washed away the shards of glass. As the rain petered out, we sat on the high stone wall that ran round the terrace and Charlie handed me a glass of wine.

  ‘Your dad’s an arse, you know. For not showing up today.’ Charlie kicked his legs against the wall and stared up at the slate-grey sky. ‘My dad’s dead, my step-dad’s away with the fairies and my mum’s a drunk. God knows who’d go to my funeral.’

  I swigged my wine and punched him on the arm. ‘I’d go.’

  ‘Yes, but you’d be checking your emails. Or pretending to listen to the vicar, while sketching out headlines.’ Charlie paused. ‘Although, if I made you do a reading, you’d have to pay attention. Or a poem. Nothing major, just something about how unbelievably brilliant I am.’

  ‘There was a young man called Swift, who viewed himself as God’s gift–’

  ‘Till a terrible drought, made his hair all fall out–’

  ‘And for that he was terribly miffed.’

  Charlie snorted. ‘Forget it, Kent. Your services are not required.’

  I smiled for the first time in days. ‘I’d definitely mention how hair-obsessed you are. And your questionable taste in socks would need to be addressed.’

  ‘What’s wrong with these?’ Charlie said, mock-indignantly, pulling up his trouser leg and flashing a poppy-red sock.

  As we wandered back to the French windows, I turned to Charlie and my voice caught. ‘I’d also mention how you got me through my darkest hours. For today, and all the other days like it, thank you.’ I leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

  Charlie sighed. ‘You’re right. I really am a hero.’

  The night air was punctured by the strains of a piano drifting out of an upstairs window.

  ‘Who’s the maestro?’ he said, gazing up.

  I rolled my eyes. ‘That is the sound of my mum locking herself in for the night. Won’t see her again until she’s good and lubricated.’ I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. ‘She can’t even be there for Tommy at his own wake.’

  Charlie turned to face me; and his face was cloaked in shadow. ‘At least she showed up, Soph. Believe me, she could be a lot worse.’

  She could be a lot worse. Hearing his words again, I realised he was talking about his own mum. By that time, Charlie knew about Vanessa’s secret; the secret that had consumed her for forty-four years. When police went through Charlie’s belongings, they found a letter, written in Vanessa’s untidy scrawl.

  My darling darling son, forgive me this letter is over forty years late and I’m sorry so sorry. I’ve thought of you every day, I haven’t shown it but you’ve been in my heart every day.

  At the time, police assumed the letter was Charlie’s. They were wrong. The letter was meant for Mark. Between us all, we’d joined the dots. Vanessa had entrusted the letter to Charlie and begged him to help her find the son she lost. But Charlie buried that letter, along with any hope Vanessa had of seeing Mark again. It was a decision that would cost Charlie his life.

  I marvelled at the irony. The son Vanessa gave away spent a lifetime trying to come home. And the son she kept, ended up abandoning her.

  The fire changed everything. I heard Dominic’s voice in my head. All roads lead back to that fire.

  I dragged my eyes to the front of the church to where Charlie’s coffin stood alone, covered in a blanket of lilies. We’d never find out what really happened that April night in 1988; Charlie had taken the secret to his grave. As the vicar’s speech drew to a close, I smoothed down my dress and stood up.

  Then I walked towards the lectern.

  Epilogue

  Vanessa: 2 April 1988

  The last drops of wine are like hot nectar on her tongue. She staggers to the kitchen counter and rifles through the cupboards. Empty. Panic makes her palms itch. Vanessa heaves open the cellar door and blinks. The steps arch away from her into the gloom. Clutching the rail, she stumbles down, hitting the concrete hard. Then she snatches the lid off the laundry basket and rifles through the dank clothes. Her fingers touch ice-cold glass and she pulls the bottles out.

  A noise behind her. She startles, tries to focus. ‘Who’s there?’

  Silence.

  Shivering, Vanessa crawls up the steps and pauses, straining her ears. Charlie is asleep. She pictures her dark-haired boy; wrapped in navy flannel pyjamas, smelling of sleep. The thought is almost enough to make her put the bottle down. But she knows she won’t.

  Vanessa collapses on the sofa and takes a long swig. Darkness is falling and she can’t face turning on the light. She likes the dark. Then she can pretend she’s somewhere else. Anywhere but here. The lines of the room blur and fade into nothing.

  *

  A noise pulls her out of the fog. She cracks open an eye. Can’t see, can’t move. A shadow passes. Footsteps. She blinks. Charlie. Her heart floods with love. What’s he doing? She’s confused. Somewhere, deep down, it dawns on her that Charlie doesn’t own a grey tracksuit. Her head hurts. She can’t think straight. All she wants to do is sleep.

  The boy turns, and she realises the mistake.

  He has come for her; like she’s always known he would. Ever since that first letter, she’s felt hunted. She screws her eyes shut; the red envelope is bright in her mind. The letters keep coming. Like drops of blood, they trickle onto her doormat. How did he find her? This child that is half her, but also half him.

  Without thinking, her hand moves to her stomach and traces the scar. For a second she gives in to the memory; feels the weight of the baby in her arms. When she first laid eyes on his black hair and velvet skin, she’d wavered. Then he looked at her and all she could think about was him. So she held her baby son out for the nurse, and his cries have haunted her dreams ever since. Now she doesn’t know how to undo what she’s done. He is just a child; it’s not his fault. But every time she thinks about letting him into her life, she pictures his dad’s face. Laurence Marlon kept her chained to his cellar wall for four days before she managed to escape. Every time he raped her, he told her it was the will of God. She’d clawed her way out of the darkness and when, four weeks later, she discovered she was pregnant, she almost ended her life. But, in the end, she couldn’t do it. This tiny little human deserved a chance. She knew she wouldn’t be able to love it in the way a mother should. But she could let another couple do that for her.

  She hears the snap of a lighter. Sees a trail of flames light up the carpet. The boy stands there, watching. He looks so much like Charlie her heart contracts. Then he scuttles into the darkness.

  Vanessa coughs, hears the front door click. In the thick molasses of her brain, a thought stirs. The police will come. They’ll know this wasn’t an accident. His fingerprints will be all over the room. Her son will go to jail. His life will be in tatters. He can’t spend his life paying for what she’s done to him.

  The smoke is filling her lungs; she covers her nose and mouth with her sleeve. Vanessa drags herself off the sofa, picks up one of the wine bottles she’s stashed under the cushion and hurls it on the fire. The flames burn higher, but it’s still not enough to destroy evidence of how the fire really started. She needs to burn this place to the ground. She reaches for the next bottle and uncaps it.

  Hot tears run down her sooty cheeks. She is steaming drunk. One more bottle and she’ll get Charlie. She’ll take her boy away from this place; they’ll start a new life together where the past can’t find them. Her eldest son; she can’t love him the way he needs her to, but she will do what she can to protect him.

  As she throws the wine into the fire, the words punch out of her, loud and clear. ‘Forgive me, son; forgive me, son; forgive me, son.’

  She is crying so much that she doesn’t see the shadow in the doorway, nor the pair of dark, solemn eyes taking in the scene. As she tosses
the bottle into the flames, the boy buries his face in his flannel pyjamas, choking back tears. He wants to pull his mum away from the fire, but she thinks he’s asleep upstairs. He’s terrified that if she sees him, she’ll trap him in the burning room. She wants him dead. Why else would she set fire to their home?

  The fire bursts through the far wall; the noise is deafening. He stands there, transfixed, his toes curling in his slippers. And that’s when he hears her rallying cry: Forgive me, son.

  The boy makes a run for it, staggers into the cold night.

  Forgive me, son.

  He hardens his heart.

  Forgive me, son.

  He stares back at his burning home and makes a silent promise.

  No matter what, he will never, ever forgive.

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly, a heartfelt thank you to the folks at Hendrick’s Gin. Without you, none of this would have been possible. Whilst I wouldn’t necessarily recommend two transatlantic moves, a new baby, publishing a first, then writing a second, book within the space of eighteen months, it does wonders for your alcohol tolerance (shame the same can’t be said about your liver. . .).

  To my super-agent, Teresa Chris: apologies for being the most chaotic author on your books (see above). Your unwavering support and guidance mean everything . . . thank you!

  I’m indebted to the team at Bonnier Zaffre. In particular, my fabulous editor, Katherine Armstrong. Thank you for your endless patience and for turning The Perfect Victim into a far better novel. Also, I am never drinking with you again (until the next time). Thanks also to my wonderful copy-editor Jon Appleton, proofreader Mary Chamberlain, cover designer Anneka Sandher; to Kate Parkin, Rebecca Farrell, Nico Poilblanc, and to my lovely publicist Emily Burns.

  I wouldn’t have got very far without the genius minds of Federal Forensic Investigator and Polygraph Examiner, Geoff Symon; retired Police Inspector and owner of Crime Writing Solutions, Kevin N. Robinson; and former police detective, Stuart Gibbon, at GIB Consultancy.