BREAKING DEAD
CORRIE JACKSON
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
For James
T. C. B.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear
Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare
Her skin is perfect.
Pink and plump. The way it puckers in the cold night air sends a surge of heat through my bones. It lights me up with longing, and desire, and fury. White fury, so intense it makes me itch.
She is spread-eagled on the mattress, eyes closed, her dark hair smeared across her forehead in wet ribbons. I suck on my cigarette. Watch her through the smoke. She turns her head away from me. No matter. I don’t need to see her face. I know it like my own. Can picture the dusky curve of her eyelid, those apple-sweet lips.
A fox screams in the distance. I cock my head to one side, then roll the cigarette between my thumb and forefinger. The breeze coming through the shed window tugs at my hair like a sticky toddler. Reaching out, I drive the cigarette into the hollow of her throat.
A hot, red hiss of burning skin.
My body hums.
Someone shifts beside me, breaking the spell.
‘Ready?’
His voice is gruff. Like velvet dragged across gravel.
‘Take your time, she isn’t going anywhere.’ My eyes slide down to the restraints around her wrist; the slick of tape over her mouth.
Against the wall, more shadows watch, waiting their turn. The end is coming. I’m sure of it. These purple, pain-soaked nights aren’t enough any more. She isn’t enough. I see how fast their smiles drop, their eyes dull, once it’s over.
He sweeps past me. I catch a waft of stale sweat and pear drops. Can hear him sucking. The click as the sweet skates over his teeth.
He kneels down beside her. Unbuckles his belt. I can’t look away. She turns towards me. Begging silently in the dark. Her pupils are black and shiny, like liquorice.
Liquorice was my daddy’s favourite. He always gave me a twist of liquorice when he finished touching me.
I stare at the wound blistering on her neck.
Now her skin is perfect.
1
February 2014
A dazzle of frost had turned the grass white, and my feet crunched as I circled the police tape for a closer look. A sliver of the axe-head glinted in the wintery blue light. The rest was buried in the boy’s skull. A brand of some sort was stamped on the buttery-wood handle, but I couldn’t make out the word. I’d get it from the photos later. It’s the kind of detail I like to include.
Inhaling deeply, I winced as the arctic air sliced through my lungs. It was eerily quiet. I’d been on the next street, doorstepping robbery witnesses with my photographer, when a shrill of sirens pierced the air. Sprinting towards the streak of blue lights, we skidded into Milton Way council estate moments after the police. The head-start meant the Scene of Crime Officers were only just starting their assessment of the body. Not that the cause of death was in dispute.
‘Christ.’ Ned Mason’s voice sounded small and far away, even though he was close enough for me to smell his last cigarette. ‘Is that an axe?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. The frantic rat-tat-tat of his camera told me Ned had pulled himself together. It was crucial he nailed the details. The trouser leg that had ridden up, exposing a skinny black calf. The scuffed trainer lying on its side. The fuzz of hair amidst the mangled, red mess. My eyes snaked up towards the navy parka. A memory stirred, and I shook it away, focused on the kid’s outstretched arms. His fingertips were still buried in the white-tipped grass where he’d tried to crawl away.
Ned shifted beside me, lowered his voice. ‘Cavalry’s approaching.’
A squat police officer I didn’t recognise lurched towards us with a tarpaulin sheet under his arm.
‘Can you tell me anything about the kid?’
His ferrety eyes swung in my direction. ‘And you are?’
I held up my press card with a gloved hand. ‘Sophie Kent, The London Herald.’
‘Well, Sophie Kent, if you can find anything that resembles a face to ID, I’ll let the Chief know.’
I pulled out my notebook, even though his expression told me it was a waste of time. ‘Any word on who found him? Or how long he’s been here?’
The police officer threw the sheet over the body and bent over to straighten it, pausing at the end with the axe. When he stood up, his pitted face was a shade whiter.
‘Sorry, love, under strict instructions not to fraternise with your lot. Shame, though. I wouldn’t mind fraternising with you.’ His thin mouth spread into a leer that couldn’t hide the tightness in his jaw. I ignored the comment. Tensions were running high, and for good reason. This was what my editor would call an IFM. An Important Fucking Murder. The twentieth teenager to be killed since the Commissioner of Police publicly declared a crackdown on London street crime nine months ago. This boy would become synonymous with their failure. No wonder they weren’t talking.
He stomped back to the line of police vans, his boots leaving a trail of emerald footprints in the frost.
Ned wheezed beside me, squinting at his camera screen. ‘I’ve got some of the body, some of the axe. What else do we need?’
I glanced at the kid’s parka, at the gold circle branding his sleeve. I squeezed my eyes shut as an image of the same parka flashed through my mind – only this one wrapped around a skinny white boy with silvery-blonde hair.
I took a deep breath, forced my voice to sound calm. ‘Get crowd shots. Mourners. They’ll start laying flowers soon. Close-ups of personal messages. Anything that tells his story.’ This kid may well end up symbolising the Met’s weakening grip, but I was damned if he was going to be reduced to a statistic.
Ned pretended not to notice me struggling. He assessed the scene with shrewd grey eyes. ‘Hardly your average street murder, is it?’
I cleared my throat, stamped my feet to keep warm, glanced at the green canvas rucksack flung open next to the body, its contents strewn across the ground. A plastic lunchbox lay next to a battered copy of Romeo and Juliet. The cover of a biology textbook flapped in the wind. ‘He was young. On his way home from school, poor kid.’
My voice cracked. This time Ned threw me a glance.
‘You OK?’
I glared at the darkening sky. ‘I’m fine.’
Ned paused, then threw his camera strap around his neck. ‘I’ll come fin
d you when I’m done.’
I watched him punch through the crowd, a boxer on a losing streak. At sixty-four, Ned was considerably older than your average crime photographer but what he lacked in finesse, he made up for in experience. Ned might be entering ‘God’s departure lounge’, as he called it, but I didn’t doubt his ability to get the money shot, not for a second.
A distant whump-whump-whump of a news helicopter rattled through the air. Heart thumping, I surveyed the unfolding chaos. Witnesses huddled in groups, clutching each other, their eyes dancing in the flashing lights. Reporters and news crews scampered round them like feverish squirrels. If I joined in, I’d end up with the same quotes. I needed a different tack.
I scanned the high-rise jungle. The murder had taken place behind a line of parked cars, on the grassy wasteland in front of the building. The clearest viewpoint would be on the third floor, over to the right. I sprinted towards the stairwell and took the steps two at a time, dodging a used condom and empty Burger King boxes. I paused at the top to catch my breath. The sour stench of urine filled my nostrils.
I knocked on the first door.
An elderly lady appeared. She was short, my height, and round as a barrel. A Saint Christopher chain hung around her neck.
‘Hello, I’m a reporter with The London Herald. Can you tell me anything about the incident?’
‘I didn’t see nothing.’ Her voice was high and bleating. She pushed her thick glasses up her nose and they left behind deep red welts. ‘But it’s obvious, ain’t it? Drugs. I’ve lived here for over forty years; this neighbourhood used to be respectable. Do you know how many kids have been killed round here lately?’
I was sympathetic. I’d written about most of them.
Up ahead I spotted a tall brunette girl darting into her flat.
‘Wait!’
She glanced back and her distress was so raw it wrong-footed me for a second. I glimpsed her face through a shroud of dark hair. Small elfin features and full lips, which she chewed between the gap in her front teeth. She stared down at the floor, as though to stop herself from crying. Her chin creased with the effort. ‘Hey, are you OK?’
The girl wiped her puffy eyes with the palm of a trembling hand. A blue butterfly tattoo covered the lower part of her middle finger. She started to close the door but I put my hand out to stop it.
‘Please, let me help you.’
The girl didn’t speak. Instead, she left the door open for me.
I followed her into a tiny sitting room that was foggy with cigarette smoke. On the walls, yellow paint blistered like acne over patches of damp. Her flat was barely any warmer than outside. I pulled my coat tightly around me waiting for the girl to say something, but she collapsed on the grey sofa, wrapped one long, skinny leg around the other and relit a half-smoked cigarette. The smoke twisted upwards and hit the ceiling.
‘Did you know the victim?’ She gave me a blank look. I spotted a Russian dictionary on the shelf. ‘You’re from Russia?’ At the mention of Russia, her violet-blue eyes flickered. ‘What’s your name?’
She inhaled deeply, blew the smoke out in a long white stream. ‘Natalia.’
Her voice was deeper than I expected. Despite the chill, she was dressed in a T-shirt and a short, flowery skirt that fluttered as she twitched her bare foot.
‘How old are you?’
She paused. ‘Eighteen.’
‘How long have you been in London?’
Natalia stubbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. ‘Three months.’
She didn’t elaborate and I didn’t pressure her. I noticed a black portfolio half-hidden under the sofa with gold lettering embossed along the top: Models International. That would explain her bone structure and willowy frame.
‘Does anyone else live here with you?’
Natalia lit another cigarette with shaky hands. ‘Eva. She at casting.’
My deadline was looming and I moved to the window. The net curtain felt damp between my fingers. SOCOs were erecting a white tent over the boy’s body. The navy parka.
I shook my head. ‘Are you crying because of that? Did you see something?’
Natalia uncoiled herself and joined me. Watery daylight filtered through the window, affording me a proper look at her face. Skin pale as a pearl, and an ugly purple bruise on her cheek. She peered through the window and her hand flew up to her mouth. A bracelet of bruises marked her wrist. She shook her head so violently, her dark hair loosened from its bun and fell around her shoulders. I led her gently back to the sofa.
‘Natalia, what happened to your face?’
She shrank into the seat, pulling her skirt down over her milky thighs. Even then it didn’t cover her birthmark, round and brown, like an old penny.
‘It is accident. I slip.’ She fixed me with a doleful gaze. ‘Please, you go.’
‘I’m not leaving until you let me help you.’
Natalia chewed her lip. ‘I can’t talk here. Somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
She shrugged, her eyes cloudy with fear. I grabbed her phone and dialled my number. It rang in my bag. ‘Listen, I have your number. I’ll text you the address of a pub nearby. We can meet there tonight?’ Natalia shook her head. ‘Tomorrow?’ A small nod.
I let myself out and leaned heavily against the cold concrete, willing my feet to move. Knowing what would happen if they didn’t.
By the third door, I’d learned the victim was fourteen-year-old Jason Danby. A studious kid and an ardent Millwall supporter, raised by his aunt Mary, who lived in the tower block opposite this one. His older brother, Jermaine, belonged to a notorious gang called the Red-Skilled Boys, and often loitered around the council estate in his trademark coat: a navy parka. A man with sad eyes and peppery hair told me he heard a scream, looked out of the window and saw the boy’s skull dribbling blood on to the ground. He thought it was Jermaine until he saw the rucksack. The man took my card and closed the door, shaking his head.
Sixty feet below me, a pathologist approached the tent. Keep moving. I closed my eyes, replayed the scene behind my eyelids. Bloodied face and sugar-white socks. Frozen fingertips, sticky axe. Keep moving. My hand moved to the small, silver T on a chain around my neck. I pressed the corners of its familiar shape into my fingers. Then all of a sudden, dread pooled in my stomach, heavy as wet mud. I squeezed my eyes shut, braced myself for the crash. Pounding heart. Ragged breath. Cold, iron fist around my heart. I dug my nails into my palms as I clung on, willing it to pass. Nausea gave way to pain. I howled into the wind and kicked the wall hard.
Stumbling forwards, I hammered on the next door. Cheap plywood reverberated against my hand. The door opened a crack and a wiry black man in a blue, zip-up hoodie peered out, eyes full of mistrust.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m a reporter from The London –’
The door slammed sharply in my face. I knocked again.
A muffled voice, thick with anger. ‘Get the fuck outta here.’
Keep moving.
I hurled myself against the door. ‘Tell me what you saw. Stop hiding, you moron. I’m trying to help –’
‘Sophie!’ Ned’s hand gripped my shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’
I wrenched myself free, pulled back, staggered against the concrete. ‘I got a name. Jason Danby.’ My eyes were watering so much I could barely see. ‘Fourteen, Ned. Fourteen. His aunt’s in Tower Block C. I need to talk to her.’
‘The aunt will be behind a wall of people. Besides,’ Ned paused, raised his eyebrows, ‘you shouldn’t question family members. Not like this.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
Ned fiddled with his camera strap. ‘Listen, it’s your first day back, and this crime scene is –’
‘Ned, there’s a teenager over there with an axe through his brain. Can we not do this now?’
Ned shrugged and opened his mouth to speak, but I didn’t wait to hear him. I turned on my heel and charged down the steps. Toward
s Tower Block C. Towards Mary Danby. Towards the story.
The icy air shredded my insides.
Keep fucking moving.
2
One Week Later
‘For Christ’s sake, Sophie, what were you thinking?’ Philip Rowley’s narrow face peeped over the mounds of paper on his desk like a mole coming up for air.
‘She’s not giving you the full picture. I rang the buzzer and she wouldn’t speak to me –’
‘So you yelled at her?’
I bristled. ‘I didn’t yell.’ The sound of Mary Danby’s tired voice shuddered through my brain. ‘I knew if she heard me out, she’d talk.’
Rowley gave me a stony look. ‘Bullshit, Sophie. Not only is it a completely ineffective way to get someone to open up, it’s harassment. I told you a week ago to leave that woman alone. And now I find out you’ve been back to the Milton estate to question her again.’
Rowley’s high-pitched voice had earned him the ironic nickname of the Growler, but I knew better than to question his authority. He was a powerhouse editor who had overseen The London Herald’s transition from an also-ran to the third highest-selling newspaper in the country. A tough Yorkshireman, I knew from the moment I met him that I’d need to prove myself beyond the normal standard. Rowley despised family money and private education, both of which I had in spades. I knew my clipped accent grated on him, but I liked to think I’d earned his respect. I’d brought in more than my fair share of exclusives and it helped that I knew how to handle him: keep it short, sweet and never say no.
Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 1
