Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series)

by Corrie Jackson

  Directly in front of me was room 538.

  ‘Do you recognise him?’ I was perched on the bench in the laundry room, watching Sasha pick the bubblegum varnish off her nails.

  ‘I can’t see his face.’

  ‘It’s the clearest picture I have. You said you were working that night. Is it possible you might have seen him?’ Sasha flexed her fingers, assessing the damage to her nails, then shrugged. I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. ‘CCTV showed him entering the staff door in the lobby at 10.46 p.m. Were you anywhere near there?’

  Sasha finally dragged her eyes away from her cuticles and looked at me. ‘I had to take a bathrobe up to a room at the back of the hotel, so it was quicker to use the staff staircase. I think I did see a man coming down the stairs.’

  ‘You think?’

  She looked sheepish. ‘I was distracted. Dmitri was behind him, with a rucksack. His shift finished at 9 p.m. I wasn’t expecting to see him.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about this man? His clothes? His bag? Distinguishing marks?’

  Sasha screwed her face up. ‘He was going so fast. Um, I don’t know. Maybe his cap.’

  ‘What about it?’

  She frowned. ‘It had a sort of patch on the front. Red or black. Or maybe red and black.’

  ‘Did you get a look at his face?’

  Sasha rolled her eyes. ‘I told you, I wasn’t looking at him.’

  I slid the CCTV image into my bag. ‘Thanks for seeing me again, Sasha.’

  ‘Sure, no worries.’ She studied her nails again, this time less convincingly. ‘You going to meet Dmitri now? Tell him I said hi.’

  I stamped my feet to keep warm while I waited in the alleyway behind The Rose Hotel. The drizzle had turned into sleet and it melted as it hit the tarmac.

  A tall man dressed in a bottle-green uniform swaggered towards me. His hair was slicked back as if he’d just broken through the surface of a swimming pool. Sharp blue eyes and even sharper cheekbones.

  ‘Dmitri?’

  He nodded and pulled a brown envelope out of his jacket. ‘No one must know.’ His accent was the stuff of Hollywood villains. ‘I’m only doing this because of Sasha.’

  ‘Your girlfriend.’

  Dmitri gave a hollow laugh. ‘Is that what she told you?’

  I rooted around in my bag for cigarettes and offered him one. My hands were so cold I couldn’t work the lighter. Dmitri snatched it off me and lit a cigarette with long, thin fingers.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the incident on Thursday night?’

  He exhaled, studying me through a long whistle of smoke. ‘Sasha stays out of this from now on. She has a big mouth, she’ll get in trouble.’

  I batted the smoke away and nodded, wondering if it was Sasha he was protecting, or himself.

  Dmitri leaned against the wall, flattening the filter of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I didn’t see anything. I was on front desk the whole time. It was a busy night.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true, is it? Sasha told me she saw you coming down the back staircase two hours after your shift ended.’

  His eyes hardened. ‘See what I tell you about her big mouth.’

  ‘Why did you stick around?’

  Dmitri shrugged. ‘I had stuff to do.’ He flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground and I reached into my pocket for another.

  ‘Did you see Natalia?’ He took the cigarette, looking at me blankly. ‘The girl who was killed.’

  Dmitri’s mouth twisted into a leer. ‘You don’t forget a woman who looks like that. She left the party at around 10 p.m. Her dress pulled high up over her. . .’ He made a circular shape with his hands and wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

  ‘Did you see anyone follow her?’

  ‘Nope.’ He swivelled his head round and looked along the alleyway with a bored expression. ‘I need to get back.’

  I fished the CCTV image out of my bag. ‘Did you see this man on Thursday night?’ Dmitri glanced at the piece of paper and shook his head. ‘Really? He sat in your lobby for two hours.’

  ‘It was a busy night.’

  ‘And according to Sasha this man was walking down the back staircase a few feet ahead of you later that night.’ He took a couple of steps away from me and I put my hand on his arm to stop him. ‘Dmitri, exposing liars is what I do. I read body language the same way you read cheap porn, and you’re fidgeting like a pig in a slaughterhouse.’ I fixed him with a glare and folded my arms. ‘You barely looked at the photo, so you’ll take another look. Then you’ll tell me where you were after your shift ended. Because if you don’t, I will make it my life’s mission to find out and, believe me, you do not want that shit on your plate.’

  Dmitri slammed his fist against the wall and muttered something under his breath. ‘I was with a woman. A hotel guest.’ He ran a hand over his hair, then wiped the gel on his suit. ‘Whenever she stays at The Rose I meet with her.’

  ‘For money?’

  His eyes were mocking. ‘Why? You putting this in your story?’

  ‘What about Sasha?’

  ‘What about her?’

  I waited for him to show a hint of remorse but the bored expression was back. Except . . . ‘You sneaked me the hotel log as a favour to Sasha because you feel guilty.’

  Dmitri peered down his sharp nose at me. The wind had turned it red. ‘I feel nothing. For any of them.’

  ‘I’m going to need her name.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The hotel guest. To check you’re not lying to me again.’ I couldn’t keep the disgust out of my voice. Dmitri heard it but didn’t seem to care.

  ‘Sadie Long. Her details are in the log. Be careful, she’s married to a billionaire. I doubt she’ll want this made public.’

  ‘And this man?’ I thrust the piece of paper under his nose again.

  Dmitri took one last exaggerated look. ‘I didn’t see him.’ He flung his cigarette butt onto the tarmac and ground it in with the heel of his boot. ‘Are we done? I don’t want my boss to find me out here talking to the press.’ He hissed the last word between tight lips and didn’t wait for an answer. I watched his broad back disappear down the alleyway, feeling a wave of pity for Sasha.

  10

  Half an hour later I was struggling to catch my breath in the lobby of a smart townhouse on Dover Street. A candle the size of a fire extinguisher was spitting out a sickly scent that made me want to gag. A chic woman with pale, cappuccino-froth hair beckoned me over to her desk. Her cream tweed jacket and pearl clip-on earrings reminded me of my mother. Before she stopped getting dressed in the morning.

  ‘Go straight down the hallway. You won’t have long, though. Mr Scott has to leave in fifteen minutes.’

  I padded along a plush corridor with burgundy damask walls and gold light fittings, until I reached a studded black door.

  ‘Sophie Kent, how charming to meet you.’ Nathan Scott spoke like old money, but looked very much like new. He had the over-amped physique of a man who knew his way round a steroid bottle. Chunky gold bracelets adorned his wrists. Skin the colour of rust, and dark hair slicked back. He motioned towards the purple velvet chair by his desk.

  ‘This place is like the Palace of Versailles –’ I glanced up at the huge photographs of naked male and female torsos on the wall – ‘well, if Madonna had designed it.’

  Nathan laughed and rolled up the arm of his tight grey T-shirt. ‘You have an eye for design, darling. The P of V was exactly the look I was going for. I don’t have a proper studio. I move with the fashion crowd. I’m a nomad, a drifter. I capture the young and the beautiful. Then I return here to my sanctuary.’ He waved his hand with a flourish. ‘Hadley Summerville did it. The man is a genius. Do you know this desk is an exact replica of the one Louis the Fourteenth had in his private chambers?’ He slid his large hands lovingly across the surface and I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh.

  ‘I wondered if I might ask you
some questions about the murder at The Rose the other night.’

  Nathan’s face darkened. ‘What a terrible affair on what was such a wonderful evening. Do you know Leo Brand? Dear Leo. Fabulous that the Fashion Council is honouring him at last. What that man has done for women’s silhouettes is simply astonishing. He should be knighted.’ He pushed a button on the wall behind his desk. Moments later the door opened and the lady on reception appeared. ‘Margot, darling, I’m parched. Could you put the kettle on?’

  I opened my notebook on my lap. ‘You were the official photographer at Leo Brand’s party. Did you see Natalia Kotov that night?’

  He sighed. ‘I stare at people all night long but I don’t see them, if that makes sense. I’m too busy shooting, trying to cover every base and every face. I’m afraid I don’t remember her at all.’

  ‘Have you been doing this long?’

  ‘Oh, all my life. I’m from the sort of family that expects one to suit up and run a FTSE100, but photography is all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

  ‘How come you photograph parties rather than magazines or fashion campaigns?’ I was genuinely interested but when I saw a shadow pass across his face I realised I’d offended him.

  ‘Any chump with a camera can shoot in a studio with lightboxes and backdrops and teams of assistants. There’s great heritage in reportage photos. Lord Snowdon, Slim Aarons, Norman Parkinson. I imagine no one asked them why they didn’t aim higher.’

  I shifted in my chair. ‘That’s not what I said.’

  Nathan rose from his seat and glided over to a wall of shelves. ‘The real challenge is to shoot today’s stars on the hoof. There’s no time to prepare; you work with what you have.’ He pulled a binder off the shelf and returned to his seat. ‘Take the photos from Thursday night . . .’ He spun the binder round in my direction. ‘I may shoot digitally but I’m old-school, my dear. I love the feel of paper between my fingers. Costs me a fortune to print them all, but I need to see the real thing. Only then do I know if it’s a keeper.’

  I leaned forward to look.

  ‘That’s Cecily Press, the newest nymphet on the music block. Irish, I think. And there’s Diana Lewis, pretty slip of a thing. Not sure what she does for a living but who cares with those peach-blossom cheeks!’

  ‘Wow, these are amazing.’ And I meant it. Nathan’s pictures crackled with energy. They made me want to climb in and join the party.

  ‘Thank you.’ His voice was thick with pleasure. ‘The trick is to disappear. You want them at their most natural. And it helps that I never take a bad photo,’ he added, grinning.

  The door opened and Margot appeared with a silver tray. She walked like a geisha, all the while gazing at Nathan with heart-struck-schoolgirl eyes. Margot placed a cup and saucer on the desk in front of me. I thanked her and her small pink mouth curved up into a smile.

  ‘Dear woman. Isn’t she fabulous?’ Nathan’s eyes shone as Margot shuffled out of the room. ‘And you should see her daughter. She came in the other day, a dazzling bundle of sunlight. All long brown limbs and golden skin. I’m desperate to photograph her but Margot won’t let me. Says she’s too young. I’m hoping to persuade her. Very few people make it into my personal collection.’ He gestured at the photographs on the walls. ‘But when I have a subject in my sights, I don’t let go.’ He paused, his eyes travelling over me. ‘Would you consider being photographed?’

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Don’t be shy, Miss Kent. The body is Nature’s masterpiece.’

  Nathan’s laser-beam gaze unnerved me, flattered me. I knew he was being inappropriate, but he was so charismatic that part of me didn’t want him to stop. I coughed, embarrassed, and my overly perfumed Earl Grey went down the wrong way.

  Nathan grinned as I pulled the binder towards me. The photographs from Thursday night were time-stamped. I pulled my chair in closer to Nathan’s desk. I knew from the CCTV footage that Natalia had crossed the lobby at 8.26 p.m. I turned the page and, in the background of a shot of two blondes clinking champagne flutes, I caught a glimpse of Natalia’s gold dress.

  ‘How long have you been at The London Herald, my dear?’

  I tore my eyes away from the binder. ‘Eight years.’

  His eyebrows arched. ‘My goodness, you don’t look old enough. What were you when you started? Child labour?’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Do you know darling Molly?’

  It was hard to avoid the Fashion Director, Molly Simpson. Tall and reedy, she sported an uneven black bob that looked as if the hairstylist started on it, and then got called away. Her signature look involved anything pink, shiny or covered in feathers. Rumour had it she was desperate to move into magazines, but no one took her seriously enough to offer her an editorship. So she was destined to haunt the newsroom resembling a demented liquorice allsort.

  ‘Molly is a dear friend of mine. She used to stay in my apartment during Paris Fashion Week. A shoebox of a place but, my, did we have fun.’

  ‘You lived in Paris?’

  He waved a hand in the air. ‘Bien sûr! Paris, Florence, Venice, Brussels. You name it I’ve lived there. I’m quite the travelling minstrel.’

  ‘Where do you live now?’

  Something flickered across Nathan’s face. ‘Well, in truth, my dear, I’m between places. I had a small financial upset – a bad investment, shall we say – that meant I had to sell my little place on Marylebone High Street. Things are on the up but, right now, I’m staying here.’ He pointed to the plum-coloured daybed behind me.

  ‘You sleep in your office?’

  ‘It’s only temporary, darling. And who wouldn’t want to sleep in the Palace of Versailles, right?’ Nathan winked and sipped his tea.

  The gold-plated telephone on his desk rang and he pounced on it.

  ‘Yes, darling? Well, can’t you tell him I’m busy?’ A dramatic sigh. ‘Fine, I’m coming.’ He slammed the receiver down, and gave me an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, my dear. I have to go deal with something. Sit tight, I’ll be right back.’

  Nathan swept out in a fog of sandalwood and I pulled the binder towards me. In the next shot, Nathan had moved position and was shooting from behind Natalia towards the mirrored bar. She was in the centre of the photograph, her stride shortening as she slowed down. I knew what was coming. In the next photograph Natalia was slightly out of focus. Her dark hair fell around her face, hiding her expression. But I recognised the rigid stance, the unnatural angle of her head. What was she looking at? At first, all I could see was a blur of faces in the background. In the next photo, the background sharpened.

  I was looking directly at Liam Crawford.

  I froze for the briefest of moments, then grabbed my phone and began snapping Nathan’s photos. Footsteps approached, along with the muffled sound of Nathan calling out to Margot. The door handle creaked and I sprang back into the chair.

  ‘Do forgive me, darling.’ Nathan flounced over to a walnut dresser, opened a drawer and began piling camera equipment into a leather holdall. ‘I’m afraid our time is up. Duty calls. I have a date with the bold and the beautiful at Berkeley Square.’

  My ears pricked up. ‘Jemima Snow?’

  ‘The very same.’ He was only half listening, his eyes scanning the room for something. ‘Where’s my jacket? Margot!’ His voice made the walls shake.

  I gathered my things, wondering how I could keep him talking. ‘I’m going to Jemima Snow too.’

  The door opened and Margot shuffled through, clutching a battered leather jacket.

  ‘Margot, you angel.’ Nathan kissed her cheek, then turned to me. ‘Well, you must allow me to escort you there.’ He held the door open for me, turning back as he wrapped a silk scarf around his neck. ‘Margot, darling, if Laura calls, tell her I’ll meet her at Browns at 6 p.m.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Ready?’

  Over his shoulder I watched Margot put her hand to her cheek, to the spot where Nathan had kissed her.

  Nathan pelted down Dover Street as if he was a groom late
to the church. ‘Goodness me, this weather is frightful.’

  He stopped suddenly by a silver Rolls Royce and I slammed into the back of him.

  ‘This is your car?’ I asked, rubbing my head.

  ‘Isn’t she a beauty? Vintage – 1984. She corners like she’s on rails.’ He patted the roof as he spoke, a smile spreading across his face.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be quicker to walk to Berkeley Square?’

  Nathan gasped. ‘Walk? Are you mad?’ I slid into the passenger seat, laughing.

  ‘Now, let’s hope she starts.’ He turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred into life. ‘The show starts at midday, which means we’re already late.’

  I looked at my watch. ‘But it’s only 11.45 a.m.’

  Nathan snorted. ‘Darling, everyone knows the real show occurs off the catwalk.’

  ‘Do you mind if we talk about Thursday night? Did you see anything suspicious?’

  Nathan opened the window a crack. ‘Sorry, I know it’s arctic in here, but the windows will steam up.’ I burrowed deeper inside my scarf. Nathan’s mode of transport might look the part, but there was a very real chance we would freeze to death.

  ‘Hmmm, anything suspicious.’ He turned sharply into Berkeley Street, narrowly missing a pedestrian. ‘Not that I can recall. There was a delightful moment with Lydia Lawson. Some tipsy actress ricocheted into her and Cat Ramsey. I managed to stop Cat falling flat on her face.’ He lowered his voice, even though it was only the two of us in his car. ‘And, darling, that’s no mean feat. T-i-m-b-e-r! Lydia flounced off in a huff. I would love to have captured the murderous expression on her face.’ Nathan’s face fell. ‘Sorry, darling, wrong choice of word. But the night only got worse for Lydia. I caught her having a blazing row with her ex.’