Liam Crawford.
I leaped out of bed and ran to the shower. How would I explain to Rowley that I’d missed the scoop? Turns out, I didn’t need to. An email landed in my inbox less than a minute later.
Why aren’t we breaking this story? Pull your finger out or I’ll find someone else who’s up to the job.
I thrashed out an apology, fumbled into a black trouser suit and raced out of the door.
St Mary’s, Holborn, was a small, rundown church that sagged between two office blocks on Boswell Street. Police had erected barriers along the pavement to keep the press and public away and a sizeable crowd had turned up to gawk. I turned my back against the wind and dialled Durand’s number.
He picked up after two rings. ‘Good morning.’ His voice sounded unnaturally formal; a sign that he had company.
‘Not a good time?’
‘Bear with me.’ Durand put his hand over the receiver and I heard muffled voices. Then he was back. ‘What can I do for you?’
The winter sun was so weak, it was as if a hologram of the sun hung in the leaden sky. I sheltered against a wall, wishing I’d worn a coat.
‘Is Crawford being questioned?’
‘I believe he’s in the building.’
‘Is he talking?’
‘I can’t comment.’ There was a pause. ‘So, the Star broke the story.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t rub it in. Crawford lied to my face yesterday.’
‘Men like Crawford have a talent for pulling the wool over people’s eyes.’
‘Do you think he did it?’ Durand didn’t answer. I sighed. ‘I’m really up shit creek with my editor. Can you give me something? You know I’ll beg if you ask.’
Durand laughed, a sound that always warmed me, then lowered his voice. ‘A small tidbit to cheer you up. Forensics lifted some fingerprints off Natalia’s hotel doorhandle. So far we’ve managed to eliminate everyone we know to have entered her room. And there’s no match in our system either. The housekeeper cleaned Natalia’s room at 2.30 p.m. and remembers wiping the doorhandle, so whoever the prints belong to entered the room after that.’
‘The prints aren’t Crawford’s, though.’
Durand sighed. ‘That would be too easy. But it doesn’t rule him out.’ I remembered what the coroner said about the latex imprint on Natalia’s neck. The killer wore gloves. ‘Hotel rooms are notoriously tricky. Too much footfall. It takes time to eliminate all the traces and prints Forensics uncover.’
I was starting to lose the feeling in my toes. ‘What can I use?’
‘Nothing, yet. If those fingerprints do belong to the killer, we don’t want to alert him to his mistake.’ Durand’s voice took on the formal edge from earlier. ‘I have to go. Let’s touch base soon.’
The crowd outside the church had swelled and, as I pushed my way to the front, I spotted a tall figure with a familiar mop of blond curls. I tapped him on the arm.
Aiden Isaac’s grey eyes brightened. ‘Soph! How’s it going?’
We had worked together as junior reporters at The London Herald, before Aiden decided his skin was too thin and his stomach too weak to pound the streets looking for trouble. He left to pursue a more upscale experience at a weekly gossip magazine. Now the extent of the dirt under his fingernails was identifying which reality-TV star was cheating on his wife.
Aiden shivered dramatically. ‘Darling, isn’t this vile? We’re packed out here like vultures. Fatlobes has decided she must have frontline colour to go with our piece on dead models.’
Fatlobes was Aiden’s notoriously tricky editor, Liz Brent – wildly unpopular thanks to her catatonic inability to make a decision under pressure. A lifetime’s passion for enormous dangling earrings had stretched her earlobes beyond recognition. Hence the nickname.
Aiden lowered his voice. ‘She’s already written the cover line. Messed-up models: young, beautiful – and dead. It’s so not my bag but, you know, in this climate one must make oneself indispensable.’ He beamed. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. Apparently Lydia Lawson is on her way. Squeal.’
Poor Natalia was being sidelined at her own memorial service.
‘Who’s gone in?’
‘Hardly anyone. It’s t-r-a-g-i-c. A waif arrived a few minutes ago wearing a short red kilt. To a memorial service!’
I glanced past Aiden. ‘I need to get inside that church.’
A mixture of shock and admiration registered on his face. ‘Darling, you wouldn’t. You’re shameless. How will you get past the barriers?’
At that moment an SUV pulled up outside the church. The driver opened the door and Cat Ramsey stepped out, her mouth set in a grim line. Lydia Lawson appeared behind her, in a black figure-hugging dress and a glossy pout. Her dark hair fell in thick waves, her face hidden behind oversized sunglasses.
The crowd surged forward and I lost my footing. Aiden propped me up.
‘Do you want to sit on my shoulders, Dopey?’
‘Very funny.’
Cat propelled Lydia towards the church entrance. I managed to squeeze through a gap between two barriers just as they reached me.
‘Lydia, it’s Sophie Kent!’ Lydia looked round. ‘Please, Lydia. I want to pay my respects to Natalia in person but I can’t get through because I’m press. Can you help?’
Cat tugged at her arm. ‘Lydia, I really don’t think –’
Lydia cut her off. ‘Natalia would have wanted Sophie here.’
I paused in the church doorway, risking a quick look back at the throng of reporters. In the middle of a sea of envious faces stood Aiden, giving me a wide grin and a double thumbs-up.
‘My God, that was awful.’ Lydia paused by the font and removed her glasses to reveal puffy eyes. Up close, I could see a thick line along her jaw where she hadn’t blended her foundation. ‘Those bloodsuckers. They’re wrong about Liam. He came back to the hotel to –’
‘That’s enough, Lydia. She’s press too.’ Cat gave me a cold look, then led Lydia to the front of the church.
Despite the interest outside, the church was almost empty. London Fashion Week was keeping the style crowd busy, and clearly Natalia hadn’t made many friends. As I slipped into a pew near the back, I recognised a couple of Models International employees chatting merrily away. Did Cat make them come to bump up the numbers?
A few rows behind them sat a solitary figure in a red coat. Her long, honey-blonde hair dipped behind the back of the seat and, when she turned to look at the stained-glass window, she revealed a pretty profile. Was she Natalia’s flatmate, Eva Kaminski?
The organist began to play ‘Ave Maria’ and a vicar appeared in the doorway at the side of the altar. He was about to step up into the pulpit, but changed his mind when he saw the size of the congregation. He shuffled to the front of the altar and cleared his throat.
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to remember the tragically short life of one of God’s brightest angels, Natalia Kotov. As difficult as it is for us to comprehend, know this: the Lord Almighty had a reason for calling Natalia to his side.’
I rolled my eyes. How could he put a positive spin on Natalia’s fate? She wasn’t swept up to heaven on a fluffy, white cloud. What happened to her was savage. It was hypocritical to pretend otherwise. I’d seen too many senseless horrors to believe there was a God. Only six weeks ago I’d covered the brutal killing of a sweet-tempered Indian man who worked eighteen-hour days to keep his corner shop afloat. He was stabbed eight times in the chest by a group of smashed-up teenagers who enjoyed themselves so much, they forgot to take the money from the till when they left. People often ask if my job hardens me; whether I become desensitised to news. The answer is the opposite. I care more every day that passes.
My phone buzzed in my bag and I took a surreptitious look at the text, then wished I hadn’t. It was from Mack.
I’m staying in London tonight. Join me.
The closing bars of ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’ floated through the air and the Models Intern
ational crew filed to the back of the church. Lydia reapplied her lipstick and plumped her hair ready for the cameras. Cat hung back looking at her phone and I sidled over.
‘Thanks for letting me say goodbye.’
‘Well, as Lydia said, you were trying to help Natalia.’
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about the night she died.’ I fiddled with the belt buckle on my coat. It didn’t feel good questioning a source at a memorial service, and the curl of Cat’s lip told me she agreed. ‘Why did you swap rooms with Natalia at The Rose?’
Cat slid her phone into her clutch bag and sighed. ‘Because she asked me to. She rang me, crying, to say she couldn’t stay in her room. She wouldn’t tell me why and I didn’t have the energy. The hotel was full so the easiest solution was to swap with her.’
‘And you have no idea what scared her?’
Cat shook her head. ‘I wish I did.’
‘Did anyone else know she moved rooms?’
Cat was momentarily distracted by Lydia cursing loudly as her heel got stuck between two flagstones. ‘No idea. Why?’
‘Because the killer knew which room to find her in.’
A light went on in Cat’s eyes. ‘Shit, I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Cat, are we standing here all day or are we making my exit?’ Lydia leaned against the font, pouting. Cat gave her dress a quick brush-down. Then Lydia slid on her dark glasses, thrust her shoulders back and strode out into the spotlight.
When I turned round, the blonde girl was swinging her bag over her shoulder. Her short skirt was wildly inappropriate for a memorial service but something about her awkward, teenage gait told me she wasn’t trying to stand out. I lingered, pretending to gather my things.
When she reached me, I put my hand out to shake hers. ‘Eva?’ She looked at me with large eyes the colour of a hot, August sky. ‘I’m Sophie Kent.’
A flicker of recognition swept across Eva’s face. She shook my hand. Her skin felt dry and papery. ‘You’re the reporter who was helping Natalia.’
‘Not hard enough, as it turned out.’ It was difficult to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
Eva zipped up her red coat. ‘Still, you tried.’
‘Eva, do you have time for coffee?’
She looked at her watch. ‘I have a casting at twelve o’clock and have to go home to change. You can come with me? It’s New Cross.’
Number 32 Milton Way. How could I forget?
14
Eva kicked off her shoes. ‘Do you want coffee?’
I nodded. The flat looked the same, except for the thin, red blanket covering the sofa and the smattering of photographs tacked onto the fridge. Frost blurred the windows and a peaty, damp smell hung in the air. I put my hand to the radiator. ‘Doesn’t your heating work?’
Eva shrugged. ‘Sometimes. A man came to look at it.’
‘Your English is very good.’
Eva moved gracefully round the kitchen. As she reached up to grab two mugs from a cupboard, her jumper lifted to reveal a very pronounced hip bone. ‘My pappa is British so I grew up speaking it. I moved here in June. Lived here with Anya, until she went to Tokyo.’
‘Anya’s a model too?’
‘Was a model.’ Eva’s hand wobbled as she tipped spoonfuls of coffee into the mugs. ‘She got fat. On purpose, I think. Anya hated Tokyo but couldn’t afford the flight back to Kosovo. Her Japanese agency made her sign an agreement saying she’d forfeit her contract if she gained more than a centimetre around her waist. So she ate like a pig and, bingo, home sweet home.’ She gave a throaty laugh.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘It’s that strict?’
Eva shrugged. ‘Depends who you’re signed with. British agencies are better at disguising it. I’ve been asked to tone up and get in shape. Whatever phrase they use, we all know what they mean.’ She handed me a mug and I winced as the heat scorched my frozen skin. ‘Models International shaved a centimetre off my hips and waist for my composite card. If a client expects those measurements, you can’t show up any larger. Better to be skinny than sorry.’
Eva talked quickly, her words running into each other. I parked myself on the sofa, digesting what she said. I didn’t know which was worse, the industry’s passive-aggressive control techniques or Eva’s cheerful acceptance of them.
She caught my horrified expression and laughed. ‘Look, no one ever said it was easy. You do what you need to do. Before my trip to Toyko last month, I spent a fortnight on celery and green juice and managed to book a couple of magazine shoots.’ Her voice swelled with pride. ‘Tokyo sucks but it’s where you go to earn cash. Especially if you’re young and blonde. It’s not Vogue, but I have to clear my debt somehow.’
‘Your debt?’ I thought back to what Lydia said about agencies not paying real money.
Eva perched on the sofa and blew the steam across her coffee mug. ‘My agency paid for my visa and my flight from Russia. Plus my test shoot and composite card. And my rent, of course. It’s expensive. Most models owe their agency a few thousand pounds before they even book a job.’
I set my mug down on the table and took out my notebook. ‘Was Natalia in debt?’
Eva jumped up from the sofa. ‘Sorry, I didn’t ask if you wanted sugar in your coffee.’
‘No thanks.’ I frowned, watching as she dumped three sugars into her mug. She stirred her coffee but didn’t return to the sofa. ‘How come you weren’t at Leo Brand’s party?’
Eva leaned against the counter, cradling her mug between porcelain-white hands. ‘The agency picks which models to invite. Natalia did a couple of magazine shoots. And she’d been optioned for three shows so she was obviously impressing them.’ Something about her tone was off. Was it jealousy . . . or something else?
I tucked my legs underneath me to keep warm. ‘How well did you know Natalia?’
Eva gazed out of the window, the corners of her pretty mouth pulled tight, as if she didn’t trust herself to speak. ‘We lived together for three months.’
I waited for her to continue, but she just sipped her coffee. ‘Did she ever confide in you?’
Eva didn’t meet my eye; all the warmth and openness of earlier had evaporated.
I stood up and moved across to the window, yesterday’s downpours forgotten as the sun shone low in the cruel blue sky. I pressed my hand against the glass and thought back to the day I’d looked out at Jason Danby’s body. I’d been right to worry about Natalia. If only I’d known then the danger she was in.
‘Natalia talked about her family all the time. I felt as if I knew her brothers. Pyotr, Viktor, Nikolay and what was the eldest called?’
‘Roman.’ I heard Eva sigh. ‘Every month Natalia sent money to her mamma. It was the first time little Pyotr was bought anything new. Everything else was handed down from his brothers. Her mamma posted her a photo. You should have seen Natalia’s face. It lit her up inside.’
‘She must have been doing pretty well if she was able to send money to her mother.’
Eva shrugged, then dumped her mug in the sink. ‘I need to get ready for my casting.’
I put a hand out to stop her, even though she was on the other side of the room. ‘Please, Eva.’
She didn’t move. When she spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘Natalia was . . . complicated. She was dealing with a lot of stuff.’
‘What kind of stuff?’ Had Natalia told Eva she was raped?
Eva turned to face me, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Coming to London was a fresh start for Natalia. But things happened to her here that . . .’ She tailed off, staring at the floor.
I took a step towards her, then hesitated. ‘I know Natalia was raped.’ Eva pulled her cardigan more tightly around herself, not catching my eye. ‘Do you know anything about it?’
‘No.’
‘She never mentioned it to you?’ Eva shook her head and I swallowed my frustration. ‘Look, I feel as though I’m missing something here. What aren’t
you telling me?’
Eva stared into the space between us, as though we were on opposite sides of a pane of glass. ‘I used to hear her screams through the wall. She had terrible nightmares. Then, all of a sudden, no more screams. One day I went through her bag to find a lipstick she’d borrowed and I found some pills. She said they helped her sleep. But she took so many, she couldn’t wake up so she started taking stuff for that too.’
‘Cocaine?’
Eva shrugged. ‘Cocaine, speed, whatever. You don’t have to look hard in this business. I tried talking to her about it but she got mad. Then she overslept and missed an important casting. Her agent, Cat, was furious. I heard her yelling down the phone. Natalia was terrified. She thought she was being sent home.’
‘What happened?’
Eva plaited her hair as she spoke. ‘Cat booked her into NA. Told her if she didn’t get clean, she’d be dropped. Natalia went every Monday morning to a place on Shelby Street. It helped at first.’
‘But she relapsed?’
Eva wrapped her arms round herself. ‘Like I said, Natalia was complicated.’
A thought struck me. ‘Do you know if Natalia was taking drugs for ADHD?’
Eva’s eyes flitted across my face and settled on the floor. ‘Ritalin is an appetite suppressant. It’s an old industry trick.’
That’s why Lydia and Cat were cagey when I asked. I leaned my forehead against the window. An old lady was watering flowers on her balcony in the high-rise block opposite. Tiny brushstrokes of pink and violet against a canvas of concrete. I looked back at Eva. ‘Did Natalia ever mention an ex-boyfriend? A man she knew in Russia?’
The tension in Eva’s jaw melted as we changed topic. ‘Yeah, a couple of times. He was a drug dealer in her hometown. Had a thing for young girls, although I don’t think he knew quite how young Natalia was. Caused that scar on her eyebrow. Pushed her down the stairs one night when she tried to go out with friends.’
Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 11
