‘The last one. It’s punchy. Right, I’ll brief the team this end. Molly and her Fashion lot can pull together a puff piece on Lydia’s career. Christ, we don’t have long. Hang up and call the police. And, for God’s sake, don’t tell them you called me first. And don’t let them intimidate –’
‘Philip, I know what I’m doing.’
Rowley exhaled loudly. ‘Go find your line.’
He hung up and my shoulders dropped. I couldn’t believe I’d pulled that off.
My eyes jerked towards the black dress on the wardrobe. Its sequins shimmered in the candlelight. Where had I seen it before? It took a few seconds before I realised it was the dress Lydia wore to Leo Brand’s party. The night Natalia was murdered. A coincidence that it was hanging there? A message? The sweet air was making my eyes sting and I rubbed them with the heel of my hand. I limped over to a framed picture on the wall; a magazine cutting from Vogue’s September 2010 issue, with the headline: Why We’ve All Gone La-la for LyLaw. Above it was a candid photograph of Lydia at Milan Fashion Week. She was mid-stride, head turned back to the camera, tongue sticking out, energy radiating from every pore. What a difference four years made. Fun-loving fashion darling to self-obsessed tabloid fodder to . . . I glanced at the bed and sighed heavily.
It was time to make the next call.
‘Have you already left?’ Durand sounded busy.
‘Sorry?’
‘The press conference. I couldn’t see – hang on.’ A chorus of voices rose in the background. ‘No more questions. We’ll update you.’ He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Why aren’t you here? Got somewhere more important to be?’
I heard the tease in his voice and cleared my throat. ‘I was fired.’
Silence. ‘Are you OK?’
It warmed me that Durand’s first question was about my welfare. I turned my head just as a coppery waft hit the back of my throat. The words slipped out like a sneeze. ‘Lydia Lawson’s dead.’
‘What?’ Durand lowered his voice. ‘How do you –’
‘I’m at her house: 42 Sloane Gardens. Fuck, Sam. It’s –’
‘I need to call it in.’ His voice was flat. ‘Don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.’
The phone clicked and I was alone. I tasted metal and dabbed my mouth. I’d chewed through my lower lip.
I stuffed the torch into my bag, grabbed my phone, then photographed as much of the scene as I could. The only sound was the rustle of my shoe covers sliding across the carpet. I snapped the threadbare stuffed elephant on the armchair, next to a gold cushion stitched with the words All you need is love (& piles of £££). The kind of details that make a reporter’s copy sing.
Satisfied, I hobbled towards the door. The air on the landing smelled as fresh as a mountainside in comparison to Lydia’s room; I gulped a couple of lungfuls to steady myself. Then I staggered downstairs to take more pictures, glad to be back in the light. Aside from the upturned coat stand, the house was much tidier down here. In the sitting room, a few framed photographs stood on the shelves. Lydia backstage with an older couple that I took to be her parents; with Cat Ramsey in New York, in the photograph I’d seen in Cat’s office; on the beach with . . . I moved closer. Lydia was dressed in skimpy bikini bottoms and nothing else. Her body was pressed against Liam’s chest and he was frowning at something behind the photographer.
Suddenly an icy blue light flashed across the room and I heard multiple car doors slam. Without stopping to think, I limped up to Lydia’s bedroom. I wanted to be there when Durand saw her body.
‘Sophie?’
‘Up here.’ Footsteps creaked up the stairs and Durand’s large frame appeared in the doorway. He had changed into a navy suit for the press conference and his auburn hair was wet from the rain. His eyes darted past me and his jaw tightened.
‘How long have you been here?’
Durand didn’t need to know I’d negotiated a career comeback and helped myself to photographs of the crime scene. ‘Not long.’
Durand glanced at my gloves and shoe covers. ‘The SOCOs will be here any second. I . . .’ He pulled his torch out and ran the light round the room, pausing on Lydia’s face and the blood between her legs. I watched him struggle to get his face under control. ‘How did you get in?’
‘Front door was open.’ I explained what had happened. Durand’s eyes hardened when I mentioned Liam fleeing the scene. He patted his jacket, then pulled out his phone and turned away from me.
My hands were sweating inside my gloves. I tried to breathe shallowly. The smell was turning my stomach.
If Durand hadn’t crossed one arm under the other and pointed his torch downwards, I would never have spotted the sliver of silver beneath the chest of drawers. I pulled out my torch and inched forward. I could just about make out the edge of a scissor-blade. Next to it lay something round and purple and . . .
I crouched down, squinting. ‘Jesus.’
A hand on my shoulder. Durand’s voice floated towards me from the end of a tunnel. ‘You need to give a statement. PC Waters is –’ He saw the look on my face. ‘What’s wrong?’
I pointed at the carpet beneath the chest of drawers. Durand kneeled down, then swore under his breath.
Eventually I spoke, my voice strained. ‘I thought there was more blood than last time.’
Durand strode over to Lydia and angled his torch towards her chest. He lifted up her camisole.
‘He cut off her nipple?’ Saliva pooled in my mouth and I swallowed it away. ‘Why did he leave it here? Isn’t the point of a trophy that you take it with you? And is it odd that he left the scissors behind?’
Durand’s jaw was working. ‘We don’t know the scissors belong to the killer.’
I raised my eyebrows but didn’t press him. ‘Something or someone disturbed him. He left in a hurry.’
Mrs Smythe’s words came back to me and I shivered.
Durand noticed. ‘A team has been dispatched to bring Crawford in. But, as much as I dislike the man, we mustn’t jump to conclusions. And we mustn’t automatically assume this is the work of a serial killer.’
I wheeled round to face him. ‘Seriously? You don’t think it’s the same killer?’
Durand sighed. ‘I don’t think anything until Forensics have done their job. Who’s to say this isn’t a copycat killer? A great amount of detail from Natalia’s murder was reported in the press.’
I cleared my throat. ‘One detail wasn’t reported, though, was it?’
Durand’s eyes slid towards the blood-soaked eiderdown, and his face sagged.
I frowned. ‘That’s weird . . .’
‘What?’
‘In the Twitter video, Lydia was in bed. But, look, now she’s on top of it and the bed’s been made.’
Voices drifted up the stairs. Durand drew himself up and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Time to go.’
I followed him towards the door, then cast my eyes back towards Lydia’s mutilated corpse. Britain’s most notorious model would be stripped, prodded and examined. Then she would be photographed, one last time.
Back down in the hallway, I sidestepped a Scene of Crime Officer who was laying stepping plates along the carpet and made my way towards the door. My path was blocked by the neat, brunette police officer who’d given me a lift to The London Herald.
‘Sophie,’ she gave a quick smile, ‘I need to speak to you before you leave.’ I followed her into Lydia’s sitting room to give my statement. When I finished, PC Waters handed me a document to sign. ‘Can you write down your contact details, DCI Durand is bound to need them.’ I didn’t mention Durand had my number on speed dial.
I slipped through the front door, stumbling in my haste to get out. The air was cold and solid, like inhaling sheet ice.
‘Sophie!’ Ned Mason was on the wrong side of the police tape, his bulky frame silhouetted against a streetlight. ‘Bloody Northern Line was jammed.’
I trudged over to him. ‘They’ve shut the scene down anyway.�
�
Ned gave me a once-over and frowned. ‘You all right, love?’
‘Never better.’
Ned unclipped his lens cap. ‘I’ve missed the preamble, but Rowley will want a shot of the body leaving the building.’ He gave me another look. ‘You should get yourself home.’
The chill wind burrowed inside my bones and my ankle burned, but I limped past Sloane Square Tube Station. I needed to walk off the stench of death. I got as far as Cadogan Gardens when my phone rang. I yanked my glove off to answer it.
‘You have more lives than a sodding cat.’ Kate cackled down the phone. ‘Growler told me about Lydia Lawson. Fuck me. I’m primed and ready and the web team is standing by.’
I shuffled along the King’s Road, filling Kate in. She went silent when I revealed what was underneath the chest of drawers. ‘Don’t be specific. Police are using it as another control detail.’
‘Growler’s got the Fashion team working on Lydia’s style highs and lows. I’ve sent a stringer to doorstep her neighbours and we’re trying to reach the Fashion Council. Tomorrow is the last day of London Fashion Week so they’re bound to be jittery. Once I’ve filed, I’ll head over to the police station to see if I can get an update on Liam’s status.’
My heart lifted as I spied my front steps. ‘I’ll get my copy to you within the hour. Keep me posted on Crawford.’
I pulled the front door closed behind me, locking the city out.
21
I woke up after a thick blank sleep and reached for my phone. News of Lydia’s murder had gone stratospheric. The shocked public were reacting all over social media: #RIPLyLaw was trending at number one; #fashionslasher was number two. Designers and fashion editors, most of whom had turned their backs on Lydia, were posting iconic photographs and saccharine tributes. Stitched.com’s homepage displayed a black border and a gallery of Lydia’s greatest hits. I rolled my eyes at the headline: A Tearful Farewell To Our Favourite Icon. Written by the man who had devoted four gleeful pages to Lydia’s mental breakdown yesterday.
Milan and Paris Fashion Councils had released statements to say they were tightening up security ahead of their shows. Damian Anderson, Chair of the Fashion Council, announced that London Fashion Week would go on, and that each show would observe a minute’s silence in honour of the victims. I propped myself up on my pillows and switched on BBC Breakfast. A bronzed news reporter, with eyebrows like two scribbles, was in front of the Models International office.
Police are still questioning photographer Liam Crawford, who was seen fleeing the scene at five o’clock. Lydia’s body was discovered by London Herald reporter, Sophie Kent.
I dropped the phone as my photograph flashed up on the screen. It was the byline shot I’d had taken a couple of years ago, the one where I looked about eight. I checked The London Herald website; my piece had been retweeted 649,000 times.
Despite the increased security measures issued by the Fashion Council and the Metropolitan Police, some model agencies have pulled their clients from the final day of London Fashion Week.
I switched the TV off but could still hear it coming through the walls from my neighbour’s house. I listened to my voicemails. Nine messages from radio and television news channels inviting me on to their shows. My gruesome discovery had turned me into a minor celebrity. I deleted the messages. My loyalty lay with The London Herald.
Even though I had no office to go to, I showered and dressed in a charcoal trouser suit. Kate had sent me a text late last night to say Liam and Alexei were both being held, and I knew the coroner, David Sonoma, wouldn’t be ready to talk until the end of the day. I made tea, then shuffled through to my office and pinned a photograph of Lydia next to Natalia. Two heart-shaped faces. Two pairs of blue eyes. Two heads of glossy black hair. What was the link between them, other than the fact they were models? Or was that the link? I pinned other names to the board. Liam Crawford, Alexei Bortnik, Dmitri, Cat Ramsey, Leo Brand, Nathan Scott, even Mrs Smythe. Then I used different colour threads to link them – red for suspect, green for witness, blue for acquaintance, yellow for alibi, black for motive. Afterwards I sat back and stared. The tangle of coloured threads resembled a map of the London Underground.
I only had two suspects. Alexei had a strong motive for Natalia’s murder but the tightest of alibis for Lydia’s. Liam had access to both women, but what was his motive? I clinked my fingernails against my mug. Was there a third suspect?
A sudden bang made me jump. It was my letterbox slamming shut. I wandered into the hallway to find a padded envelope on the doormat. Inside was an unmarked USB stick, no note or anything to suggest what was on it. Frowning, I strode into my office and plugged it in.
Then I ran to the toilet to throw up.
‘I don’t think I should be talking to you.’ Cat’s assistant, Isabel Baker, ran her raspberry tongue over the silver stud in her lip. From where I stood, I could see Cat’s tired face, paused mid-blink on her computer screen.
‘I really need to speak to her. Do you know when she’ll be in?’
‘When she has a migraine she’s usually out of action for twenty-four hours. But, given the circumstances . . . I’ll tell her you dropped by.’ She turned her chair pointedly towards the computer and ran a hand through her Lucozade-coloured hair. ‘I don’t mean to be rude but if I don’t get yesterday’s Maybelline Skype call transcribed, she’ll kill me.’
Isabel played the video and I turned away, pretending to read something on my phone. An American voice: ‘You know we love Lydia. But she’s making it kinda hard to back her right now. Joseph and I think she’s too high-risk.’
Cat’s Botox-filled face didn’t move. ‘Marc, you need to have faith. Lydia is the poster-girl for her generation. Your consumers. And they’re about to witness the ultimate comeback.’ The sun must have emerged at that point because light flooded the room and flashed on a mirror on the shelf in the background. It was the photograph of Cat and Lydia in New York. The corner of the frame was missing.
The man cleared his throat. ‘I understand your position but I’m afraid –’
An email alert popped up on Isabel’s screen and she pressed pause. ‘Shit, she’s here.’
I looked round. ‘Where?’
Isabel nodded towards her screen. ‘Alessandra on reception always gives me a thirty-second warning.’
Cat swept across the room in a furry black coat and sunglasses, her lips tightened into a thin line.
Isabel jumped up, her voice bright and fake. ‘Good morning. I wasn’t sure if you’d be – um, can I get you anything?’
‘Ibuprofen. And coffee.’ Cat turned towards me and I cleared my throat.
‘I’m sorry to barge in . . . again. It’s urgent.’
Cat stared at me for a moment, then she nodded. ‘Five minutes.’
Once we were in her office, Cat raised a large, manicured hand and gestured for me to sit. Then she thumped her bag onto her desk and sat down, without removing her sunglasses.
‘I need to show you something.’ I rooted around in my bag and pulled out the USB stick. ‘This is the reason Lydia has been such a lunatic these past few months. Someone put it through my letterbox this morning.’
Cat removed her sunglasses and fixed her flinty eyes on my face. Then she held her hand out for the USB stick. A blank video screen appeared on her computer. I leaned over her and pressed play.
The video showed Lydia on a bed, on all fours, wearing a black-lace bra, her dark hair pulled over one shoulder. An overweight man with a pixellated face was penetrating her from behind, his stomach rippling like jelly with each thrust. The video cut to Lydia, naked with her wrists and ankles bound, being forced to perform oral sex on a different pixellated man. The next showed a tangle of limbs; in the centre was Lydia, spread-eagled, eyes glazed, being mauled by three pairs of hands. Two of the men gave a high-five over her limp body and, even though I’d watched it twice, nausea rose in my throat. I fast-forwarded the tape to where a man was leaving
a pile of cash next to Lydia’s slumped body. Then it cut to a different man doing the same thing, then another.
I pressed pause. ‘You get the idea.’
We sat in silence.
Eventually I cleared my throat. ‘I’m not sure how long this has been going on.’
Cat took a deep, shaky breath. ‘I’d say from the length of her hair in the first clip that it’s been a year, at least.’
I pulled out my notebook. ‘I’ve been running through possibilities on my way over here. It’s got to be a prostitute ring. Lydia can’t have known she was being filmed. My guess is that she was being blackmailed.’
There was a knock at the door and Isabel appeared with a Starbucks coffee and a box of painkillers. Cat yanked the screen round, and dismissed her with a cold look.
I waited until the door closed. ‘What if this . . . this sex ring is bigger than Lydia? What if Natalia was being blackmailed too?’ Cat popped two orange tablets out of the packet and swigged them down with coffee. ‘If Natalia was involved, it’s the link we’ve been looking for. A motive.’ Thoughts whistled through my brain. ‘Shit, don’t you see? Both Natalia and Lydia met with me in the past week. We weren’t discussing the sex ring, but what if the person behind it didn’t know that and got spooked. What if he silenced them before they could expose him.’
Cat cradled her cup between her hands. ‘The police never found a blackmail tape at Natalia’s.’ A note of hostility crept into her voice. If two of Cat’s clients were caught up in a sordid sex racket, she was the sort of woman who would take it as a personal failing.
I doodled on my notepad, as a thought began to take shape in my mind. ‘You know, something’s been bothering me about Natalia’s hotel room. There was mess. Clothes scattered round the room, toiletries dumped over the bathroom counter. Not the sort of mess that would bother most people, but Natalia was a neat freak.’ I dug my pen into my pad. ‘She was drunk, and drugged, so maybe she didn’t care. But,’ I looked up, ‘what if the killer was looking for something?’
Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 18
