The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  Rachel shifted her weight. ‘Listen, I don’t want to get in trouble. I don’t love HL, but I also don’t want to get fired.’

  I nodded. ‘I won’t name you.’

  Rachel took a deep lungful of air. ‘This is crazy. I only spoke to her Saturday morning.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘Sabrina-ish.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Rachel sighed. ‘She called me from her acupuncture appointment. Sabrina was very into alternative therapy. Acupuncture, reiki, crystals, that kind of thing. I had to carve out space in her diary for regular appointments.’

  ‘So the call on Saturday . . .’

  ‘. . . was because I’d muddled up her dates. I’d booked her in for reiki instead of reflexology and she was pissed off.’

  ‘Right.’

  Rachel caught my tone and smiled. ‘Look, Sabrina is – was – high-maintenance. Attractive, successful, rich, fit. But, aside from work, she didn’t have a lot else going on in her life. Her wellbeing became something of a hobby.’

  I nodded. ‘Not much else going on. Does that mean no love interest?’

  Rachel fell still. ‘I can’t comment on that.’

  I could tell the shock was subsiding and it was dawning on her that she was sitting with a reporter answering sensitive questions. It was time to up the stakes.

  I smoothed down my trousers. ‘You know, the Herald runs a law supplement every year. A round-up of the fifty best and worst firms to work for. I can mention your concerns to the team. No law firm wants to be outed for inequality these days. It might help shake things up a bit.’

  Rachel gave me an odd look. ‘You’re too late.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hamilton Law is already being exposed. By your own paper.’

  I frowned. ‘The Herald is writing about Hamilton Law?’

  Rachel smiled sadly. ‘Sabrina wasn’t one to take it lying down. She knew the best way to fight bullying was by exposing it.’

  ‘You mean in the press?’

  Rachel nodded. ‘She’s been meeting someone. A guy. I don’t know his name, but I know he was interested in the story.’

  The penny dropped. I logged on to Twitter and pulled up Charlie Swift’s photograph. ‘Is this the journalist she spoke to?’

  Rachel peered at my screen. ‘Yeah. That’s him. Good-looking guy.’

  I nodded, used to the reaction. Half the women at the Herald secretly fancied Charlie, the other half openly did. Years ago Charlie inadvertently caused mass hysteria by pitching up to an office fancy dress party as Spider-Man. I’ve never let him live the red Lycra down.

  I leaned back against the bench, irritated that my carrot had been taken off the table. ‘What was Sabrina actually fighting?’

  Rachel flexed her toes. ‘She was promoted to Partner recently, beat off stiff internal competition to get it, too.’

  ‘But doesn’t that disprove your sexism theory?’

  ‘Sure, on the one hand. But it’s what happened since that upset her. Have you heard of LegalLens.com?’ Rachel drained her coffee cup and crumpled it between her small hands. ‘It’s the legal industry’s gossip website. Who’s moving where; who got hired and fired. There’s a “Wicked Whispers” section. Anyone can upload things to it.’ She sniffed. ‘Recently there has been stuff on there about Sabrina.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  ‘That she was on antidepressants, mentally unstable, not fit to practise, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Was she on antidepressants?’

  Rachel narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s not the point.’

  I’ll take that as a yes. ‘Was she ever named?’

  ‘No, but there aren’t many red-headed Partners at London’s Big Five firms.’

  Rachel had a point. It hadn’t taken me long to track Sabrina down. A siren shrieked down the road next to us and I waited for it to pass.

  ‘Why didn’t Sabrina complain?’

  ‘She did. The comments got taken down. But then more reappeared.’

  I knew what Rachel meant. As a female journalist, I came in for my fair share of ‘below the line’ comments. Male colleagues were usually pulled up on their choice of phrasing, I was pulled up because my boobs weren’t big enough or because I was ‘asking for it’.

  ‘Did Sabrina know who was posting the comments?’

  ‘No idea.’ Rachel kicked the toe of her court shoe into the gravel.

  I knew she was hiding something but I didn’t want to scare her off. I pulled out my phone, and brought up Rachel’s Facebook page. ‘Can you tell me about this photograph?’

  Rachel shielded the screen against the sun’s glare. ‘The Christmas party? What do you want to know?’

  ‘Behind you, there. Sabrina and Bert Hughes. Was something going on between them?’

  She shrugged. ‘You know what Christmas parties are like.’

  ‘I thought you said she was too busy for a relationship.’

  ‘Define “relationship”.’ There was a bitter edge to her voice.

  ‘You didn’t approve of Bert?’

  ‘What can I say? He’s a charismatic guy.’ Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘Look, I don’t know the ins and outs. The whole staff went on one of those cringeworthy bonding trips in February. Sabrina and I had too many cocktails on the first night and she admitted she was involved with someone. Didn’t give me much. Just that she was trying to get out of the relationship.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was unsuitable.’

  I frowned at the photograph. ‘You think she meant Bert?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first member of staff he’s shagged, put it that way.’

  I nodded, studying Rachel out of the corner of my eye.

  Rachel’s phone rang and she glanced at the screen before cancelling the call. ‘Shit, I have to go.’ She stood up, then hesitated, looking unsure of herself. ‘What do I tell the office? About Sabrina.’

  I put a hand on her arm. ‘It’s up to you. There’s a good chance the police have already informed the CEO. The cat won’t be in the bag for long.’ I handed her my business card. ‘You’ve been so helpful, Rachel but, please, if there’s anything else.’

  She nodded, then glided off, looking more ballerina-like than ever.

  For a second I closed my eyes and turned my head towards the sun. Then I fired off an email to Charlie.

  Seriously, stop playing hard to get. I need to talk to you about Sabrina Hobbs and Hamilton Law. CALL ME.

  A peal of laughter made me look up. A group of schoolchildren filed across the square, holding onto a rope, bumping and jostling like ducklings. My eyes landed on the tiny boy at the end. His cap fell off revealing a head of fluffy white hair. Just as my throat started to close, my phone rang.

  I pounced on it. ‘Charlie?’

  ‘I wish. It’s Kate. Can you talk?’

  ‘Yep.’ I took a shaky breath, then slung my bag over my shoulder and walked towards the road.

  ‘Listen, the police have been here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They were in with Growler. Two of them. Man and a woman.’

  ‘A blond man?’ An image of DCI Golden’s ferocious expression flashed through my mind. Was I in trouble?

  ‘Growler’s having a pow-wow with Lansdowne now, but Sophie,’ Kate lowered her voice, ‘I think it’s about Charlie.’

  I stopped walking. ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Mack overheard them asking about his connection to Sabrina Hobbs.’

  I pressed myself against the railing as a group of office workers sidled past. ‘I’m still trying to get hold of him,’ I told her. ‘But listen to this.’ I relayed what Rachel had just told me.

  ‘So Charlie was working on a story with the victim.’

  ‘Apparently so. Can you ask Adam about it?’

  ‘Ask him yourself. He wants me to patch him into the call.’

  A moment later I heard Adam clear his throat. ‘Soph? Listen, don’t be
mad but I wasn’t entirely honest with you this morning. Charlie . . . this isn’t the first time he’s disappeared lately.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ A lorry rumbled past, its brakes squealing. The sound cut straight through me.

  Adam was still talking. ‘Ever . . . died . . . acting.’

  I put a hand over my ear, willing the lorry to move on. ‘What? I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘Ever since Charlie’s mum died. He’s been acting weird.’

  I raced back towards the lawn where it was quieter. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Charlie’s mum died.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Recently, I think.’ A pause. ‘I thought you knew. Um. Look, I don’t think he broadcast it to everyone.’

  ‘I’m not everyone, Adam.’

  I bent forward, feeling winded. For Charlie not to have told me his mum died was unthinkable. Vanessa was an alcoholic. It was one of things we bonded over. We both understood what it meant to have an addict in your life: the anxiety, the guilt, the lows, the even lower lows. ‘The last favour she did me was four decades ago when she squeezed me out of her you-know-what,’ Charlie once told me, a scowl on his face. As far as I knew he had very little contact with Vanessa, but even so, her death must have hit him hard.

  Suddenly, Adam’s earlier comment hit me. ‘What do you mean this isn’t the first time Charlie’s disappeared?’

  Adam sighed. ‘Look, I don’t want to get him in trouble. I’m only saying this now because Rowley is asking for him and I don’t know what to do.’

  I nodded. Charlie was the kind of guy you wanted to cover for. The kind who always had your back.

  ‘I remember the day his mum died because our junior, Greg, was off with a vomiting bug and we were short-staffed,’ Adam continued. ‘I was secretly relieved when Charlie said he’d come in anyway.’ He paused. ‘At first he was OK. But he’s been acting more and more weirdly. Coming in late, biting our heads off. Which isn’t like him, as you know. Sometimes he doesn’t even show up to work at all. I’ve been doing my best to cover his tracks but now Rowley is on my case and–’

  ‘Adam.’ I could hear the rising panic and cut him off. I knew exactly what he meant. Charlie had been struggling with something lately, but he clammed up whenever I broached the subject. How could he not have told me his mum died? ‘Listen, don’t drop him in it with Rowley yet. Give me a chance to find him.’ My voice sounded stronger than I felt.

  ‘Where are you?’ Kate sounded distracted.

  ‘Manchester Square,’ I said, as another siren howled in the distance setting my teeth on edge. ‘Has anyone contacted his wife, Emily?’

  Kate sighed. ‘That’s another reason I’m calling. Emily’s not answering her phone.’

  ‘You want me to try their flat?’

  ‘She’ll talk to you, Soph. At the very least she can give us a steer. Call me in an hour.’

  *

  I emerged from Regent’s Park Tube station and scampered along Albany Street, past rows of white-stucco Georgian terraces that resembled a BBC period-drama set. The sun was high in the sky and I shielded my eyes as I scanned road names trying to remember Charlie and Emily’s exact address. Ten minutes later, I gripped the black railings on the corner of Delaware Street, my heart thudding in my chest. I took a moment to let the adrenaline dissipate. I didn’t want to worry Emily.

  While Regent’s Park was a lofty, leafy part of London, the Swifts lived at the shabby end. Made worse by the state of their apartment block. It was built in the sixties – short and squat, with small windows and grimy yellow bricks – and was in the process of being modernised. A developer bought the block next to theirs and was joining the two buildings, except someone didn’t dot the ‘i’s properly on the planning application and it got rejected after building work started. Now it was in a grim state. Half under scaffolding. A large tarpaulin flapping in the breeze. ‘It’s been like this for months,’ Charlie told me in the canteen queue one morning. ‘A total shit-show. Builders made bloody great holes all over the building, then patched them up and buggered off.’

  As I waited for my heart rate to slow, I thought back to the first time I visited the flat. A house-warming party two years ago, before Emily and Charlie were married: all gin cocktails, Michael Bublé and a thousand candles. As I stood next to the makeshift bar in the sitting room, Charlie had sidled up.

  I pointed to the enormous flamingo-shaped ice bucket and Charlie whispered, ‘Emily doesn’t do things by halves.’

  That was the first night I met Emily. A pretty blonde with huge, blue eyes that gave her a startled look. She smelt of lemons and, after I kissed her on both cheeks, she pressed her business card into my hand. Thick white card, letterpressed with black script: Emily Danson: wedding planner.

  ‘Charlie’s told me all about you,’ she said in a high-pitched voice. ‘I’d love to plan your wedding one day.’

  I swigged my drink. ‘Can you find me a groom too?’

  ‘Surely you don’t need any help. Look at you!’ The bridge of her nose wrinkled.

  Emily told me her plans to branch into eco-weddings – ‘the next big thing’ – and how her two-year stint in California gave her a renewed respect and awe for the planet. ‘People over there are so much more enlightened. One bride got married in a dress made entirely from toilet paper.’

  ‘Handy for the pre-wedding jitters,’ I said as my martini hit the back of my throat.

  Charlie snorted and Emily laid a hand on his chest. ‘You’re too funny. Charlie told me how much you make him laugh.’ This time the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  Later that night she pulled me into a lemony hug and I could feel her spine through her chiffon blouse. ‘We must get together soon. If only we could find you a date. Charlie thinks of you as his little sister. He’d be thrilled to see you settled.’

  Since then our paths had crossed often. Once Emily realised I had no interest in sleeping with Charlie, she’d thawed. I had a lot of time for her. Some of Charlie’s friends had been less than welcoming. Many felt it was in poor taste, hooking up with the woman who’d planned Charlie’s first wedding. My attitude is that you have to meet people somehow. And if Emily put an end to Charlie’s long, lonely nights at the Herald, she was good enough for me.

  I buzzed apartment 1B, glancing over my shoulder for any sign of the police. No answer. I buzzed again and was about to leave when the door opened and a tall man in a navy jacket slipped past, brushing me with his rucksack. I darted inside and paused as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, breathing in the stranger’s trail of aftershave. I crossed the hallway to Charlie and Emily’s green front door and knocked. All was quiet. When I called Emily’s mobile, I could hear it ringing through the door. I pulled out a business card and scribbled on the back ‘Call me urgently, Sx’ then slid it under the door.

  As I hauled open the front door, I collided with someone.

  DCI Golden’s face soured; beside him, PC Waters widened her eyes.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Visiting a friend.’ I leaned against the door and blinked the grit away from my eyes. I heard Kate’s voice in my head: Play to his ego. You can’t miss it. ‘Listen, DCI Golden, I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier. Perhaps this doesn’t have to be so difficult.’

  Golden’s laser-blue eyes brushed across my face. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Charlie is a friend. I can help you find him. And I’ve uncovered a link between him and the victim.’ Waters fiddled with the ribbon on her plait, not meeting my eye. ‘But I need something in return. Why are you looking for Charlie?’

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘You first.’

  ‘OK, Sabrina was being harassed at work. Charlie was working on a story with her. That’s how they know each other.’

  Golden waited a beat, then leaned round me and pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Hang on,’ I stepped towards him, ‘what about your end of the deal?’ />
  Golden spun round, his eyes on fire. ‘I don’t make deals with hacks. Go spread your legs for titbits elsewhere.’

  His words forced me backwards and I stumbled down the steps. Waters raised a hand to help, then drew it back in sharply. At that moment, the door opened and a tall woman emerged, pulling a suitcase. She glanced at us, then hurried down the steps.

  Golden was almost through the door before he turned to me. ‘A word of advice: if you do manage to get hold of your friend, ask him how he really knows the victim.’

  *

  Golden’s barb rang in my ears as I strode through the marble lobby of Premier News. I knew it was aimed at my relationship with DCI Durand. Implying I was a slut was the laziest accusation in the book. I punched the lift button feeling furious with myself. I rarely give anything away without getting something in return.

  Kate glanced up as I approached, then frowned when she saw my expression. ‘Still no Charlie?’

  I shook my head, told her what happened.

  She perched on the edge of my desk, her cologne tickling my nose. ‘What did he mean, how Charlie really knows the victim?’

  I shrugged, feeling the weight of the day on my shoulders. ‘No idea. Did Rowley fill you in on his tête-a-tête with the police?’

  Kate pulled her curls into a low ponytail and lowered her voice. ‘The police were vague. All they said to Rowley was they’ve found evidence that Sabrina was in touch with Charlie on her mobile phone.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘He. Was. Working. With. Her. On. A. Story.’

  Kate gave me a long look. ‘Yep, that’s probably it.’ She pushed herself off my desk and sat down.

  I couldn’t let it go. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘If you’re implying something was going on between Charlie and Sabrina, you’re nuts. He’s been married to Emily less than a year. He wouldn’t do that to her.’

  Kate sighed. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You’re wrong about Charlie.’

  Kate cricked her neck loudly. ‘So where is he then?’