The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘You haven’t heard from him since?’ I asked, panic creeping into my voice. Charlie’s voice in my head: I need to talk to you about something . . . personal. I cursed myself again for switching off my phone.

  Emily’s phone beeped. She glanced at the screen, frowning, then she typed out a message. My gaze drifted to the diamond pendant round her neck. I remember Charlie showing it to me in the office a week before the wedding.

  ‘What do you think, Kent?’ he asked, biting his lip as he handed me the red box.

  I stared down at the diamond ‘E’, nestled against the black velvet lining. ‘They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend for a reason, dude.’

  He frowned. ‘I bought Lizzie something similar for our one-year anniversary and she never wore it. Told me the initial made her feel like she was being “branded”.’

  I glanced at the diamond letter, then back at Charlie. ‘Charlie, this isn’t the same necklace, right? Tell me the E stands for Emily and not Elizabeth.’

  I’d been joking but the way Charlie snapped the box shut made me wonder if I’d hit a nerve.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Em, I’ve only just found out about Charlie’s mum. I had no idea.’

  Emily slid her phone into her pocket. ‘You know, the last time Charlie went to Vanessa’s place, he poked his head round the door of his old bedroom. First time he’d set eyes on it since he left home as a teenager. Apparently it looked exactly the same. Star Wars duvet cover. West Ham posters on the wall. Vanessa hadn’t touched a thing. She’d even lain out a pair of his pyjamas on the bed.’

  I whistled, and Emily shook her head. ‘But Vanessa could also be cruel. I mean, she was a drunk. So out of it by the end that we had to get her mail redirected to us. When I met Charlie he’d barely spoken to his mum in decades. I encouraged him to reconnect with her. That’s why I invited her to our wedding. I was trying to build bridges.’

  Emily picked at her leggings, her eyes large and sad.

  ‘I thought once Vanessa died, Charlie would be free of whatever grudge he’s been holding onto all these years. But she did a real number on him. I mean, I get it; she was an addict, a waste of spa—’ She stopped and gave me an embarrassed smile as she realised what she said. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. No offence. I didn’t mean all addicts are a waste of space.’

  I nudged her leg with mine. ‘None taken. You’re right; addicts are tough to love. They blow up your life at a moment’s notice.’

  Emily sighed. ‘You weren’t at our wedding, were you?’

  I twisted the button on my cuff as I tried to push the memory out of my mind. The night before Charlie’s wedding, Tommy turned up with a black eye and a swollen jaw. He crawled silently into bed and I lay in the room next to him, listening to his nightmare through the wall. When I found his scrawny frame curled up on the sofa the following morning, I knew I couldn’t leave him alone. I left a message on Charlie’s phone to say a family emergency had come up, knowing he’d understand.

  ‘Well, you missed the fireworks,’ said Emily, running a finger over her eyebrow. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually saying this but I’m glad Vanessa’s dead. For Charlie’s sake.’

  Emily’s phone beeped in her hand. She glanced at it, then quickly shut down the screen. We sat in silence for a moment. It was odd being together without Charlie.

  A noise in the stairwell above made us look up. I didn’t know how much longer I had. I turned to Emily, urgency varnishing my voice. ‘Em, that time you called me when Charlie disappeared. He did the same thing then? Charlie’s deputy, Adam, also said this isn’t the first time Charlie has done a disappearing act.’

  Emily pulled at her shoelace. ‘Look, every marriage has its moments. I’m not going to pretend ours is any different. If one of us needs space, the other lets them go.’

  ‘Do most marriages need space after a year?’ The words slipped out before I could stop them.

  Emily’s eyes flashed. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  I regretted pushing her. I knew Emily well enough to understand that this was her worst nightmare. She worked hard to project the perfect life on social media. To have her marriage picked apart by others must be torture. I took a breath, knowing I was on shaky ground. ‘Look, I’m on your side, but I’m groping in the dark. If you know anything that could help me find Charlie, you have to tel—’

  Footsteps pattered towards us. DCI Golden appeared, followed by PC Waters and three other officers.

  His forehead glistened with sweat. ‘What an unpleasant surprise.’

  I forced a smile, damned if I was going to let him under my skin. ‘Just keeping Mrs Swift company.’

  He glanced at Emily. ‘You know she’s a reporter.’

  Emily ignored Golden, her eyes on the box in his arms. ‘What’s in there?’

  Golden handed the box to PC Waters. ‘Does Charlie have a laptop, Mrs Swift? We couldn’t find one.’ Emily shrugged, her eyes on the carpet. Golden gave her a long look. ‘Right, we’ll be in touch. And if you do hear from your husband, tell him things will go more smoothly if he cooperates.’

  They filed out and the door slammed, plunging us into darkness.

  *

  Being back in her apartment, surrounded by her things, seemed to have a calming effect on Emily. She strolled over to the fridge and pulled out a pink smoothie. ‘Do you want one?’

  I shook my head, watched as Emily took a sip that left a pink smudge above her lip. Behind her, shelves were artfully filled with cookery books. Charlie loved to cook; he joked that his Beef Wellington had hooked legions of women over the years. Often, when things hit the skids with Tommy, Charlie brought Tupperware filled with homemade casseroles into the office for me.

  I followed Emily into the small sitting room that was flooded with light. A thick, floral scent hung in the air along with something else I couldn’t place. Damp? I passed piles of glossy magazines that stood in columns along the back wall. Large photographs of Emily and Charlie adorned every available surface. Mainly black-and-white shots from their wedding.

  The magazine-vibe was blighted by evidence that the police had rifled through their stuff. Drawers hung open, boxes were scattered across the carpet. I turned a chair the right way up, sensing Emily’s distress, and glanced at the space where the mosaic coffee table and shagpile rug used to be. In their place was a glass table. In fact, lots of the colourful decor I remembered had disappeared in favour of whites and greys.

  ‘Have you decorated since I was last here?’ I said, laying my jacket on the sofa. Emily waited a beat, then squirrelled it away in a hallway closet.

  ‘I had an epiphany right after the wedding. Things were . . . hectic. I decided to take it down a notch at home. Creating a sanctuary within your home is so important. The first thing I did was install double-glazing. Isn’t it peaceful?’

  Emily’s beatific smile was freaking me out. I wandered over to the window and glanced at the ugly grey street outside. Scaffolding poles lay abandoned on the pavement. ‘Charlie said the building work has been a drag.’

  Emily slumped on the sofa, kicking off her trainers. She curled her feet underneath her and shivered. ‘The draughts in this place are the worst. I haven’t been able to get warm for months. Nothing we can do about the building work. We can’t sell, because who the hell would want to live on a building site? We’re stuck here waiting for the planning officials to reach an agreement. Meanwhile the building is falling apart.’

  I pointed at the wedding photograph on the wall behind her head, the one where Charlie was kissing Emily’s cheek. ‘Wow.’

  Emily followed my gaze, her voice quiet. ‘Feels like a long time ago now.’

  I leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry about what I said earlier. About you guys needing time out. It wasn’t fair.’

  Emily fiddled with her necklace. ‘I’m sorry too, Sophie. I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch. But it’s always unsettled me out how close you and Charlie are. Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always th
ought the woman closest to a man should be his wife.’

  ‘You don’t honestly believe–’ I stopped. It was true that Charlie and I were close. Grief binds you together in ways you can’t explain. So does a shared experience of fucked-up families. But my friendship with Charlie had nothing to do with attraction. It ran deeper than that.

  I shifted on the sofa and, at that moment, a cloud swept in front of the sun, swallowing the light in the room.

  ‘Did Charlie ever tell you he crashed Tommy’s wake?’

  I coughed, my throat squeezing painfully as the memory pierced my mind. The coffin, the stares, the way people licked their lips as they clutched my hand. My insides felt as if they’d been scorched. I ricocheted from one conversation to another, barely registering words as they came out of my mouth. The only reason I put myself through the torture of making the eulogy was because my father didn’t show up and my mother was drunk. Someone had to remind the congregation that there was more to Tommy than a sweaty, paranoid slide into drugs. The wake was held at my family’s Surrey estate, Redcroft. My mum lasted twenty minutes before staggering upstairs. I was topping up wine glasses, gripping the bottle so hard my fingers ached, when I overheard a family friend tell another guest that Tommy’s death was a relief. ‘There’s one in every family,’ she said, raising thin eyebrows.

  I took a breath, then ducked into the library. It took less than a minute to smash every pane of glass in the antique bookcase. My hands were cut to ribbons but I felt nothing. When my knees gave way, I collapsed on the floor; a broken, bloodied mess howling into my sleeve. The next thing I knew, Charlie was standing in the doorway.

  My voice wobbled as I focused on Emily’s shadow. ‘I hadn’t told a soul about Tommy’s funeral. I knew I wouldn’t survive the day around people who knew what Tommy meant to me. But the relief of seeing a friendly face . . .’ A tear spilled down my cheek and I flicked it away. ‘The bugger tracked me down. Drove all the way from London. Told me he knew how important it was not to face things alone. That you’d taught him how to share the burden.’

  I cleared my throat and sat forward, fixing my gaze on Emily.

  ‘I don’t know if I’d have made it through that day without Charlie. And I have you to thank. Charlie showed up, because of you.’

  Emily dug her stubby fingernails into the plastic bottle, her voice almost a whisper. ‘You honestly think he did it for me?’

  We sat in silence for a moment, then Emily stood up and coughed. ‘I need to take a shower. I’m still sweaty from my run.’

  I followed her through to the bedroom. The walls were covered in a shimmery grey wallpaper and cream shutters hung at the window. Police had stripped the bed and piles of fluffy grey cushions lay scattered across the carpet.

  Emily sloped off to the bathroom and I wandered over to the wardrobe. The doors were open and Charlie’s suits were giving off a faint smell of sandalwood. I spotted a wooden tray filled with cuff-links and loose change. Beneath it, half hidden, was a red velvet pouch. I glanced over my shoulder then tipped the contents into my palm. A silver ring with the inscription ‘Forever yours, Charlie’ carved on the inside. I frowned. I knew what Lizzie’s wedding ring meant to Charlie. On a slow night in the newsroom we’d played ‘What three things would you save from your burning house?’

  ‘I’ll go first,’ I’d said, leaning back in my chair, ankles dangling over the desk. ‘My London Herald printing plate, obvs.’ Every Herald reporter was awarded the printing plate of their first front page and mine took pride of place in my downstairs toilet. ‘Also, my first edition copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles.’

  ‘You’re such a dork.’ Charlie flicked a rubber band at me. ‘What’s the third?’

  I pulled a photo out of my purse. It showed Tommy and me standing on the doorstep of Redcroft on the first day of term. Me, a skinny adolescent, in a green pinafore and straw boater hat; Tommy barely eight, wearing charcoal shorts that gaped around his spindly white legs. That morning Tommy had refused to go to school. He was already being bullied by that stage. But, right before that picture was taken, our mother knelt down and hugged Tommy. Tommy gazed at me with wide eyes. She wasn’t a hugger. As the photo was taken, Tommy squinted into the autumn sunlight, beaming like a lunatic. I can still feel his small, dry fingers between mine.

  Charlie reeled off his three items without pausing to think: a West Ham shirt signed by the team, a football his stepfather, Gordon, had given him, and Lizzie’s wedding ring. ‘It will go with me to the grave,’ he told me, tugging on his fringe.

  Emily appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown. I dropped the ring back in its pouch, storing away what I’d seen, and turned to face her.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Em?’

  Emily sat on the bed, running her fingers through her wet hair. ‘That depends.’

  ‘What did you argue about on Friday that means Charlie hasn’t been in touch since?’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Emily’s chest rising and falling. ‘It was nothing. Barely a row.’

  ‘But you said–’

  ‘I know what I said, but I’m telling you it was nothing.’

  I nodded, sensing the shift in mood. ‘Em, you know the Herald has to cover this, right?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘I was afraid of that.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ I put my hand on hers. ‘I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. He’ll be home soon.’ I pulled out my notebook. ‘But, look, for the purposes of our write-up. If you could send a message to Charlie, what would it be?’

  Emily rubbed her hair with a towel, thinking for a moment. Then she cleared her throat. ‘I’d tell him: I love you, and I’m here for you. No matter what.’

  It wasn’t until I was halfway down Delaware Street that I realised Emily never asked me a single question about Sabrina Hobbs.

  7

  Rowley drained his mug as he listened to my update. ‘You’re sure Emily’s happy for us to print her quote?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s on the record.’

  Mack, Kate and I were sitting around the square table in Rowley’s corner office – a large room overlooking Hyde Park. From his desk, you could see a sliver of Kensington Palace.

  He slid off his half-moon glasses and pinched the top of his nose. ‘And there’s nothing at all from Charlie?’

  I shook my head. ‘I spoke to his best friend, Dominic, on the way here. He hasn’t heard from Charlie, either.’

  Rowley sighed and opened his notebook. ‘What do we know about the victim?’

  I scooted forward, wanting to get this right. ‘I’m building up a picture. Sabrina was smart, Cambridge-educated. Conscientious, too. Took on a lot of pro bono work. Not much of a personal life to speak of. But she earned a good salary. I get the impression she spent a fair whack self-medicating.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rowley rested his elbows on the table.

  ‘Acupuncture, homeopathy, osteopathy, reiki.’ I counted out on my fingers. ‘And that’s just appointments she’s made in the past month. Also she was a regular at the Fit Fit Fit gym on Brewer Street. The receptionist remembers seeing her there Saturday lunchtime.’

  ‘Where does she live?’ asked Mack.

  ‘Fulham. Not far from Bishop’s Park . . .’

  ‘. . . where her body was found,’ said Kate, doodling on her pad.

  Rowley nodded thoughtfully. ‘Friends? Boyfriends?’

  I shrugged. ‘So far, the closest thing I’ve found to a friend is her assistant, Rachel. And she told Rachel recently that she was involved with someone. She was trying to extricate herself from the relationship.’

  ‘No confirmation yet as to who he is?’

  I shook my head, and the unspoken question hung heavy over the room.

  Rowley cleared his throat and closed his notebook. ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions. Keep pushing your leads, Sophie.’ He turned to Kate. ‘Where are we with Rowntree?’

  Kate threw her
pen onto the desk, groaning. ‘Stalemate. My source at the courthouse has confirmed that a jury member has been dismissed. We’re waiting to find out whether the Judge will order a retrial.’

  Mack tapped his fingers on the desk irritably. ‘If Rowntree comes off, no one’s going to give a shit about Serena.’

  I flicked him a look. ‘Sabrina.’

  ‘Whatever. The national press is gearing up for a Rowntree extravaganza. You think we’re the only ones itching to print what we know? I say we use Sabrina’s murder as a back-up, but be prepared to drop everything the moment Rowntree moves.’

  I scratched a deep line into the page with my pen. Having a story pulled in favour of a bigger story goes with the territory. What bothers me is how easy it is for everyone to forget that we are dealing with people’s lives. In newspapers, it’s bad enough that priority is given to the killer. What compels someone to kill makes for interesting copy, and the victim is often depicted as just that: a victim. I understand, but I don’t agree with it. So I fight hard to tell their stories. To prevent them from being defined by their final, brutal moments.

  Rowley stood up and moved to the window. His navy suit billowed around his legs. ‘You said there’s a colleague of the victim you want to interview?’

  I nodded. ‘Bert Hughes. He’s due back from New York today. I’ll doorstep him later, if that’s OK?’ I glanced at Mack. As my department head, he had to sign off on my movements. But Mack was staring straight ahead, his mind on something else.

  Rowley turned to face me. ‘As far as we know, all the police have on Charlie is the two pay-as-you-go phones?’

  ‘And the fact he arranged to meet Sabrina in the area her body was found,’ I said. ‘Although there’s no evidence he actually met her.’ Rowley nodded, but his long face was pensive. ‘Can we ask Jasdeep to look into the gossip website, LegalLens?’ I asked. ‘I’d love to know who’s behind the smear campaign.’ Jasdeep Chopra was the Herald’s IT whiz.

  A knock at the door. Adam poked his head around, brandishing a file. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt but I thought you should see this.’ Rowley beckoned him in and he sat down next to me. ‘I’ve just printed off the email trail between Charlie and Sabrina.’