‘That’s enough, Austin,’ said Rowley, his nasally voice sounding even more pinched than usual.
I ignored Lansdowne’s glare and squeezed onto the sofa between Mack and Kate. Rahid perched on the arm, fiddling with his shirt sleeve. As the London Today theme tune resounded around the office, I glanced through the glass wall and saw the newsroom come to a standstill.
The newsreader, Jillian Snowdon, reeled off the day’s headlines in her trademark velvety voice. She was known in the industry as ‘Sniper Snowdon’ for the ruthless way she attacked her interviewees. My fingers found a loose thread on the sofa and I twisted it.
Jillian blinked slowly at the camera, a sombre expression on her face. ‘Five days ago, thirty-two-year-old Sabrina Hobbs’s body was discovered in the Thames by Bishop’s Park.’ Jillian paused as a photograph of Sabrina flashed up on screen. ‘The prime suspect, London Herald journalist Charles Swift, who is believed to have been in a relationship with Miss Hobbs at the time of her murder, has not been seen since she died.’
A photograph of Charlie flashed up on the screen. The producer had used a shot of him mid-blink so he looked slightly deranged.
‘Where the fuck did they get that photo?’ Lansdowne’s voice was strained.
‘I am joined in the studio tonight by Charles’s wife, Emily.’ The camera panned out to show Emily. Her white blouse was undone at the neck exposing a flash of blotchy skin, and her blonde ponytail was pulled so tight, it gave her a faintly surprised look. She was blinking fast.
Jillian cleared her throat and gave a breezy smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Emily, first things first. How are you holding up?’
Emily’s fingers went straight to the diamond ‘E’ around her neck. ‘Well, Jillian, I can’t lie. It’s been a really tough few days.’
Jillian nodded and the studio lights picked out the light grey in her bob. ‘Have you had any contact with your husband?’
Emily glanced at the camera, licked her lips. She clasped her hands together as if she was praying. ‘I haven’t spoken to Charlie since Friday evening.’
Jillian’s smile never faltered. ‘We have heard in the last hour that your husband drew money out of a bank in central Bournemouth, and that members of the public have called the police helpline to say they’ve seen a man matching his description in the area. Why Bournemouth?’
Emily pulled at the cuff of her blouse and her voice wobbled. ‘I guess because he knows the area? Charlie grew up in Bournemouth, you see.’ She reached for her glass of water and took a long gulp.
‘You wrote a very public blog post earlier today responding to claims that your husband physically assaulted his first wife,’ said Jillian, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. ‘Many people are asking why you’ve chosen to speak out so publicly. Do you worry that by adding fuel to the flames, by whipping up public interest, that you’re in danger of harming the investigation?’
Emily’s nostrils flared a fraction. ‘Listen, I’m not revealing any details that aren’t already in the public domain. I just . . . I want to show the people who write these stories, and read these stories, that those of us caught in the middle are human beings. That I’m a victim, too, and I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances.’
Jillian’s eyes narrowed and she glanced at her notes. ‘In your blog, you also touch on the fertility issues that you and your husband have faced. What was the feeling behind sharing that information?’
Something flickered across Emily’s face, but she fought to keep it in check. ‘My decision to talk about my miscarriages was one that I didn’t make lightly. But people are reading a bunch of stories about my husband, and I want them to know that nothing exists in isolation. It’s been a very tough period for us and–’
‘It sounds to me like you’re making excuses for your husband.’ Jillian’s expression hardened. ‘Let me ask you this: what has the response been to your blog?’
Emily shifted forward and winced as if she was in pain. ‘Um, it’s been mainly positive. My approach isn’t for everyone. I’m not trying to blaze any trails here. I’m . . . just, like I said, I’m just doing the best I can.’
Jillian rested her elbows on the desk. ‘We should make viewers aware that you called London Today yourself, and asked to come on the show. Why is that?’
Emily ran a hand over her ponytail, the colour in her cheeks rising. She looked terrified. ‘Because I want to send Charlie a message.’
Jillian waited a beat, her eyes on Emily’s face. Then she glanced at the studio. ‘OK, camera five, go ahead.’
Emily shifted round to face the camera and the bright lights accentuated the dark circles under her eyes. She chewed her lip, composing herself. Then she took a deep breath. ‘Charlie, baby, please stop running. Whatever happens, I am here for you. We can fix this together. Please, make contact with me.’
‘Do you think she’s been briefed by police?’ asked Kate.
‘Doubt it,’ I said. ‘The Met must be hating this even more than us.’
Jillian shuffled the papers on her desk. ‘Many people will be surprised to hear you say that. Given everything your husband stands accused of: infidelity, assault and battery, murder.’
An odd expression swept over Emily’s face. ‘Charlie and I made a vow. For better or worse. And it doesn’t get much worse than this, right?’
‘So the fact Charlie got another woman pregnant . . .’
‘Sorry, I can’t talk about that yet. It’s too . . . painful.’ Emily’s chin creased and, for one awful moment, I thought she was going to cry on live TV. ‘I’ll blog about it when I’m ready.’
‘Of course she will,’ said Mack, folding his arms.
‘And in case viewers don’t know,’ continued Emily, ‘my blog is called Something Borrowed, and my book is due out later this year.’
Lansdowne dragged his hands over his face. ‘Tell me she didn’t just plug her fucking book.’
‘How do you answer the critics who say you are deluded?’ asked Jillian. ‘That you’re simply refusing to face up to the harsh truth that your husband is a killer?’
Emily’s eyes flitted down to her hands and her voice dropped. ‘I would say that you know nothing about me, or my marriage.’
Jillian blinked a couple of times, and I could tell by the look on her face that she was building up to the big one. ‘Emily, what if I told you that London Today has managed to obtain a copy of the forensic report police filed after the search at your flat yesterday.’ Beside me Kate stiffened. ‘The report showed that fibres found on the hammer used in the attack on Sabrina match fibres found in a rug in your apartment, leading them to conclude that the weapon came from your home.’ Jillian leaned forward, her voice like brushed velvet. ‘Do you still think Charlie is innocent?’
I groped for Kate’s hand, feeling as if the air had been sucked out of the room.
Emily had gone white. Her eyes darted across Jillian’s face and I could see them glistening under the studio lights. ‘This is – I can’t . . .’ She stopped, took a breath. ‘I need to speak to him. Charlie, please. Get in touch. I love you. I can’t believe you’re capable of hurting anyone.’ She turned to face Jillian and stuck her chin out a fraction. ‘I just don’t believe it. Any of it. You may call me deluded, or perhaps I’m just a victim of–’
‘It’s interesting you keep using the word “victim”,’ Jillian’s smile was icy, ‘because, of course, the real victim here is Sabrina Hobbs.’ The camera switched angle and Jillian squared her shoulders. ‘Unfortunately we’ll have to leave it there.’
We sat in silence for a moment.
Eventually Rowley stood up and wandered to the window, breaking the tension in the room. ‘Emily was ambushed. But that’s what happens when you court attention.’ He turned to face me. ‘Sophie, you know her best. What do you think?’
My mind was whirling. I stared from one to the other. ‘The hammer. Did you all know about that?’
Rowley�
�s expression hardened. ‘An old friend gave me a heads-up.’
‘Why didn’t you–’ A rush of panic engulfed me. I needed air and space, and not to be in a room of people raising their eyebrows at me. I jumped up, climbing over Kate in my desperation to get out. Wrenching open the door, I raced towards my desk, feeling the stares from every direction.
Do you still believe Charlie is innocent?
My mobile was ringing and I pounced on it, hoping, for one lunatic moment, that it might be Charlie. I held my breath and hit ‘answer’.
‘Soph, it’s the call you’ve been waiting for.’ A dark, husky voice. ‘I’m with Damo.’
I sat down heavily in my chair. ‘Violet?’
‘I told you I’d work on him.’
I rubbed my forehead, trying to focus. ‘Where are you?’
‘The Den. Tufnell Park. Listen, I dunno how long he’s got. Can you come here now?’ I glanced back at Rowley’s office. The door was closed. I couldn’t justify leaving the office. Not when things were blowing up all around me. ‘Sophie, you there?’
I closed my eyes. ‘I’m on my way.’
14
The Den was located in the basement of a low-rise block that housed a sports shop and a Lebanese fast-food joint called Bistro Beirut. The stone stairwell wasn’t lit, and I skidded down the steps and slammed into the wall. I bent over to catch my breath, swallowing the bile in my throat. I’d waited so long for this moment, but now it was here, I was terrified. I counted to ten, drew myself up and opened the door.
The smell almost floored me: a claustrophobic dankness, old hot dog grease and cigarette smoke. An electric guitar hung on the wall behind the bar next to a neon sign that spelt DRIVE THRU, except the ‘R’ and ‘V’ were missing so it read DIE THRU. A naff jukebox peppered out a Johnny Cash song. The bar was almost empty, apart from two figures huddled on a mangy sofa in the corner.
I forced the nerves to the bottom of my stomach. ‘Violet?’
She looked just as I remembered. Short dark hair cut close to her head, and inky-black eyes rimmed with kohl. She half-rose from the sofa and gave me a hug. But my eyes were on the figure behind, who was hunched over, tracing a pattern on the table with a heavily ringed finger.
I held my hand out but Damo just stared at it so I eased off my jacket and sat down on the leather sofa next to them.
‘Damo’s been volunteering at a shelter in Glasgow, haven’t you, love?’ Violet’s voice was light and breezy, as though she were talking to a child.
When Damo didn’t reply, she nudged him in the ribs.
‘Yeah. Temporary gig,’ he said. His voice was small and slight, with a soft Irish twang.
‘When did you get back?’ I asked, trying to ignore my galloping heart rate.
‘Monday.’
I threw a glance at Violet, who gave a tiny shake of her head. Give him space. Damo’s leg bobbed up and down and he flicked his finger against the table. I thought of Tommy. The more the drugs attacked his mind and body, the twitchier he became.
‘Do you want a drink?’ Violet stood up. ‘It’s my round.’
‘Coffee, please. And load up the caffeine.’ I blinked, trying to push Charlie and the murder weapon bombshell out of my head. I turned to Damo. ‘So . . . do you mind if I ask you about Tommy?’
His wary grey eyes darted over my face. He licked his dry lips and I caught a glimpse of uneven teeth.
‘I want you to know that I’m not here as a reporter. Everything is off the record. I just want to–’ My voice cracked and I glared at the ceiling. ‘I want to find out what happened to my brother.’
Damo scratched beneath the lank curls that were poking out of his red cap and looked at me for the first time. ‘He was a good guy, Tommy. You were his guardian angel. Did you know that? He talked about you all the time. About your house. Christ, I didn’t know Tommy was from such a rich family.’ He paused. ‘The big tree in your garden, that’s what he liked to talk about.’
I closed my eyes, willing back the tears. Ever since we were children, the oak tree at Redcroft was our special place. I told Tommy it was the Magic Faraway Tree from Enid Blyton’s adventure story. Tommy used to watch the tree from his bedroom window, long after dark, waiting to catch a glimpse of the fairies. We used to climb it together, knees stinging-red from the bark, and sit in the knotted branches throwing acorns at birds. The day before Tommy was sent away to boarding school, he hid up there for hours, only coming down after my father threatened the tree with a chainsaw. The following year a freak storm brought the tree down. The last time I was at Redcroft was at Tommy’s wake and I’d sat on the tree stump in the rain until my hands turned blue.
‘I hadn’t seen Tommy for a while.’ My voice was flat, robotic; the only way I could get the words out. ‘We fell out after he stole from me.’
As Violet returned with the drinks, Damo picked at the ripped knee of his jeans. ‘Tommy wasn’t well,’ he said.
‘I know. Addiction is an illness, not a choice.’
‘No, listen to me, Sophie. Tommy was ill in here.’ Damo pressed a finger to his temple, just like Bert had done earlier when he’d described Sabrina’s mental issues.
I sighed, glancing at the cigarette machine that had an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the front. ‘Look, my brother was a teenager when he first did drugs. A decade of narcotics must do things to your brain.’ Damo’s eyes flickered to Violet and I saw her shrug. ‘Sorry, am I missing something?’
Damo plucked the slice of lemon off his glass and sucked it. ‘Have you heard of High Place Phenomenon?’
‘People who are afraid of heights?’
‘They’re not afraid of falling, they’re afraid of jumping. Like lemmings.’ Damo’s leg jerked so fast, he jogged the table and my coffee spilt everywhere. ‘I knew a guy once, on the streets. Flat out refused to cross any bridge in London on foot. He didn’t trust himself not to jump.’
I soaked the puddle up with a paper napkin, wondering where this was going. ‘So, Tommy was scared of heights?’
‘I couldn’t tell you about heights, but sharp objects. He was scared of those.’
‘Sharp objects?’
Damo nodded, twisting his ring round his thumb. ‘Had a phobia. Knives, screwdrivers, glass, even pens at one point.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
Damo gave me a long look, clearly debating how to tackle this. ‘When Tommy ate in front of you. Near the end. Did he use a knife and fork?’
I threw the sodden napkin on the table. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Of course he–’ But as I said it, I realised Damo was right. Tommy ate with his hands. At least he had the last few times I saw him. I didn’t push it; I didn’t push many things with Tommy. I was always so grateful to see him that I indulged whatever quirk he displayed. Especially when it came to food. It was hard enough to get him to eat. So, I fed him sandwiches, chicken legs, burgers.
Damo leaned forward and clasped his hands together. His fingernails were jagged and bitten. ‘The truth of the matter is, Tommy didn’t trust himself with anything sharp.’
‘In case he hurt himself?’ I asked, glancing at Violet. She was picking the label off her beer bottle and wouldn’t meet my eye. ‘Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?’
Damo rubbed his temples. ‘Tommy wasn’t worried about harming himself.’
Laughter bubbled in my throat. ‘You mean Tommy could have hurt someone else? Are you serious?’ I pictured my brother, frail and thin as a dying leaf.
Violet drained her glass, then scooted along the sofa and nudged my leg with hers. ‘Mate, you have to understand. Tommy was ill.’
‘Yes, yes, so you both keep telling me.’ Suddenly I’d had enough. I lunged for my bag, desperate to get out of this place and away from people who acted like they knew all about Tommy but really knew nothing at all.
Damo blocked my path, his scrawny frame drowned by a baggy Adidas jumper. ‘Negative thoughts are fucking powerful, man. Tommy’s were prof
ound. He was paranoid. Yes, the drugs made things worse, but . . .’ he broke off, shaking his head. ‘The first time I saw Tommy, he was shivering in his sleeping bag in a doorway on Baker Street. A nice African lady took pity on him and gave him her leftover lunch. First thing Tommy did after thanking her was throw the plastic knife and fork in the bin. I was curious. But I didn’t know the kid. It was only later that I asked him why. He told me that sharp things called out to him. They made him want to do things. Bad things. The only way he was safe, was if he kept clear of anything sharp.’
Violet inched closer; I could smell her vanilla lip balm. ‘Tell her about Phil.’
Damo poured water from a dirty jug on the table, then swigged it down. ‘Phil was another lad on our turf. Welsh, angry. He had a cruel streak and, after a couple of nights in Tommy’s company, Phil decided to play a trick. One morning, Phil told Tommy that Tommy had killed someone the night before. It was just a joke but Tommy lost it. Fell apart. He was convinced Phil was telling the truth. I felt bad for the kid so I came clean but Tommy didn’t believe me. He ripped his backpack apart looking for the knife. Scoured his hands for blood. Picked up every stray newspaper looking for news about the body. He almost turned himself into the police. Took him weeks before he let it go.’
I put my hands over my face, swallowing the lump in my throat. ‘But Tommy wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Damo shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. He believed he could, that’s the point.’
The honeyed tones of Johnny Cash drifted from the jukebox in the corner.
‘It got worse after Phil’s stunt,’ he went on. ‘You remember how Tommy only ever stayed with you for a few days at a time? That’s because he didn’t trust himself.’
I stared at Damo. ‘You mean Tommy wanted to hurt me?’
All of a sudden, Tommy’s quirks flew at me thick and fast. Tommy aged eight, cramming food into his mouth in suffocating amounts because he had to eat the meal in a certain number of bites. The time on holiday he wouldn’t leave his room because his clothes didn’t ‘feel right’. When I asked him about it he’d stiffened. ‘Just keeping a lid on things,’ he told me quietly. His behaviour got worse during the summer of 2000. The family doctor diagnosed him with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and prescribed him medication. I closed my eyes. The medication. He wouldn’t have had access to it on the street.
The Perfect Victim Page 13