Fred leaned against the bar and scratched his chin.
‘Places like Christ Clan, they’re smoke and mirrors, mostly. Only work as long as people believe in their leader. We all knew the Shepherd didn’t have two pennies to rub together. That’s why he sent us out to steal. But nothing we did pleased him. Things got worse. One kid ended up in intensive care after a punishment went wrong. And then Samantha Hartley died.’
I leaned forward. ‘What happened to her, Fred?’
He picked up the cloth. ‘No idea.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
Jeff flicked a beer mat into the air and it landed in a puddle on the bar. ‘My money’s on the Starling.’
I turned to face him. ‘Who?’
‘That’s what you called him, right, Fred? The darkest kid of the lot. Think Artful Dodger to Marlon’s Fagin.’
Fred glanced past us towards the window. ‘Do you know anything about starlings?’
I ran my finger round the rim of my glass. When Tommy and I were younger, an uncle gave us a bird box for Christmas. It was tangerine, with a little wooden roof and a sign that said: Home Tweet Home. We hung it on the silver birch outside the back door and would sit on the step, waiting to welcome its first resident. For a while, nothing happened. We threw crumbs on the ground below and eventually a plump brown sparrow moved in. Tommy was delighted. He changed the tiny water bowl every day, and furnished the table with scraps of bread. A pretty female sparrow appeared and the following spring, when Tommy wanted to peep inside, I told him to bide his time. We’d know when the chicks hatched because we’d be able to hear squeaks. Except the squeaks never came. One day I spotted a larger bird, speckled black with a yellow beak, perched on the roof of the box. Later that day, I found the eggs smashed into pieces and the broken bodies of dead chicks. I cleared the mess away, not wanting Tommy to find them. Our gardener told me there was a starling in our midst. Bloody aggressive creatures. One day you come home and a starling is in your place. They’ll do whatever it takes to steal other birds’ nests.
I cleared my throat. ‘Actually, I do.’
Fred sighed. ‘Then you know how sneaky they are. This kid, he had a talent for stealing into people’s homes. They never even knew he was there. Sometimes he’d hide out there for days, just spying and messing with them. Mr Marlon loved him, but gave him the roughest ride, too. He spent more time in the Bunker than anyone.’
He picked at his fingernails, lost in thought for a moment.
‘I’m sure that’s why he was so sadistic. Although he softened when Samantha came along. They were involved with each other. But something happened between them, no one knew what exactly. There were rumours she cheated. Soon after that, she died. When her body was found, she had Marlon’s mark, two triangles, etched into her wrist.’
A memory stirred deep inside my head. Dr Sonoma’s describing the mark he found on Sabrina Hobbs’s body. A carving of some kind on her wrist.
I stared at Fred, my pulse started to quicken. ‘Who was the Starling?’
Fred glanced at Jeff, his eyes unreadable. ‘We didn’t use real names. Mr Marlon encouraged us to shed our identifications when we joined Christ Clan.’
I reached for the photograph. ‘Jeff, you said there were three things about this photograph.’ I pointed at Charlie. ‘The Starling . . . are you telling me that’s him?’
When neither of them spoke, I felt the exhaustion come flooding out of me. I jabbed the photograph and raised my voice. ‘Is. That. Him?’
A look passed between them, then Fred put the glass down and dropped his elbows onto the bar. ‘That’s him.’
I stared from one to the other, unable to speak. My shock gave way to despair. ‘But it doesn’t add up. I’ve known Charlie for almost a decade. He’s successful, for Christ’s sake. Respectable.’
‘Not anymore though, is he? You know, I once interviewed a kid, born in Christchurch. Matthew Lamberton. Spent his whole childhood watching his dad pummel his mum. Eventually the bastard killed her with a swift right hook to the temple. Anyway, Lamberton finished school, got a job at an estate agent, married a local girl, had a couple of kids.’
Jeff coughed into his fist, his eyes watering with the effort.
‘Our interview took place at Guys Marsh prison where Lamberton was serving life for his wife’s murder. Beat her so badly, police had to use her dental records to ID her. Lamberton told me he didn’t mean to do it; that something in him snapped. He felt like it was someone else crushing his wife’s head against the wall.’ Jeff rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the heel of his hands. ‘People handle the after-effects of abuse differently. And it doesn’t sound like your friend had the best start in life from what I’ve read.’
I stared at Charlie’s familiar handsome face on the Bugle’s front page. ‘Hang on, you said the Starling has a talent for hiding. That explains why Charlie has disappeared into thin air. He could be anywhere.’
Fred shrugged. ‘Or he’s going to zero in on the place where it all began.’
‘You think he’s hiding out at Christ Clan,’ I said, my eyebrows shooting up. ‘But I’ve just been there. It’s a completely different place.’
‘You really think Hector is above board?’ said Jeff with a sneer.
‘Don’t you?’
‘That monster’s blood runs through h—’ Jeff doubled over as another coughing fit erupted, worse than before. Fred gave me a look and I nodded.
‘It’s getting late,’ I said, sliding off my stool and picking up my bag. ‘I’ve got a long drive.’
I was about to thank them both when Jeff stopped me. ‘Listen, I wasn’t entirely honest earlier about having no leads. Didn’t know if I could trust you.’ He pressed a piece of paper into my hand. ‘The kid who ended up in hospital, Mark Miller. This is his dad’s phone number. Les Miller. I tried once upon a time but didn’t get very far. Something tells me you might have more luck.’
I shoved the scribbled note in my pocket and slid off the stool. ‘Thanks for ev—’
‘And do me a favour, Miss Kent.’ The look on Jeff’s face made me pause. ‘Blow it apart. Christ Clan. For those kids. Promise me?’
I held Jeff’s gaze, then squeezed his arm.
It was dark outside; the rain was blowing in sheets across the car park. I leaped inside my car and shut out the storm. As I slotted the keys in the ignition, I pulled out my phone and dialled Kate. It went to voicemail.
‘It’s Soph. Listen, I’m leaving Bournemouth now. Be back in a couple of hours. Round up the troops, Kate. I’ve got lots to–’ I glanced in the mirror and the words died in my mouth. In the gloom, two familiar eyes stared back at me. Before I could turn, his arm was round my neck, pinning me to the seat. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes watered. The phone slid out of my hand. I clawed for breath. A gurgling sound filled the car. I kicked and thrashed. But he was too strong for me. As the blackness closed in, I raised my eyes to the mirror and met his cold, blank gaze.
Then, nothing.
27
Emily: 2 weeks before the murder
‘Ready?’ Charlie pulls a grey sweater over his head. It flattens his hair and, without thinking, Emily reaches out to brush it back up. She pretends not to notice the surprise on Charlie’s face.
Twenty minutes earlier, Emily had arrived home to find all the lights off and Charlie sitting rigidly on the sofa. Her heart sank; she wasn’t in the mood for a fight. But, when she flicked the lamp on, Charlie stood up and cleared his throat. ‘Let’s go out for dinner.’
His suggestion was so left-field that Emily actually laughed. A few weeks ago, a romantic gesture from Charlie would have sent her straight into his arms. The opportunity for them to reconnect was everything she wanted. But that was before she’d discovered Charlie’s dirty little secret.
Your marriage is a mistake and he’s going to leave you. As Emily slips on her denim jacket, Bert’s words drift into her head like a poison thread.
The affair is still
going on, she’s sure of it. Yesterday, she found a silver earring under the sofa. It was shaped like a four-leaf clover. Emily crawled onto an armchair and stared at the earring for so long she missed her appointment with the fertility specialist. To punish herself, she carved a tiny four-leaf clover into her hip. She can feel the scab catching on her knickers as she walks in silence along Delaware Street. Next to her, Charlie is chewing the inside of his cheek, the way he does when something is on his mind.
They stop outside Papa Paulo’s, their local Italian, and Charlie holds the door open for Emily. The warm, candlelit restaurant smells of bread, rosemary and olive oil. It’s so searingly familiar that Emily’s eyes mist up and she has to clutch the back of a chair to stop herself unravelling.
She remembers their first time at Papa Paulo’s, when their relationship was only a couple of months old. There was a bite to the evening air but they’d insisted on sitting outside. Charlie slipped his jacket around Emily and she peered up at him as if she’d hit the jackpot. It was one of those life-affirming evenings when, in the early flush of lust, each person finds the other endlessly fascinating. Charlie pretended to leave the restaurant when Emily asked for sultanas on her pizza (‘Noooo, tell me you’re not one of those freakazoids who like fruit on their pizza?!’) and she’d laughed at his clumsy Italian (‘La bella donna would-o like-o a glass-o of vino’). She loved the way Charlie laughed, a quick snort followed by a sheepish look, as if he was embarrassed by the sound he’d made. Emily opened up about past relationships, minus a few details, of course. Charlie didn’t have to know about her need to find solace in a stranger’s bed. She knew he was holding back about Lizzie, but she never pressed him. She didn’t need to. Emily knew what Charlie had lost; she was there the day he married her. That evening Charlie asked Emily to move in with him. She knew it was sudden, but she didn’t care.
Emily takes a deep breath and zigzags through the restaurant. As they settle into a cosy corner, she senses the other diners watching them. She is used to people staring at Charlie. She swears he’s the reason she got her book deal in the first place. ‘Your husband is so fucking hot. Talk about Instagrammable,’ her publisher, Libby, had sighed.
Emily has never really minded being the sidekick; she’s always been grateful just floating in Charlie’s orbit. As if being with him is validation enough. Tonight, though, she feels the accusatory edge to each stare. As if each person is wondering how a woman like her managed to hook a man like Charlie. Emily feels a bubble of laughter in her throat. She wants to hold her hands up and say, Don’t worry, guys. I still know my place. Hooking Charlie is one thing, keeping him is a whole different ballgame.
Emily knows the other diners will want to see how in love they are so she reaches across the table for Charlie’s hand. A faint crease appears between Charlie’s eyes but he doesn’t pull it away.
‘That’s a pretty colour on you,’ he says, glancing at her crimson sweater.
‘What, this old thing?’ She raises an eyebrow and is rewarded with a smile from the elderly woman on the next table. Truth is, this sweater is the only thing that hides how much weight she’s lost. The pounds have been falling off ever since Bert Hughes dropped his bombshell all over her white sofa. Jutting hipbones come at a price, she thinks.
A barrel-shaped waiter with a shiny black moustache appears with menus and bread. He gives the wine list to Charlie who passes it straight to Emily. The moment Charlie looks down at his menu, the smile falls from Emily’s face. She studies her husband. His thick dark hair is even more unkempt than usual but his beauty still takes her breath away.
‘Let me guess. You’re going to have a Margarita with chorizo and sultanas.’ Charlie’s voice is teasing.
Emily grips the tablecloth between her fingernails, wondering at Charlie’s change in mood. This is the most he’s spoken to her, the most he’s looked at her for . . . Emily doesn’t know how long it’s been. Days have become weeks. She tries to recall the last time she felt safe and loved. Then she remembers: the last miscarriage. Even if it’s brief, Charlie always rallies around her when she miscarries.
Emily unfolds her napkin, trying to think of something to say. ‘How was your day?’
Charlie picks up his fork. ‘Well, the markets are screwed but my comment on the National Bank of Scotland might make tomorrow’s front page.’
He drums his fork on the table in time to the beat of the music and Emily frowns. Charlie seems different, relaxed. As if a weight has been lifted. Emily takes a sip of wine and it starts to dawn on her. The change in Charlie, the intimacy, their restaurant; they add up like a column of figures in her mind. He has something to tell her. He is going to come clean.
The affair.
A knot forms in Emily’s stomach. How will she play it? Charlie can’t find out that she already knows. It would lead to all sorts of questions about how she found out. Emily closes her eyes. If they are going to make this marriage work, Charlie must never find out about Bert, or Sternus, or the others. She will do whatever it takes. Even if it means burying what they’ve both done.
Charlie is eyeing her over his glass; she can feel his knee bobbing up and down under the table. He glances out the window, then brushes his fringe back from his face.
Let’s get this show on the road.
‘Is something the matter?’ she asks mildly.
Charlie shifts forward, pinning his eyes on her face with an intensity she hasn’t seen for a long time. ‘Em, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’
Emily bites her lip, her heart fluttering in her chest. She can see it unfold in front of her eyes. Charlie will confess, she’ll play the shocked wife, pretend to consider her options, then open her arms to him. Will she cry? Will he cry? If things go well, they can start trying for a baby tonight. Maybe this time they’ll be lucky. We’re due some luck, she thinks, putting her hand on her stomach.
Charlie’s phone vibrates on the table and he glances at the screen. Emily shifts in her chair. Ignore it. Start talking.
The colour drains from Charlie’s cheeks. ‘It’s work, I have to take it.’
He holds the phone to his ear and darts across the restaurant, but not before Emily has heard a female voice on the other end. Work, really? Sophie, maybe? Although it didn’t sound like her.
Through the window, she watches Charlie pace up and down. He jabs his finger in the air and the strength of feeling makes his mouth move in fast forward. A group of teenage girls walk past and Emily sees one of them point to Charlie and fake-swoon to the others. Right before Charlie hangs up, he smiles; a dazzling, volume-all-the-way-up kind of smile.
Moments later he bounds back to the table, eyes still shining. ‘Sorry, Em. Looks like work want me in tonight. The Scottish bank drama. Might be a late one.’
Emily tries to ignore the wrenching feeling in her stomach. It’s not too late. Ignore whoever that was on the phone. Do the right thing. I’ll forgive you. Please. ‘What were you going to say before your phone rang?’
Charlie twists his wedding ring round his finger and she sees a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes.
Just say it: I had an affair. It’s over and I’m sorry.
Charlie clears his throat. ‘Summer holidays. Where do you fancy going?’
Emily freezes. ‘That’s what you want to talk to me about?’
‘What about Tuscany,’ he’s glancing over her shoulder, distracted, ‘or the Amalfi coast?’
‘Our honeymoon place?’ Emily’s voice is barely a whisper. She glances down at the red-checked tablecloth as an image of that sun-baked, lust-filled trip flashes through her mind. A fly is crawling along the edge of the table and she swats it away with her hand.
‘Remember the restaurant you could only access by speedboat. We could see if . . .’
Emily grips either side of her chair, tuning out his voice. Suddenly she understands. Charlie can talk about summer holiday plans because has no intention of following through with them. That’s why h
e seems different, lighter. Emily glances down at his phone.
He is going to leave you.
The thought gives way to a flicker of anger in her stomach. Emily stares at the curve of Charlie’s mouth as he fills the silence with hot air; acting as if he hasn’t just taken a sledgehammer to their marriage.
Charlie wipes a slick of oil from his chin. ‘So, what do you think?’
For the briefest moment a memory hits her. It’s raining, she’s lying on a beanbag watching Fraggle Rock, tuning out her parents’ fight. The screams are getting louder, her mum’s face is scorched red with rage. Emily tries not to watch the way her dad holds out his hands, placating; tries not to watch her mum pick up one of her treasured teapots, the one shaped like a red pillar box, take aim and–
Emily sets the glass down on the table. ‘Sure, I’ll look at some travel websites.’ Her voice sounds forced but Charlie doesn’t seem to notice. ‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask,’ she holds up the silver earring. ‘I found this under the sofa yesterday. Do you know anything about it?’
Charlie turns the earring over in the candlelight, frowning. ‘Never seen it before. You sure it isn’t one of yours?’
Emily shakes her head, wondering at Charlie’s ability to lie so effortlessly to her face. For a moment, she indulges herself, allows herself to believe this is all a huge misunderstanding and their marriage is fine; they’re just two people out on a mid-week date night. By the time the pizzas arrive, she almost believes it. But then she spies Charlie pocket the earring when he thinks she isn’t looking.
He points at the bottle of water in the ice bucket behind her. ‘Can you top me up?’
As Emily’s hands close around the bottle, she has to use every ounce of will power not to bring it crashing down on his head.
The Perfect Victim Page 24