‘Stay in the car,’ he said, jamming on the brakes.
‘But–’
‘For once, do as I say, Sophie,’ he growled, slamming the door.
As Durand strode towards the crowd, I cracked the window open. A thick burning smell spread through the car. A team of police were setting up a cordon around the blue car and I spotted the SOCOs pulling on white suits. Durand was deep in conversation with an ashen DCI Golden. I saw him point at the sky, then gesture towards the ground. Suddenly I realised the significance of the car. What was it Durand said in the hospital about Emily’s disappearance? A blue hatchback was seen speeding away.
I squinted through the windscreen, trying to get a better look. Was this about Emily? My view was obscured by the line of police cars but I yanked out my phone and started taking photographs. I emailed the pictures to the news team, cc’ing Rowley.
Burned-out car found in Crystal Palace. Possible link to Emily’s kidnap? Am sending photos.
A response came a moment later from Mack.
These pictures are shit, Kent. Can’t you get any closer?
It would be impossible to creep closer without being seen. I didn’t want to risk Durand’s wrath, not when he’d been so open with me earlier. Sometimes you have to lose the battle to win the war.
I heard a loud crunch and glanced out the window. The SOCOs were easing off the car’s metal door. The passenger side of the car had been mauled by fire, but the driver’s side was intact. I looked at the front of the car.
Then I looked again.
I opened my door and stumbled forwards, slamming to a halt at the blue and white tape.
A thickset officer frowned in my direction. ‘Can I help you, love?’
Over his shoulder Durand clocked me and his face darkened. He held a hand up to Golden, then stalked towards me, eyes blazing.
‘I told you to stay–’
‘What’s that? In the car. It’s a body, isn’t it? Who–’
‘Waters!’ Durand called out over his shoulder. ‘Please escort Sophie to the Herald immediately.’
‘Sam, please,’ I reached for his arm but he brushed me off, ‘is it Emily?’
Durand nodded curtly at Waters. ‘When you’re done, head back here. It’s going to be a long night.’
I glanced back at the car, my heart in my throat. ‘Sam! Is it Emily?’ I screamed.
Durand stormed off without a backwards glance.
I turned desperately to Waters and, as our eyes met through the cold police-blue light, I could tell by her face I was right.
31
Emily: The day before the murder
A bus sloshes past, kicking up a puddle of brown water that soaks Emily’s feet. She stares mournfully down at her orange trainers, then crosses the road to the centre of Manchester Square, her feet squelching.
She spots a couple sitting on her bench ahead and feels a flicker of frustration in her chest. Emily finds an empty bench in the corner and pretends to stretch her calf muscles. The entrance to Hamilton Law is only partially visible from here. Emily throws an anguished look at the couple on her bench. They’re both dressed in head-to-toe black and covered in piercings. Could she ask them to move? Excuse me, can we switch benches? I’m waiting for my husband’s mistress to come out of that building.
A builder’s drill goes off somewhere startling a flock of birds. As they scatter into the air, Emily pulls the baby scan out of her pocket and stares at it. She knows every smudge, every shadow, every line. She can see Charlie’s profile in the fuzz of dots.
Emily’s stomach twists. So, Charlie is finally going to be a dad. One woman married Charlie before her, another is having his baby. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
Emily grinds her heel into the dirt, just as a creepy sensation spreads through her. She glances over at the couple on the bench. The woman is resting her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder and picking something out of her teeth. Emily’s gaze continues round the square, looking for . . . what? Someone watching her? She snorts. Don’t be so dramatic. Her mind is playing tricks on her again. Two days ago, she fell asleep in front of the TV and woke with a start, convinced she could smell a stranger’s aftershave on her. Emily wonders if her subconscious is fabricating something for her to worry over, to distract her from her marriage.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d imagined things that weren’t true.
Emily plucks an apple from her rucksack and gets to work, wincing as her teeth grate against a seed. At first it was enough just to see Sabrina with her own eyes. But yesterday curiosity got the better of her and she followed Sabrina, feeling the thrill as she ducked behind cars and lingered on street corners as if she was in a TV show. Sabrina had disappeared into Fit Fit Fit, a shiny white gym with a neon-pink sign outside, and Emily turned round and went home. Perhaps that would have been it, an end to her stalking career, she thinks, if hadn’t been for last night.
Now everything is different.
Emily closes her eyes and allows the memory to swallow her up. She was running around Regent’s Park, yesterday afternoon, the breeze warm across her shoulders. As she ran, she held onto an image of Charlie and herself on their wedding day: winter sunlight pouring over them as they pose for photographs outside the registry office. Charlie dipping towards her, brushing her cheek with his lips. Emily squeezing his hand as he whispers, ‘Well, hello Mrs Swift.’ Emily has always wished someone got a better picture of that moment. She’d hang it in the sitting room. No, the hallway. Somewhere public where people can see just how happy they are. Because they are happy, deep down. Really, really happy. All marriages go through tough times. This is nothing she can’t fix. Emily sprinted up her apartment steps feeling faintly positive for the first time in days. But, by the time she set foot inside their flat, the image of their wedding day was replaced by another: Charlie, cradling a red-haired baby. The happy vibes abandoned her. Emily peeled off her clothes and climbed into a hot shower. She forced her head under the scalding water, letting it wash away her angry, exhausted tears.
Moments later, she heard something.
‘Charlie?’ Emily stuck her head out of the shower curtain but all was quiet. I’m losing my bloody mind.
Emily worked the shampoo through her hair then stepped onto the bathmat and grabbed a towel. She glanced at the mirror, and froze.
There, in the steam on the mirror, someone had scrawled the words:
BABY BABY BABY BABY BABY BABY BABY BABY BABY
The words covered every inch of the mirror’s surface. Emily’s knees buckled and she landed hard. Who wrote that? Charlie, when he last showered? Has he gone insane? His nightmares are off the charts. Only last night she heard his nightmare unfolding through the wall. For a brief moment, Emily’s heart had gone out to him as she visualised Charlie hot, half-naked, tangled in the spare room sheets. Then she pictured Sabrina’s pointy chin and swishy hair and her heart hardened.
Emily glanced back at the scrawled words and, just like that, she knew exactly who wrote them.
She shifts her weight on the bench and checks her watch: 12.49 p.m. Sabrina is like clockwork. She leaves Hamilton Law at exactly 1 p.m. every day. Emily pulls her laptop out of her rucksack and fires it up, then she clicks on her new obsession. The website has taken her mind off cutting herself in ways she could never have dreamed. What’s the point of probing Bert for information on Sabrina if she isn’t going to use it? She flexes her fingers waiting for LegalLens.com to load, then she starts to type.
Which flame-haired Partner has been overdosing on happy pills?
Emily’s eyes flicker to the Hamilton Law entrance just as a woman appears, dressed in a mac and pointy black pumps. Emily stuffs her laptop into her backpack and springs to her feet so quickly, the goth-couple give her a quizzical look.
Emily has to run to keep up with Sabrina. She follows her up Thayer Street, careful to keep her distance. As Emily turns right onto Weymouth Street, she hears footsteps behind her. She glances
over her shoulder but she’s alone. Shaking her head she puts on a spurt. Sabrina is fifty feet away. She stops at a pedestrian crossing and turns. Emily glares at Sabrina’s stomach and her insides tighten. Sabrina pauses outside a stucco-fronted building, then runs up the steps.
Emily feels her mouth forming the word before she knows what she’s doing. ‘Sabrina!’
Her voice carries across the street and Sabrina spins round. Emily is about to raise her hand when a man collides with her, knocking her to the floor.
‘Sorry, love. I didn’t mean–’
‘Get off me!’ Emily claws him out of the way but, by the time she’s on her feet, Sabrina is gone.
Emily’s blood is pumping, like liquid fire, round her body. She stumbles towards the building and trips up the steps. Nailed to the wall is a gold sign:
Dr Anne Lack, Obstetrician
Emily limps towards the wall and collapses, feeling the adrenaline seep out of her. She pictures Sabrina, lying on a bed on the other side of that wall, the doctor’s hands on her rounded belly.
That’s my baby. My baby. My baby.
Emily is so tired. Of holding it together. Of working so hard on a marriage that’s disintegrating.
A memory drops into her head: the moments before her Rolls-Royce pulled up to the registry office, just Emily and her dad.
‘How are you feeling, kid?’ he’d asked, squeezing her hand.
‘Like I’m going into battle.’ It was an odd thing to say but her dad hadn’t remarked on it. He understood more than anyone what she meant.
‘I’m going to let you in on a little secret.’ He tweaked his buttonhole and picked a fleck of something off his lapel. ‘No relationship is equal. You might have to make allowances every now and again for Charlie.’
‘The way you do with Mum?’ Emily’s voice was soft.
‘All marriages face challenges, Em. You need to decide: are you going to dig your heels in about every small detail, or are you going to look at the bigger picture?’
The car turned onto the King’s Road and crawled to a stop outside Chelsea Registry Office.
Emily smoothed down her dress. ‘Why have you stayed with her all these years?’
Her dad was quiet for a moment. ‘Because, without her, I’m nothing.’ He reached out to open the door, then stopped. ‘You’ve always been resourceful, kid. Trust your gut. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.’
Emily leans against the railings and pictures her dad’s kind, blue eyes. Then other visions flit through her head: the silver earring, the baby scan, Sabrina’s red hair and Lizzie’s perfect smile, the perfume bottle. Moonflower. Emily can practically smell the vanilla scent, right here on the street.
Something shifts inside Emily and her dad’s eyes give way to another set of eyes; hard and red and female.
Emily pulls out her phone and dials Charlie’s number.
Pick up pick up pick up pick up pick up.
It goes to voicemail: ‘You’ve reached Charlie Swift. Leave some words.’
‘Baby it’s me. We need to talk.’ Emily fingers the diamond pendant around her neck and takes a deep breath. ‘I know what you’ve been hiding from me. I know about Sabrina, about the . . . baby,’ Emily’s voice cracks and she blinks up at the sky.
You’ll know what to do when the time comes.
Emily glances over her shoulder at the white-stucco building and starts to walk away.
‘I won’t let you throw me away, Charlie. We made a vow. To love each other, until the bitter end. I still love you. Do you love me? No, don’t answer that. Not yet. We can fix this.’
When the time comes.
‘So I forgive you, Charlie Swift. You hear me? I forgive you.’ An image of Sabrina’s round, swollen tummy hits her between the eyes and Emily clenches her fists. ‘But I’m warning you. Sabrina, the baby. They’re gone. OK?’
The time has come.
Emily unclenches her fists, squares her shoulders. ‘I don’t care how you handle it, just handle it. Or I will.’
32
A cold burst of wind ruffled my hair, and I buried my chin in my jacket, grimacing as pain swept through my neck. I paced up and down the street outside 23 Delaware Street, willing Kate to hurry up. I didn’t want to be alone, not after what I’d just seen. The butchered car. The blackened corpse. The smoke still clung to the back of my throat.
My phone vibrated in my pocket; I took a long breath and yanked it out, grateful for the distraction. It was an email from Jeff.
Subject: Life in the old dog yet
Hello Sophie, Jeff your hero, here. Take your time with that quote for my story. But, in the meantime, I’ve unearthed something I think you’ll want to see.
The attachment shows Hector Marlon’s membership database: every person registered at the new Christ Clan.
Look at entry 43.
The sound of footsteps. I tore my eyes away to find Kate storming towards me.
‘All that work on the Rowntree exposé and now we can’t find bloody Bert Hugh—’ She stopped, sweeping her brown eyes over my face. ‘What’s the matter?’
It was only when I put a hand to my cheek that I realised I was crying. Then I took a deep breath. ‘Emily’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve just come from Crystal Palace.’ My shrill voice rose into the night and I wiped my eyes. ‘She was set alight, Kate. In a car.’
Kate stared at me as if she wasn’t seeing me, her voice a whisper. ‘Water and fire. You were right.’
A car sped past, kicking up a puddle of rainwater. It sloshed all over the pavement, splattering our shoes.
Kate shifted round and stared up at the building. ‘So, why are we at Charlie and Emily’s apartment?’
I leaned back against the railings and cleared my throat. ‘Something’s been bothering me ever since the day the police searched this place. Emily let me look round and I noticed something, in Charlie’s wardrobe. Lizzie’s wedding ring was hidden there.’
Kate flicked a loose curl behind her ear. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘That ring was sacred to Charlie. If he really fled, I don’t think he’d leave it behind.’
Kate narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you mean “if he really fled”?’
I pulled out a tissue and blew my nose, giving myself a moment to order my thoughts. ‘Look, the past forty-eight hours have painted a dark picture of Charlie. He was broken by his mum; desperate for somewhere to belong, and Laurence Marlon’s twisted world provided it. We only ever knew Charlie as a husband, a friend, a colleague. A normal guy living his life like the rest of us. But there’s nothing normal about Charlie Swift.’ I remembered Jeff Johnson’s story about the killer who’d buried his childhood abuse dangerously deep. ‘What happened to Charlie back then, that stuff doesn’t just disappear. It lays dormant.’
I pointed at the townhouse. ‘My Christ Clan source told me how the Golden Flock were taught to exploit a building’s weak spot. When Charlie was sent out on missions, he could hide for days inside people’s homes without them ever knowing he was there.’
I nodded towards the scaffolding where the wind was filling the tarpaulin sheet like a sail. ‘This place has been decimated by builders over the past year. There have got to be weak spots, right?’
Kate chewed her thumbnail. ‘What are you saying, that Charlie has been hiding here this whole time?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s a theory. But think about it: that night he attacked Emily. How did he get in? The police had a surveillance team parked outside. What if he’s been here the whole time, spying on Emily, just like he spied on his mum when he was a kid?’
Kate frowned. ‘Why not just run away? What’s his endgame?’
‘I don’t know. He wants to stay close to the action?’ I caught the scepticism on her face. ‘Listen, I know it sounds nuts, but I keep coming back to Lizzie’s ring. Charlie left it behind because he knew he could go back for it any time he wanted.’
Kate zipped her j
acket up to her chin and huddled her arms round herself. ‘So, what are we looking for exactly?’
‘A weakness.’ I hauled myself up and stretched out my legs to get the blood flowing. ‘Anything that looks as if it might lead inside the building. The front of the building is too well-lit by the streetlamps. But there’s an alleyway out back. Did you bring a torch?’
Kate stood up and cast her eyes over the building. ‘What if Charlie’s still here?’ She said it matter-of-factly, but I could hear the anxiety in her voice.
‘All we’re looking for is the weak spot. Nothing more. If we find anything, we call the cops.’
Kate held my gaze, then she fished around in her bag and pulled out a torch. ‘Let’s go, Nancy Drew.’
We scurried round the edge of the building and into a narrow alleyway that ran the full length of the street. The buildings soared up either side of us, hemming us in and heightening the smell of wet tarmac and sour dustbins. I switched on my torch, nodding at Kate to do the same. As we crept along, I noticed that each numbered building had its own set of metal steps leading down to lower ground level and I ran my torch around each stairwell.
‘I can’t see anything,’ said Kate in a low voice, as we passed a yellow skip piled high with planks of wood and rusty metal poles.
I fired my torch at the building, counting out the number of stairwells in my head. I trudged up to number 23 and leaned over the metal railings. As I flashed my torch into the darkness below, my beam hit something in the wall.
I climbed down the steps, my shoes slipping on the wet stone surface. ‘Kate, look.’
Two feet off the ground, a metal grate was embedded in the brick exterior wall. I held the torch between my teeth, then hooked my fingers around the metal and gave it a tug. The grate came away from the wall and I stumbled backwards into Kate.
The Perfect Victim Page 28