Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series)

by Corrie Jackson

  Poppy sighed. ‘Well, my day was pretty awesome, thanks for asking. That girl I slipped my number to on Saturday night just asked me on a date. And my deal is closing on the Fentonfleet case next week, which means the law firm is sending me to New York on Sunday.’ I could see her studying me out of the corner of her eye. ‘And to top it all off, the canteen served my favourite Sandwich of the Day: turkey cranberry.’ She folded her arms. ‘OK, now your turn.’

  ‘I woke up, it sucked. Then it got worse.’ I slid off the counter. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  I was almost at the door when Poppy spoke. ‘Soph, I’m here if you need me.’

  I switched on my desk lamp and lowered the blinds, already regretting being such a bitch to Poppy. I pushed it to one side and sighed. After Tommy died I turned the third bedroom into an office, but hadn’t got round to decorating it. All it housed at the moment was the mid-century desk I inherited from my great-aunt and a chair on wheels. The shelves were empty except for some well-thumbed books: Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the entire Sherlock Holmes collection (which I’d devoured by the age of thirteen) and reference books on police procedures and the British legal system. A corkboard was resting against the wall. I fished Natalia’s headshot out of my bag and pinned it to the centre.

  What Cat said about Natalia running away from something or someone back home made me realise how little I knew of her life before she moved to London. I took a fortifying sip of tea, then searched for the Russian telephone directory on my laptop and punched in her last name: Kotov, city: Ivanovo. Thirty-one names popped up. I checked my watch. Ivanovo was four hours ahead so it was two in the morning. And I had another problem. I didn’t speak Russian. Even if I managed to track down Natalia’s family, I couldn’t be sure they’d speak English. I couldn’t do this alone. Scrolling through local news websites, I found an email address for a reporter called Mikhail Chernov at the Ivanovo Post and sent an email appealing for help.

  Poppy clattered around the kitchen and I ignored my growling stomach. I plugged the USB stick containing The Rose’s CCTV footage into my computer. A grainy image of the lobby flickered across my screen.

  Thirty minutes later I was going cross-eyed. All I’d seen was the usual humdrum activity you’d expect from a busy London hotel. A family checking out surrounded by large suitcases, a man in a cap reading a newspaper in an armchair, a group of Japanese tourists returning from what was clearly the most successful shopping trip of all time. At 6.24 p.m. Natalia arrived, a small black holdall slung over her shoulder. She was at the desk for less than five minutes before disappearing into the lift. At 7.50 p.m., fashionable types started milling by the mirrored bar.

  ‘Pops,’ I shouted over my shoulder. ‘Can I borrow you for a sec?’

  Poppy stuck her head round the door, bringing with her a waft of lasagne.

  ‘You know how your Vogue subscription and man-repelling shoes make you the most fashion-forward person I know?’

  Poppy wiped her hands on her pyjama bottoms. ‘You mean the only fashion-forward person you know.’

  I smiled sweetly. ‘I need your magical fashion powers. Can you ID the people on this tape?’

  Poppy leaned over me and peered at the screen.

  ‘That’s Laurie Corona, the editor of Vogue. Check out her new cropped hairdo. Truly amazing.’ Her voice was full of wonder and I smiled into my mug. ‘And that’s Daphne Leonard in the leather catsuit. She’s married to Giles Thompson, the head of Sony, and only ever wears couture, even to the supermarket.’ She paused. ‘Not that she goes to the supermarket.’

  ‘What about him?’

  A man with a bleached-blond quiff was striding across the lobby. The flashlight from the photographer behind him lit up his silver suit.

  Poppy folded her arms. ‘You need to get out more. That’s Amos Adler.’ She looked exasperated when I shrugged. ‘He’s the editor of Stitched.com, the gossip website that makes my working day bearable.’

  A familiar figure swaggered across the screen, wearing ripped jeans and a sweater emblazoned with the words: More taste than money.

  Poppy sighed. ‘God, if I was that way inclined, Liam Crawford would be top of my list.’

  I cleared my throat.

  At 8.16 p.m. the guest of honour, Leo Brand, arrived, polished and self-assured in a three-piece suit, with Lydia Lawson on his arm. Her black, sequinned dress shimmered and she leaned in close to Leo, flicking her glossy hair and laughing at something he’d said.

  Then at 8.26 p.m. the lift doors opened and Natalia appeared, wearing the gold dress I’d seen her in this morning. Her face was partly obscured by a curtain of dark hair. She darted across the lobby, then stopped and glanced behind her. Darted, stopped, glanced. She repeated this three times.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Poppy leaned in close over my shoulder.

  Each time Natalia paused, she jerked her head round. The final time, I zoomed in on her expression. My breath caught in my throat. She looked like a deer walking in front of a hunter’s rifle. I rewound the tape to where Natalia began her strange dance across the lobby. What was she looking at?

  At the bottom right of the screen the photographer moved in and out of the frame.

  The photographer.

  I rewound the tape.

  ‘Pops, look.’ The photographer was positioned behind Natalia, shooting in her direction. ‘I wonder if he photographed whatever she’s looking at?’ I stretched my arms up over my head. My eyes felt dry and gritty.

  ‘Shit! The lasagne.’ Poppy rushed to the door. ‘Be ready in ten.’

  I was about to close my laptop when I noticed the man in the cap. He was still sitting in the same armchair with the newspaper on his lap, and the collar of his leather jacket obscuring his face. I checked the time. He’d been there for over two hours. I rewound the tape and sped through it again watching only him. In twenty minutes, he didn’t turn the page of his newspaper once. At 10.45 p.m. he stood up and . . . I leaned forward. That was weird.

  An email landed in my inbox from Charlie Swift.

  Subject line: WTF?

  Tink, check out this link (hey, that rhymes).

  – Spidey

  Charlie pasted a link to a story appearing in tomorrow’s Business section about Kent Industries financing a five-billion-pound takeover of a steel company. It would put five thousand people out of a job. My father, Antony Kent, was quoted in the first paragraph:

  My challenge was to turn Jenson Steel into a profitable company again. I’ve made some tough decisions and I stand by them. I’m proud to welcome Jenson Steel into the Kent Industries family.

  What the fuck would you know about family? The piece was accompanied by a photograph of my father staring bullishly at the camera. Eyebrows like silver bullets perched over penetrating blue eyes. Hair the unmistakeeable Kent silvery-blonde. His expensive suit barely contained his heavy frame. I slammed the lid of my laptop down and squeezed my eyes shut. Five minutes later I was pulling on my coat and heading for the door.

  Poppy came out of the kitchen holding a wooden spoon. She saw what I was doing and sighed. ‘Not again, Soph.’

  But I was already closing the door behind me.

  The rain stung my face as I stumbled along Lower Sloane Street, then over Chelsea Bridge and into Battersea Park. I pictured Natalia bleeding out of her eyes and ears as her body temperature plummeted. What had gone through her mind as the killer wrapped his hands round her throat? Did she struggle? At what point did she realise it was over? I inhaled the night air and a briny scent filled my lungs. I was half-soaked and shivering but I pushed forwards, joining the towpath.

  How long did Tommy lie there, still warm, as the drugs shut down his organs? How long did it take his heart to stop beating? Suddenly I heard my father’s voice, cold as steel. Tommy is dead.

  The rain beat down but I was oblivious. All I could hear was my own ragged breathing. Then, almost without thinking, my footsteps slowed and eventually stopped. I’d
always loved to walk but, ever since Tommy’s death, my feet always found their way to the same place: the pink balustrades and twinkling lights of Albert Bridge. I leaned over the railings and stared into the shadows. When Tommy died, I regularly crawled down to the wasteland underneath the bridge to be near the place where he was last alive. I’d lie down amongst the rats and the stink, staring up at the same concrete beams Tommy saw, running my fingers through the same patchy grass he touched. Eventually an aggressive homeless guy told me to fuck off, so now I didn’t venture further than the riverbank.

  Since Tommy died, 128 days had passed and I was suffocating.

  In the distance, a ferry disappeared under the bridge. I watched its green light bobbing like a firefly until it was swallowed up by the night.

  9

  In 5 minutes.

  The text came through as I reached my desk. I’d barely slept, so I did what I always did when insomnia hit. I went to work.

  At 5.30 a.m., the air was sharp, the streets still cloaked in night. Objects loomed into view under street lamps before being devoured by blackness. As I huddled by a wall on the chilly Tube station platform, I sent a text to general pathologist Dr David Sonoma. David was an early riser. He once told me it was hard to sleep peacefully after you’d had a four-year-old abuse victim splayed out on your table.

  I peeled off my layers, nodding at the dregs of the night shift who were leaving for the day. I loved an empty newsroom. It was like a film set waiting to come to life. While I waited for David to call, I scanned my inbox. Mikhail Chernov had responded to say he would help track Natalia’s family down; in return he wanted an additional reporting credit. I stood up to make tea when my phone rang.

  ‘David. Thanks for calling.’

  ‘Hello, Sophie.’ He sounded tired. I could picture him in his office at St George’s Hospital. Grey eyebrows that had a life of their own in an otherwise neat face, accentuated by small, rimless glasses. David resembled a golf-and-Gardener’s-World fan but I knew the truth. He got his rocks off at heavy metal gigs. I often got him tickets; a perk of the job. He said the music helped drown out the daily visual noise he was pummelled with. I understood. I know a police chief who unwinds by throwing racing cars round a track, and a crime reporter who does five triathlons a year. When you have front-row ticket to the horror show, a quick pint down the local doesn’t quite cut it.

  ‘What can you tell me about the brunette who came in yesterday?’

  ‘You need to be more specific.’

  Christ.

  ‘Natalia Kotov, eighteen years old, killed at The Rose Hotel. I’m guessing she was strangled, judging by the bruising I saw on her neck.’

  David didn’t ask how I’d seen the bruising. I heard the sound of paper being shuffled. ‘This is being released in a couple of hours. Can’t you wait until then?’

  ‘Can you wait for those Saxon tickets?’

  He sighed. ‘You’re half right. She was throttled, not strangled, the difference being that the killer used his hands, not a ligature. She had bruising on both sides of the trachea and smaller bruises on the back of her neck, indicating her assailant was front-on.’

  I scribbled down notes, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder.

  ‘Both her hyoid bone and larynx were fractured and the petechial haemorrhaging – sorry, the blood leakage into the white part of the eyeball – was severe. One of the worst cases I’ve seen. That, along with blood seepage from both eyes and ears indicates significant force was used.’ He paused. ‘Actually, that’s an understatement. The killer broke all ten of her fingers, which is harder to do than it sounds. We’re looking for someone strong and . . . determined.’

  I stared down at my empty mug, wondering if a caffeine hit would have made this conversation easier.

  ‘Often victims of asphyxia have broken fingernails, where they fight against their attacker’s hands. The deceased’s nails were unbroken. I tested for trace evidence but found none.’ David coughed down the phone. ‘Her bloodwork is still with the toxicologist but initial testing showed traces of Ritalin, a pyschostimulant most commonly used to treat Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. And I found significant levels of Gamma hydroxybutyrate in her system.’

  My fingers were aching and my brain hurt. ‘Plain English, David. What does that mean?’

  He accepted the interruption graciously. ‘She wasn’t conscious when she was killed, which is some small mercy. GHB is a fast-acting central nervous system depressant. I imagine the killer used it to keep her docile.’

  I leaned back in my chair. ‘That makes sense. He chose a public setting. Couldn’t risk her making a noise.’ I gnawed a fingernail. ‘Did he leave any marks?’

  ‘No fingerprints on her body. Although I did find a very faint glove imprint – probably latex – underneath her left ear. Also, the killer is right-handed, the bruising is more pronounced on the left-hand side of her neck.’

  ‘What about the damage to her face?’

  ‘The incisions varied in length but were made with the same blade. The angle of the incisions isn’t typical of a knife. It’s my feeling that they were inflicted by the scissors he used to cut her hair. Probably your average kitchen scissors. Interestingly, the lack of blood loss indicates the killer slashed her face after she was dead.’

  I let out a low whistle. He wasn’t in a hurry then. The Rose was so public. Multiple potential witnesses and CCTV cameras all over the place. Either the killer was arrogant or stupid. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  ‘Any idea about time of death?’

  There was a pause as David put his hand over the receiver to talk to someone. ‘Time of death is tricky to establish. Her low BMI and teeth enamel indicate an eating disorder, so the stomach contents weren’t much use. But her body was in the latter stages of rigor mortis so I’d guess it happened somewhere between 9 p.m. and 3 a.m.’

  I thought back to the bloodstained sheet and closed my eyes. ‘Any sexual assault?’

  David sounded almost apologetic. ‘Not in the traditional sense. But she was sexually assaulted with an object that caused extensive internal damage.’

  ‘What kind of object?’

  ‘This is not to be printed. DCI Durand wants to use it as a control detail.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It was an eight-inch stick covered with thorns. The killer left it inside her. It’s been sent off to Botany for testing but it looked like blackthorn to me. Sophie, I have to sign off. My 7.30 is here. Talk soon.’

  I hung up in a daze and googled blackthorn. My eyes scanned the page.

  Blackthorn: the tree bears wicked long sharp thorns and small, delicate white flowers. Symbolism: inevitability of death, revenge.

  An image popped up of a thick woody branch bordered by long, angry spikes.

  ‘I never had you down for a green fingers type.’

  I spun round to find Kate looking at my computer screen.

  ‘Want to hear something sick?’ I filled her in on my conversation with Dr Sonoma.

  Kate’s eyes widened. ‘That is fucked up. What kind of sicko rapes a woman with a tree branch? What, he couldn’t get it up himself?’

  I shuddered. ‘Or maybe he’s smart and didn’t want to leave any trace of himself behind.’ I sank down in my chair. ‘He’d have had to carry a bag. Actually, that reminds me.’ I rooted around in my bag for the USB stick. ‘What do you make of this?’

  I played the CCTV footage.

  Kate grinned. ‘I won’t even ask how you got hold of that.’

  I pointed to the screen. ‘Watch the guy in the cap.’

  We sped through the tape. The man stood up, slung his rucksack over one shoulder and disappeared behind the chair.

  ‘Where did he go?’ Kate leaned in close.

  ‘Right. He doesn’t go out the front door because you’d see him. He doesn’t go into the lift because you’d see that too. I videoed the lobby on my phone and, believe me, there’s nowhere obvious for him to go. But then I noticed this.’
>
  I paused the tape at 10.46 p.m. On the left-hand wall hung an enormous framed painting of a dark landscape. The lobby chandelier was reflected in the glass, turning it into a sort of mirror. I zoomed in on the painting and ran the tape. We watched the man’s reflection vanish into a door.

  ‘OK, he goes through a door, so what?’

  ‘Now look at this.’ I handed Kate my phone and showed her the 360-degree panorama of the lobby. ‘Where is that door?’

  She squinted at the screen. ‘I can’t see it.’

  ‘That’s because it’s been wallpapered over to blend in. Which means that door isn’t meant for guests. So either the man in the cap is on staff, which is unlikely considering he’s been sitting on his arse for two hours, or –’

  ‘He’s doing something he shouldn’t.’

  I printed off the clearest shot of his face, which admittedly wasn’t great. My phone beeped. ‘OK, I’m heading back to The Rose. The housekeeper has delivered the goods. I’ve got a hot date with dashing Dmitri.’

  Kate stood up and yawned. ‘What shall I tell Nutsack? He wants quotes from the Highgate Nursery parents. You know, the one they discovered was operating a brothel out of the top floor.’

  I gave her a pleading look.

  Kate sighed. ‘Go on, Kate the Great will do it. In return you can slip the hot guy my number.’

  Her cackle followed me all the way across the newsroom.

  By the time I arrived at The Rose, the fine mist of rain had got under my skin and I was chilled to the bone. The only upside of the ten-minute walk was that I’d managed to get through to the photographer Nathan Scott, who agreed to see me at his Mayfair studio at 11 a.m.

  Aside from the crackle in the air that always follows a tragedy, there was little else in the lobby to suggest a brutal murder had occurred thirty-six hours earlier. I glanced at the pink armchair, then at the wall behind it and saw the faint outline of a door, camouflaged by wallpaper. My pulse quickened as I strode across the lobby and ducked inside. I was in a narrow corridor, less opulent than the guest corridors and brightly lit. Three rooms ran along the right-hand side. The first was a storage cupboard filled with dusty cardboard boxes. The second door was an empty staffroom. I pushed open the third door and found myself at the bottom of a staircase. There were no CCTV cameras on the ground-floor level. I took the stairs two at a time, pausing on each landing looking for cameras. There weren’t any. I reached the fifth floor and stopped. Ahead was a heavy, white door with the back-to-front words Staff Only printed on the glass panel. I’d completely lost my bearings. I stuck my head round the door.