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

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘But you must have some idea.’

  If Lydia heard the desperation in my voice, she ignored it. ‘Honey, if you think I’m going to name names and pile more shit on my career, you’re more stupid than you look.’

  I tried to stay calm. ‘Men in positions of power? Designers, casting directors?’ I paused, watching her closely. ‘Or photographers. Such as, I don’t know, Liam Crawford?’

  ‘Liam?’ Lydia gave a brittle laugh but a trace of fear clouded her eyes. ‘He’s a complete bastard but he wouldn’t harm anyone.’

  ‘Not according to the rumours.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  I lowered my voice. ‘Liam has quite the temper, doesn’t he? And he’s notorious for sleeping with the models he shoots. Say Natalia put up a fight, can you hand on heart say Liam wouldn’t have pushed it?’

  ‘How should I know? It was hard enough to keep up with his sexual conquests when we were together.’ Lydia bent down to fiddle with her boot buckle, hiding her face in the process.

  ‘Lydia, has Liam done something bad? Is that why you fought at the party?’

  ‘You know what? Fuck. You.’ She gathered up her things. ‘I should never have come. You reporters are all the same. You know fuck all.’

  I shot to the edge of my seat. ‘I know three things, Lydia. One: Natalia’s rape is a strong motive for her murder and the police suspect Natalia’s rapist was someone in the fashion industry. Two: your ex, Liam Crawford, aka the ticking time-bomb with a sideline in domestic-violence rumours, was at The Rose the night she was killed.’ I thought back to Natalia’s terrified expression on the CCTV footage. ‘Even if Liam is innocent, how do you think his track record will play out in the press? He doesn’t have many friends on Fleet Street, not after the stunt he pulled last year. He and, by default, you will be living under a microscope. You think your career is in a shit-spiral now, wait until your on/off lover is the prime suspect in a murder inquiry.’

  My outburst stopped Lydia in her tracks.

  ‘And the third thing?’

  I looked Lydia directly in the eye. ‘Three: you’re here. In spite of your crazy-arse schedule and your claim that you didn’t know Natalia well. You’re sitting in a greasy café in the middle of London Fashion Week when you have a thousand other places to be. That says to me you care. So, for Christ’s sake, Lydia, help me.’

  My words hung in the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the builders looking at us with interest.

  All of a sudden, the sharp angles of Lydia’s face melted. ‘I honestly don’t know who raped Natalia.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who may have wanted to hurt her?’

  Lydia sighed. ‘She once mentioned an old boyfriend. Some guy back in Russia. She didn’t say much but I got the impression she’d had a lucky escape. Romanced her with his fists, if you catch my drift.’

  This was news to me. ‘Did she tell you anything about him? His name? Where he lived?’

  ‘No. Only that she was scared to go home. I think she would have done anything to make it as a model here. Including letting her rapist get away with it, if she thought it would help.’

  We sat in silence for a moment, then I closed my notebook. ‘Do you know if Natalia had ADHD?’

  Lydia frowned. ‘She never said. Why?’

  ‘The drug used to treat it was found in her bloodstream.’

  Lydia held my gaze for a beat too long. ‘I need to go.’

  As she stood up, Danny shuffled over. ‘No charge, Miss Lydia! We see you soon, I hope.’

  Lydia’s smile was a sliver of sunlight on a rainy day, all the more beautiful for its unexpectedness. Then her face darkened and she stalked out of the café, leaving a trail of stares in her wake.

  12

  Over the past decade, Shoreditch’s soaring property prices had brought in a new breed of young professionals, high on sugary cocktails and shit cocaine. But while E1’s crack dens and dive bars had become galleries and artisanal coffee shops, not every inch had been gentrified. The end-of-terrace house in front of me looked Dickensian in the flat, wintery light. Decades of pollution blighted the Victorian brickwork as though it were a beautiful woman gone to seed. I skirted a yellow skip, brimming with rubbish, and pushed open the shabby black door.

  A large desk stood on a black-and-white Herringbone rug. Dozens of white roses filled a square vase and their fragrance mingled with the woody scent of the fire burning in the grate. A tall woman with brown hair down to her waist was reaching up to place a book on the shelf.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Small eyes, like two cigarette burns in a blanket, peeped out beneath a wispy fringe.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I’m with The London Herald and I have a few questions for Liam Crawford.’

  Her smile faltered. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘I don’t, but he’ll want to hear what I have to say.’

  ‘Wait here and I’ll ask.’

  A large photograph hung behind the desk. A naked woman lying in the surf, her glistening body arched towards the sun. I closed my eyes, suddenly nervous about seeing Liam after all these years.

  ‘He can spare five minutes.’ The woman’s voice pulled me back from the sun’s warmth. ‘Up the stairs to your right.’

  Music drifted through an open door at the end of the landing. Wise men say, only fools rush in.

  I hoped it wasn’t an omen.

  Giant pillars ran down the centre of the studio, rising to a vaulted ceiling thirty feet above the floor. Liam was bent over a laptop at the far end. My foot caught on a lightbox and I landed with a crash that echoed round the studio.

  ‘Fuck.’

  A hand reached out to me, but I ignored it and pulled myself up.

  ‘Good trip?’

  I glanced up to the half-smile I remembered. Liam had barely changed. A slim build and effeminate face, the kind Shakespeare would have cast to play his heroine. Perfect cheekbones and finely curved lips, hooded eyes the colour of faded denim. A woman’s face reconfigured as a man’s. The effect was strangely intoxicating.

  Liam frowned. ‘Hey, I know you.’

  I brushed myself off and managed a tight smile. ‘Sophie Kent. We were at Oxford together. Briefly,’ I added.

  ‘Sophie Kent.’ Liam’s lips pulled into a lazy grin. ‘Keble Ball, right?’ He spoke slowly, and his voice, deep and melodic with a hint of Cockney, took me back to Oxford.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d remember.’

  ‘You don’t forget a night like that.’ He looked me up and down, then cleared his throat. ‘The London Herald. You’ve done well for yourself.’

  I waved a hand round the vast studio. ‘Likewise.’

  Liam pulled a navy sweater over his head. ‘Alice said you have questions?’ He gestured to a spot next to him at the desk, but I moved to the opposite side.

  ‘You were at Leo Brand’s party the night Natalia Kotov was murdered.’ It was a statement not a question, but Liam answered it.

  ‘Another night, another “celebration” of British talent.’ He mimed quote marks in the air.

  ‘You didn’t want to go?’

  ‘Fancy dos aren’t really my thing. I’m more at home with the rats, not that you’d know about that, duchess.’

  I heard the tease in his voice and inched backwards, as though to distance myself from him. ‘So why did you go?’

  Liam shrugged. ‘I do as I’m told. All part of the rehabilitation. Making amends after the encounter with one of your lot last year.’

  ‘Did you see Natalia at the party?’

  ‘I was gone by 9 p.m. Stayed just long enough to press the flesh with the right people.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  Liam bristled at my tone. ‘I may have seen her in the crowd. But I left early. Hit the hay. I’d had a long day shooting for Burberry. And, before you ask, no one saw me.’

  I could tell by the way he fidgeted with his cuff that he was lying, but I needed to know why before I showed
my hand. I turned the page of my notebook and pretended to read something I’d written. ‘A witness told me he saw you fighting with Lydia –’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ There was an edge to his voice.

  ‘I’m covering my bases.’

  Liam drummed his fingers against the desk and I spotted the tattoo on his wrist: Be the Change. A memory stirred in me like dry leaves. My fingers tracing those blue letters on his hot skin. I shook the memory from my head. ‘What were you fighting about?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Liam, it was two nights ago.’

  ‘I know, right?’ He smacked his hand against his head, his voice taking on a mocking tone that I didn’t appreciate.

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘Lydia?’

  ‘Natalia.’

  ‘I shot her a couple of times.’

  ‘And what did you think of her?’

  ‘You want the truth?’ Liam ran a hand through his hair. ‘She took a lot of directing. I don’t think she was ready.’

  ‘Can you tell me about this shoot?’ I pushed the image from W magazine across the desk.

  Liam frowned. ‘Wasn’t an easy shot to get. Natalia took far longer than the other girls. Don’t get me wrong, she had something about her. Eyes like velvet, and you see the way her jawline hits the light?’ He reached across me to trace the picture and I caught a musky scent that wasn’t unpleasant. ‘But she lay there, a sack of spuds, for the first ten minutes. Still, she warmed up. They always do.’ The corner of his mouth twitched.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Liam. This isn’t a joke. Did Natalia seem unhappy to you?’

  ‘I wasn’t paid to be her therapist. That shoot was a big deal for me. Ten pages in W is a game-changer.’

  ‘Was it your idea to shoot her in that position, wearing basically nothing?’

  Liam cocked his head to one side. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, duchess. No offence but you never were the high-fashion type. I had a brief and we ran with it on the day. I think she looks beautiful.’

  ‘And young.’

  ‘How beautiful is youth! How bright it gleams with its illusions, aspirations, dreams!’ He grinned. ‘Longfellow.’

  Talking to Liam was like drifting along a flat, sun-soaked river in a rowboat, knowing that Niagara Falls was round the bend.

  ‘You said you photographed Natalia twice. What was the other time?’

  Liam reached for his laptop. ‘Dazed and Confused. We shot it three weeks ago but I doubt it will run.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘See for yourself.’ He spun his laptop round. My mouth went dry.

  The image showed Natalia lying on the carpeted floor of a luxurious bedroom. Her face was the colour of chalk, her eyes glassy, a ring of purple around her neck. Sheer underwear revealed nipples, small as buttons, and a dark smudge of hair between her legs. My eyes landed on the object on the floor beside her. I sagged against the desk as ugly memories I’d tried to bury blazed through my mind. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  Liam’s voice was soft. ‘What are the chances, right?’

  ‘A noose? What was the fucking brief for this story?’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. The idea was to explore celebrity culture. Nudity has lost its shock value. Well, what if the woman in the photo was dead? Would you still flick past without noticing?’ He paced away from the desk, then turned round. ‘Anyway, Dazed won’t run this now. Or maybe they will. It might shift a few extra copies. How’s that for fucked-up celebrity culture?’ He slammed his laptop closed.

  ‘How did Natalia feel about the concept?’

  ‘She did the shoot, didn’t she?’

  ‘Do you know how old she was, Liam?’

  A flash of irritation registered on his face. ‘I just shoot who they send me.’

  ‘What if I told you she wasn’t legal?’ Liam’s shoulders shrugged and didn’t fully release. ‘Did you sleep with her?’

  He whipped his head round. ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘Answer it.’

  ‘Why? Are you jealous?’

  I almost slapped him. ‘Did you know that sack of spuds was sexually assaulted by someone in the fashion industry last summer? By someone important enough to do damage to her career if she reported him. You’re pretty important nowadays, Liam.’

  The colour drained from Liam’s face. ‘What the fuck? Do you honestly think I’m capable of that?’

  ‘You’re plenty capable of photographing naked, vulnerable minors in provocative poses. Your moral compass is fucked, Liam. It always was.’

  There was no sign of the famous Crawford charm now. The pupils of his eyes shrank down into pinpricks. Liam barrelled towards me, but I stood my ground.

  ‘The same witness who saw you fighting with Lydia, also saw you threaten Natalia. What did they have on you, Liam? Did Natalia tell Lydia you raped her? Is that why you killed her?’

  Liam paused, struggling to get his emotions under control. Then he leaned in close, his voice velvet-soft. ‘Fuck off, Sophie.’

  I stepped towards him, towards the heated air between us, catching him by surprise. ‘You think this is bad, wait until the gutter press starts hounding you. You think they’ll care if you’re innocent? As far as they’re concerned, you’re a woman-beating Lothario who has it coming. You don’t even have an alibi. Wake up, Liam. You’ll be thrown to the wolves.’

  A phone rang. Liam didn’t move. He clenched his jaw so hard, his cheeks turned white. ‘I didn’t fucking kill her.’

  ‘So prove it by helping me figure out who did.’

  Liam glared at me, then all of a sudden the fire left his eyes and he turned back to his laptop. ‘I’m a big boy. I’ll take my chances.’

  I counted to ten but he didn’t turn round.

  I was halfway down the alleyway when I heard footsteps.

  ‘Wait!’ It was the brunette from Liam’s studio. ‘Liam will kill me if he knows I’m telling you this, but I was on that Dazed shoot.’

  ‘It’s Alice, right? You were listening to our conversation?’ Alice looked down, twisting a silver ring around her finger. I turned away from the wind to face her. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Natalia was weird on the shoot. She was nervous, like really nervous.’

  I shrugged. ‘She was shy.’

  Alice wrapped her arms around herself. Her skin was already puckered with goosebumps. ‘That’s not what I mean. Look, Liam can get any woman to open up and perform. It’s his thing.’ I detected a trace of bitterness in her tone. ‘But Natalia was different. She froze any time Liam went near her.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  Alice coiled a long strand of hair round her finger, a strange look on her face. ‘I couldn’t really say.’

  The wind stung my ears. ‘Alice, I don’t have time for this. If there’s something you want to say, just say it.’

  She sighed. ‘Don’t let the charm fool you. Liam’s not what he seems.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I have to get back. He’ll notice I’m gone.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Natalia was sweet. She didn’t deserve what happened to her.’

  Alice grabbed the business card I held out, then sprinted back to the studio. I watched the door close, wondering what to make of her. Generally, the more eager the source, the less you could trust them. Alice might have received a shitty pay rise from Liam, or been dumped by him for all I knew. Everyone had an agenda. But she was right about one thing.

  Liam was hiding something.

  London’s streets were dark and glistening. I tramped home along the King’s Road, past the Saturday night revelry drifting out of steam-soaked bars. On a particularly screwed-up day on the job, I used to welcome the rain. It washed the dirt away, ready for a new day. Since Tommy died, the sky could cry itself dry and London would never be clean again.

  I’d just collapsed on the sofa when my phone beeped with a press release from the the Met.
Subject line: Appeal following murder at The Rose Hotel, CCTV image available. I logged on to my laptop and pulled up an image of a man in a dark jacket leaving the back entrance of the hotel. He had a cap pulled low over his face. Was it the same man I’d seen on the CCTV footage last night? It was hard to tell.

  The grandfather clock chimed nine o’clock and I switched on the news. A plane had gone down in Malaysia, killing all 398 people on board. I shuddered. I’d covered enough plane crashes to turn me into a twitching wreck any time I had to fly. The third item was Natalia’s murder. I turned up the volume.

  ‘The body of the Russian woman found dead at The Rose Hotel in London has been identified as the model Natalia Kotov.’ The CCTV screen grab appeared. ‘Police are appealing to the public to come forward with any information on this man, who was seen leaving the back entrance of the hotel at 10.20 p.m.’ The newsreader mentioned the small memorial service being held at St Mary’s, Holborn, in the morning.

  I switched off the TV and padded through to the kitchen. There was leftover fish pie in the fridge with a note that read Eat me! stuck on top. I turned the oven on, my heart swelling with love for Poppy. But then my phone beeped with another email. One that made my stomach drop into my feet.

  It was from my father.

  When can we meet? I need to talk to you. AK

  Cold and blunt, like the man himself. I paced round the kitchen while I formulated my response. In the end, all I could manage was one word.

  Monday?

  His response came a moment later.

  8 p.m. L’ondine. AK

  Two days away.

  The wind whistled through gaps in the windowpane like an overwrought horror movie.

  13

  I woke up to some news.

  Rachel Foster, a twenty-four-year-old sales manager, had given an interview to the Star, identifying the man in the Met’s CCTV image. She’d been at a client dinner and had taken a shortcut down the alleyway behind The Rose when a man crashed into her, knocking her handbag to the ground. He didn’t apologise, didn’t even break his step, but she caught a glimpse of his face in the half-light of the hotel’s security light.