Eva’s gaze shifted to the river and she curled a long strand of hair around her finger. Her voice was whisper-soft. ‘I was so mad at her. I thought if I got on their good side . . .’
I felt my jaw slide downwards. ‘You told them Natalia was meeting a reporter?’
‘I-I never thought they would kill her. I –’
‘Is that why you’re here? Because you feel guilty?’ Eva yanked out a cluster of hairs, then opened her hand. The golden threads writhed in the air, then disappeared. The realisation hit me. ‘Did you send me Lydia’s sex tape?’
‘It’s not safe for me . . . Natalia and Lydia both spoke to you and now they’re dead. The Juliets are watching me, I know it. I owed it to Natalia to point you in the right direction but I can’t . . .’ She staggered off the bench, towards the river.
‘Eva, wait!’ I raced after her. She stopped by the railings and leaned over. ‘You need to call the police.’
Eva turned to face me, an odd smile on her face. ‘We’ve been through this before.’
‘The police can help you.’
Eva’s clear blue eyes stared directly into mine. ‘No one can help me.’
Déjà vu crashed over me like an icy wave. No one can help me. That was the last thing Natalia had said to me and, eight hours later, she was dead.
24
Over the years, the tiny news-stand outside Sloane Square Tube Station has become my industry touchstone. A reporter can’t tell how good they are until they see what the competition has brought to the table. And that table is the news-stand. It’s your battlefield, your arena, your sink or swim. It’s not the place to play coy. It’s balls-to-the-wall-show-’em-what-you-got. Shout loud, offer big. Force people to part with their cash.
As I paused on that arctic corner, still reeling from Eva’s interview, it struck me that the line between news and entertainment was barely a line anymore. The Sun’s front page showed a paparazzi shot of Lydia arriving at Natalia’s memorial service under the headline: 2 More Days To Live. The Mirror ran with a grid made up of Models International headshots and the headline: Who’s Next? A weekly style glossy had managed to find the sartorial spin with the cover line: RIP LyLaw: The Most Stylish Funeral Ever?
This wasn’t news; it was hysteria. Peddled by editors and lapped up by consumers. Lydia’s behaviour over the past year showed a deeply troubled woman, but who really cared? Her tabloid-friendly meltdowns shifted papers and increased website traffic. Her misery was good for business. Her death was even better.
By the time I was cocooned inside my house, I had dealt with my fleeting existential crisis and got to work.
Throwing myself into my office chair, my fingers flew across the keyboard. I reread my copy, tweaked it, then sent it to Kate.
Ten minutes later, she called. ‘Fuck me. You’re sure this is watertight?’
‘One hundred per cent. But I can’t name her, so don’t even ask.’
Kate sighed. ‘I wish we had longer on this before everyone else joined the race. Rahid’s not getting anywhere with the men on that tape. Rowley wants to run all this past the legal team. I’ll let you know when it’s going live.’
I made another cup of tea and by the time I got back to my desk, Amanda Barnes’s best friend, Melissa Wakefield, had responded.
Leaving work in a min. U can call.
I switched on my tape recorder and dialled.
‘Sophie?’ A thin, shrill voice like a budgerigar’s cheep. ‘I’ve never spoken to a real reporter before. I haven’t been able to concentrate since I got your message. I don’t know how much help I can be.’
I smiled brightly so Melissa would hear it in my voice. ‘That’s what all my interviewees are saying, but it’s amazing how many things come back to you once you start talking. Let’s start with an easy one. Do you still live in Liverpool?’
‘No, I moved to Huddersfield years ago. I studied at the university and met my hubby-to-be in a pub. Well, I couldn’t see myself going back to Liverpool so I just stayed. Got a job in a travel agency, except that went bust, so I got a job as a receptionist at the dentist on the High Street, been there for around, let’s see, six and a half years. And –’
‘Thanks, Melissa, that’s perfect. Do you mind if I ask you about the night Amanda Barnes died?’
‘Is this going in the newspaper?’
‘Is that OK with you?’
‘Yes, but can you use my new name? Melissa Wakefield-Channing. I hyphenated it.’ She sounded pleased with herself. ‘I want people to know I’m married. My husband is Dave Channing, he’s an electrician. Second in command of the company now.’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t suppose you can add that bit in?’
‘It depends how much space I have.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I really want to get a sense of Amanda across in this piece. What was she like?’
‘That depends on when you’re talking about. Before Mands’ stepdad came on the scene she was the best. Beautiful, funny, smart. The kind of girl you’d hate if she wasn’t so nice. I was three years younger but we lived on the same street. Bonded over New Kids on the Block and Jimmy Hunt. Jimmy was the year above Mands, curly brown hair and eyes you could melt in. Mands and I kept a log in the back of our school jotters called The Hunt Hunt, we’d write down every time we saw him and where. A bit sad, really, now I come to think of it, but we were only young. Anyhow, sorry, what was the question? Oh yes, Mands.’
Melissa took a quick breath and I relaxed into my chair. ‘She was the real deal. A bit awkward about her height, she was already five foot ten at thirteen. But she grew into it, you know? By the time we were in the third year she had men dancing circles round her. Everyone fancied her. She once got eleven Valentine’s cards in one year. From actual boys, she didn’t even need to send any to herself.’ A pause. ‘Not that I ever did that. But anyway, none of us were surprised when she got a modelling contract.’
‘Was Amanda comfortable with the attention?’
‘Are you kidding me? She loved it. Especially the male attention. I’m not saying she was a slag or anything, but she wasn’t exactly at home reading the Bible on Saturday nights.’
‘Did she have a boyfriend?’
Melissa gave an undignified snort. ‘Mands wasn’t the type to commit. A lot of them fell in love with her. But Mands never got serious with anyone. We used to joke the poor bastards should form the AA group – Amanda Anonymous. If Facebook was around back then, there would have been a page devoted to it. She drove men wild.’
‘Men like Michael Farrow?’ There was a pause.
‘Yes.’ Melissa didn’t elaborate. I waited, and eventually she sighed. ‘When Mands’ stepdad came on the scene, she changed. Started dressing differently, covering herself up. Stopped wearing make-up. It got worse just before she died. She lopped all her hair off. Told me she needed a new look to make it in London. But now I wonder if she was trying to make herself look less attractive.’
The hairs on the back of my neck started to prick up. ‘Amanda had short hair when she was murdered?’
‘The irony is that the uglier she tried to make herself, the more modelling jobs she got. She had a real future in front of her.’
‘Did you have any idea she was being abused?’
Melissa’s voice grew cagey. ‘I haven’t thought about this for a long time. Her stepdad was the kind of man you tried to forget.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He was very quiet-natured, but he had an intensity about him. He never raised his voice or anything, but you did what he said.’
‘But she didn’t tell you what he was doing to her?’
‘No.’ There was an edge to Melissa’s voice. I was losing her. I changed tack.
‘Tell me about Amanda’s mum.’
A bus roared past and Melissa paused. ‘She was a bit odd. Distant. But then it all came out . . . what he did to her. Not surprising that she shut down, really. I felt sorry for her, after it happened. She lost everything.’
/>
I wondered if Melissa knew the full extent of what Amanda’s mum went through. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She moved away not long after Mands’ death. Couldn’t handle it. I mean, could you? The guilt. Christ.’
‘Did you ever doubt that Michael killed Amanda?’
‘Not for a second.’
‘Why do you think he killed himself?’
‘He was scared of prison, probably. Criminals don’t love paedophiles, do they? Anyway, Michael was a total creep. Do you know, when the police searched his stuff, they found a cuttings file full of Amanda’s modelling photographs. Her face had been scratched out in every one. Literally scratched out with a pair of scissors. Talk about creepy.’
I stared up at the ceiling, my mind working overtime. Amanda’s face was scratched out with scissors. Another coincidence? But Michael Farrow was dead. So, who was the link? I thought about what DI Weatherley had said.
‘Melissa, do you know if anyone else was involved in Amanda’s abuse? Or anyone else who might have wanted to hurt Amanda, besides Michael Farrow?’
‘As I said, there were a few dented egos. But nothing that would lead to her murder. I mean, occasionally it got dark . . . Not long before she died, I was over at hers studying and a man turned up. Amanda freaked out, looked like she’d seen a ghost. Told me I had to leave straight away. I asked what was wrong but she wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Did you get a look at him?’
Melissa exhaled loudly. ‘No, sorry. I can’t remember much about it, to be honest. I mentioned it to her mum.’
‘Amanda never told you his name?’
‘John someone.’ Amanda exhaled loudly, chewing the words over in her mouth. ‘She let it slip, then told me never to tell anyone. Said he was a friend of her stepdad’s.’ Melissa laughed suddenly. ‘You know what, though. I kept a diary back then. Unlike Amanda I wasn’t popular. Spent my life scribbling in my diary, convinced I was the next Adrian Mole. I’ve still got them somewhere. I’ll have a look.’
‘Thanks, Melissa. That would be great.’
‘You know, I often wonder what would have become of Amanda if she’d lived. She’d probably be on the cover of Vogue, and on to her fourth husband by now.’
I scooted over to the corkboard, thanking the universe for creating a Melissa-shaped chatterbox, and pinned Amanda’s headshot next to Lydia’s. I stuck Michael Farrow’s name next to it. Then a blank scrap of paper with a question mark that represented the as-yet non-existent person linking the three murders. I massaged my temples. I couldn’t go to Rowley yet. This wasn’t even a skeleton of a theory.
I tried David Sonoma again. This time he picked up.
‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday.’ David Sonoma sighed. ‘I’m still writing up the report.’
‘What are the highlights?’
‘Manual strangulation marks are consistent with those found on Natalia’s neck. As are the contusions on Lydia’s face, which were made post-mortem. All ten fingers were broken, her hair was cut, and she was object raped with the same item.’
‘What about time of death?’
‘Rigor mortis wasn’t very far along so I’d say it wasn’t long before you found her body. Somewhere between four and six o’clock. She had traces of Xanax in her system but that’s consistent with the drugs found in her house. And I gather she seemed under the influence of drugs earlier in the day. So my daughter tells me, anyway. I’m not one for social media. Like Natalia, she was also drugged with GHB, so I doubt she was conscious when it happened.’
‘What about the . . . body part I found?’
David cleared his throat. ‘The killer cut round the areola of her left breast and removed her nipple. The scissors found on the scene are the right size and shape to have caused the lacerations on her face, but . . .’ his voice tailed off.
‘What is it?’
A pause. ‘The lacerations aren’t consistent with the last victim. The cuts are deeper on the right-hand side of her face, indicating a left-hander held the knife.’
‘Could the killer have used his other hand?’
‘Possibly. But unlikely. There’s something else too. Blood splatters on Lydia’s chest and stomach indicate she was naked when she was killed. Which means the killer dressed her afterwards. Do you know how hard it is to dress a dead body?’
The hairs on my neck starting to rise. ‘What are you saying, David?’
‘I don’t think he’s working alone.’
I stared at the phone. Two killers. Eva was right when she said someone else was involved in her assault. I was about to call Durand when my phone rang again.
‘Hello? Sophie?’ A husky voice scratched my ear like a blunt razor. ‘It’s Violet. We met at the NA meeting on Monday. I need to talk to you.’
‘Sure, go ahead.’ I was scribbling down notes, only half-listening.
‘Not on the phone. Can we meet?’
‘Is this about Natalia? I’m on a deadline now, but I could meet you first thing tomorrow.’
‘I think you’re gonna want to see me tonight.’ A pause. ‘It’s not about Natalia.’
The catch in her voice made my fingers tighten round the phone. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Tommy.’
25
I took another slug of red wine and stared at the door. The softly lit pub was warm, but I was chilled to the bone. I covered the fifteen-minute walk to the Enterprise pub in Pimlico in eight minutes, all the while darting along the dark streets in my mind.
The door opened and I held my breath, but it was just a group of gilet-clad men with ruddy cheeks. The pub was packed. Raucous laughter rolled off the walls. The sound of happy people returning to the fold after a long, dry January. I swirled my glass around, staring at the crimson whirlpool.
‘Oof, it’s fucking freezing out there.’ Violet threw herself into the chair opposite, plucked the glass from my fingers and took a large gulp.
It took a moment for me to realise what she’d done. ‘Wait, Violet, should you be –’
‘Drinking?’ Violet arched an eyebrow. ‘Booze was never the problem.’ She unzipped her puffa jacket and yanked off her woolly hat. Her short, black hair lay flat and unwashed. ‘This makes a nice change from my local. Someone got bottled last week. They still haven’t cleaned the blood off the fruit machine.’ I slid my wine glass across the table towards her. ‘You don’t want it?’
I shook my head. ‘I’d rather hear what you have to say.’
Violet took another sip and I noticed her hands were trembling. Her kohl-rimmed eyes snapped towards mine, then she looked away. She leaned both elbows on the table. ‘My dad brought me to Chelsea once. When I was eight. To look at the Christmas lights in Sloane Square. The trees glittered like diamonds; it was fucking Narnia.’ Violet chewed the skin around her fingernail. She had words scribbled across the back of her hand but I couldn’t make them out. ‘Afterwards, he took me for a hot chocolate at a posh French café. Even the chocolate tasted rich.’ She shifted back in her chair and fixed her eyes on my face. ‘Six months later he was gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘I woke up one day and he’d fucked off. Mum said he’d run off with Lycra Leslie, the perky aerobics instructor who lived on our street. Leslie was married to a wet wipe called Norm and, according to Mum, she and Dad buggered off into the night like a couple of lovesick teenagers. We moved house soon after. Mum couldn’t hack the memories.’ A pink-faced man with a stubby nose and no chin caught the edge of Violet’s chair. ‘Fucking watch yourself, mate.’ He opened his mouth to respond, then changed his mind when he saw the ferocious look on Violet’s face.
‘I was eight and my heart was broken. I loved my dad. Kept wondering if I could have done anything to make him stay. If I’d been a better daughter would he have left me? If I’d stopped giving Mum grief over my homework, or not got told off in Miss Capron’s class, if I’d done all them things, would he have thought twice about leaving me behin
d?’
A loud smash, then jeers to my left. A braying Sloane had dropped his pint, much to the delight of his friends. I leaned in closer to Violet. ‘Did you ever see him again?’
Violet picked a thread off her maroon jumper and sighed. ‘A year later, I found out the truth from an older kid at school. My dad did have a fling with Lycra Leslie but Norm caught them at it. Pulled out a carving knife and stabbed them both in the chest.’ Violet gave a small shrug. ‘Turns out Norm wasn’t such a wet wipe, after all.’
I stared at Violet in horror, trying to formulate a response. A grin spread across her face. ‘So I get home and ask Mum. She don’t even try to deny it. Stands there, in the kitchen, in her crabby old apron and says she told me Dad ran off because she thought I was too young to know he was murdered fifty feet from our house.’ Violet leaned forward. ‘You want to hear the truth? I was relieved. He didn’t choose to leave me behind. I could have done all the homework in the world, and Norm would still have killed my dad.’
Violet leaned back in her chair and gave me a defiant look. Everything about her screamed aggression. The butch hair, the Goth wardrobe, the don’t-fuck-with-me glare. I didn’t buy it.
‘Why are you telling me this?’
Violet shrugged. ‘I want you to know that finding out something bad can sometimes be a good thing.’
My insides started to knit themselves together. ‘What do you mean?’
Violet drained her glass, then stood up. ‘I’m going to get another–’
‘Violet!’ I grabbed her hand and yanked her down. ‘What’s going on?’
Violet rubbed both hands through her hair and exhaled loudly. ‘Look, I’ve been killing myself the past couple of days. Wondering whether to tell you. Why fuck with someone’s head, right? Except,’ she picked up the empty glass and drained it anyway, ‘if it was me, I’d want to know.’
Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 21