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

by Corrie Jackson

  I slammed my hand down on the table and Violet looked me in the eye.

  ‘Tommy didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.’

  When I was eight years old, I started having turns. I called them my ‘funnies’. I would shut down, switch off, blank out for two or three minutes. It felt as if I’d been scooped up and sealed inside a glass box. The world was shut out, or I was shut in. My vision clouded over. Sounds were muffled. I couldn’t move. I’d sit frozen until the funny passed and I came round.

  Of course, my mother thought I was doing it for attention and ignored me, until I had a funny while riding my pony and almost broke my back. The specialist diagnosed me with mild epilepsy and prescribed gloopy brown medicine that tasted like cabbages. It did the trick. No more glass boxes.

  Except. Every so often, a strange dreaminess enveloped me and flooded my brain with light. I always fought the feeling because I didn’t know where it would take me. As I stared at Violet, the feeling brushed past me, chiffon grazing skin. For a moment I gave myself to it. Closed my eyes, leaned against the wall of my glass box, the world around me blurred. Until something cold closed around my hand, pulling me upwards, back into the noise, into the light. I looked down and saw Violet’s pen-scrawled hand wrapped around mine.

  ‘Sophie? Can you hear me?’ Violet gave me a long look, then stood up. ‘We can’t do this sober, wait there.’ She elbowed her way to the front of the bar and returned with a tray of amber shots. ‘Start drinking.’

  I threw one back, wincing as the whisky hit the back of my throat. Then I reached for the next. I waved my hand at her to continue.

  Violet necked a shot. ‘It was Damo who told me. Remember the skinny kid in the Adidas sweatshirt? He overheard your name, then later when you told me about Tommy. Turns out they used to crash in the same spot under Albert Bridge.’

  Violet shifted in her seat and downed another shot. ‘That night something woke Damo up. He has no idea what time it was, but it was late enough that the traffic over the bridge had died away. He sat up and saw two figures crouching over Tommy and . . .’ Violet tailed off and stared mournfully towards the door.

  ‘Tell me, Violet.’ The words came out jagged and clipped, like they were from someone else’s mouth.

  Violet took a deep breath and rested both elbows on the table. ‘He heard Tommy struggling, says it sounded as if he had something stuffed in his mouth. Damo said two figures held him down. It was over pretty quickly. Damo hid behind the bush until the men left, then crawled over to Tommy. He was already dead. There was a syringe in his right hand.’

  ‘Damo just lay there the whole time. He didn’t try to help?’

  ‘Come off it, Sophie.’ Violet’s nostrils flared. ‘One homeless druggie against two killers. What would you have done?’

  I sagged against the chair. I knew Violet was right, but it was easier to focus on Damo. ‘He could have told someone. Reported it. Christ, it was three months ago.’

  ‘Who the fuck would he have told? The police? Don’t be stupid. You think they’d listen to a tramp? And even if they did, you don’t think they have more important things on their plate than a dead homeless guy? Damo had no idea that Tommy was from such a rich family. He did what he needed to do to survive. Buried it and moved on. Look, sleeping rough is . . . I don’t tell many people this but I’ve been there. You have two things on your mind: survival, and your next hit. You’re an animal.’

  Violet’s nose had started to run and when she wiped it on the back of her hand, the snot smudged the ink. ‘Except Damo couldn’t move on. Tommy’s last moments haunted him. He managed to get himself into a shelter, and then into a programme, and he’s been clean for six weeks. He wanted to tell someone but didn’t know where to start. He couldn’t believe it when you mentioned Tommy. He came to the meeting yesterday morning and asked me about you. When I told him you were a reporter, his face crumpled.’ Violet’s husky voice softened. ‘Tommy told him all about you. Called you his guardian angel.’ She dug around in her pocket. ‘The night Tommy died, Damo took something from his jacket. Wanted something to remember him by.’

  I knew what it was, even before Violet opened her hand. A badge, an orange cartoon bear with a heart on his white tummy.

  My vision blurred with tears, but I smiled. ‘Tenderheart Bear. Do you remember the Care Bears? Tommy and I used to watch the show as kids.’ My hand shook as I took the badge from Violet and pressed its dulled edges into my palm. The whisky was starting to muddle my brain, and my words felt slow and treacly. ‘I bought that badge with my pocket money. Gave it to Tommy and told him that no matter what happened, or what our parents told him, he was to remember he had a heart to end all hearts. And that would be enough to see him through.’ An image of Tommy’s solemn face as he wrapped his little hand around the bear punched me in the heart. ‘Fucking hell.’

  I leaped back from the table. I’d only just stumbled outside when I bent over and vomited an arc of hot brown liquid. It bounced off the pavement and splattered my shoes.

  ‘Shit, Sophie, are you –’

  I held up a shaky hand. Tears streamed down my face. ‘I’m so fucking angry.’ But my voice didn’t sound angry. It sounded sad.

  Violet handed me my coat and bag. ‘Damo isn’t to blame. Look, he’s volunteering at a rehab centre in Dusseldorf for two weeks, but he told me he’d be happy to speak to you when he’s back. You know what this means? Tommy wasn’t looking for a way out. His death had nothing to do with you.’

  ‘He was murdered, Violet,’ I said flatly. ‘Isn’t that worse?’

  ‘Depends on how you define worse. I’d take revenge over guilt any day. You’re a reporter, ain’t you? You must be able to figure out who was behind this.’

  My phone rang in my pocket and I pulled it out. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where are you?’ Kate sounded breathless.

  ‘Pimlico.’

  ‘I’m at the police station. Liam’s just been released. Durand is spitting. No one is supposed to know. I overheard them talking.’

  I leaned against the wall and ran a sweaty palm across my forehead. ‘Has he left yet?’

  ‘He’s ducking out the back door. There’s a mob out front. I’ve never seen anything –’

  My brain started to kick in. ‘I’m nearer his place than you are. I’ll go.’

  I turned to Violet, opened my mouth to speak, to thank her, but couldn’t form the words. Instead I pulled her into a fierce hug that made my eyes water.

  It’s easy to disappear when you’re a crime reporter. I hit the Tube station steps hard and made the train with seconds to spare.

  And, just like that, I vanished.

  26

  I took the steps up to Liam’s flat two at a time and pressed my ear against his door. A curtain of marijuana drifted along the concrete corridor and my stomach heaved. I leaned over the railings, inhaling the sharp, night air. Where the fuck is he? Images cannonballed through my brain. Shadows creeping up on Tommy. Stifling his screams. Forcing a poisoned needle into his skinny arm.

  I breathed out, turning the black air smoky-white. Pulling Tommy’s Tenderheart badge out of my pocket, I kissed it. Then I unfastened the pin and jabbed it into my thumb. I didn’t stop pushing until blood dribbled out. I dug my thumb in my mouth and sucked. The hot, metallic taste took me back to Lydia’s bedroom. Fuck. Something bad is going to happen. I needed a clear head to see Liam. The whisky had lit the fuse on my anger. It was as if I’d been plugged into an electrical socket for too long. My mind was knife-sharp, invincible, cruel. My skin tingled. I wanted to hurt someone. Hurt someone else, to stop the hurt inside. Something bad is going to happen.

  I gripped the icy railing and squeezed my eyes shut. I’d almost made my mind up to leave, when I spotted a cyclist pulling up to the curb. The figure dragged the bike into the lift and disappeared.

  I shoved Tommy’s badge into my pocket just as the lift doors slid open. Liam’s eyes were on the ground and, for a moment, all I could
hear was the gentle click-click-click of his bike wheels. I squared my shoulders and stuck my chin out, then changed my mind. Barefaced aggression wouldn’t get me through his door.

  I lowered my chin and peered up at Liam through my lashes. ‘Welcome home.’

  Liam looked up, stopped, frowned. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’ His skin was pale, with a veil of stubble that hadn’t been there three days ago. Hooded eyes ringed with purple. Sunken cheeks that made his cheekbones jut out so far, they looked like elbows.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s three degrees.’

  Liam gave me a long look, patted the pockets of his jacket for his keys, then skated straight past me. He hesitated for a moment at his front door, then ducked inside. He wasn’t inviting me in. As the door began to swing shut, I lurched towards it. ‘Please.’

  Liam heard my voice crack and his hand shot out to catch the door. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I just want to . . .’ My voice rose high and shrill.

  Liam frowned and moved towards me. ‘Sophie?’

  I felt the hot, wet threat of tears and dug my teeth into the inside of my cheek. I lurched backwards, away from Liam, away from the story. My swollen thumb throbbed in my pocket. Had Tommy’s arm swelled when the needle pierced his milky skin? How many seconds did he lie there knowing he was dying? Saliva pooled in my mouth. My jaw tingled. I knew what was coming. Clamping my hand over my face, I hurtled past Liam, into his flat. I bashed open the first door I came to, barely registering the blunt pain as my knees made contact with tiles. I crawled to the toilet and threw up. Pain seared behind my eyeballs. My stomach roiled. When I opened my eyes, Liam was holding out a glass of water. I took a sip. It tasted of boiled sweets.

  Liam sat down on the side of the bath, picking at the cuff of his red-plaid shirt. He pushed his dark hair off his face. It curled over to one side like a breaking wave. ‘That part of your pitch?’

  I leaned my head against the cold porcelain. ‘Well, you haven’t told me to fuck off yet.’

  ‘Give me a chance.’

  I hauled myself up and looked in the mirror. The bruised skin under my eyes was dotted with red pinpricks. I ran my tongue over my teeth. ‘Got any toothpaste?’

  Liam chucked me a grey washbag, then left me to it. I brushed my teeth, then did my best to flatten my knotted hair. I took a deep breath and opened the door. As I shuffled along the hallway, floorboards, like shiny black piano keys, creaked beneath my shoes. I followed the sound of ice plinking against glass and found myself in a small sitting room that smelled of coffee and sandalwood. Shutters covered the long, low window. A wall of shelves was crammed with books; glossy photography bibles peppered with literature’s heavyweights: Dickens, Joyce, Eliot. I paused by an enormous oak table, too large for the small room, and ran my hand along the grain. Through a gap in the door on my left I spotted a stainless-steel kitchen, with flagstone flooring and the same overpriced double-width cooker I had at home. ‘This is really –’

  ‘Not what you were expecting.’ Liam hovered by the kitchen door, thumb hooked into his belt-loop. ‘Yeah, I get that a lot. You sticking with water?’ He gestured towards the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand.

  ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’ It was a bad idea, but I was in the mood for bad ideas.

  Liam shrugged, and poured me a glass. Then he gestured for me to join him on the leather sofa. I perched on the opposite end and took a large slug. The whisky slid around my empty stomach, but the hit zipped me up, straightened my back, hardened my voice.

  I glanced at the bike propped against the wall behind the sofa. ‘What’s with that?’

  Liam swirled his drink around his glass and held it up to the light. ‘Haven’t driven a car for fifteen years. Not since I wrapped my car round a lamp post.’

  ‘That wasn’t very smart.’

  A ghost of a smile. ‘Spent three months in hospital. Came out like Robocop.’ He patted his left leg.

  I threw back another mouthful and stared at the blue neon light behind Liam’s head that spelled out the words: Rage against the dying of the light. I drained my glass, then gave him a brittle smile. ‘Got any more?’

  ‘Haven’t you had enough?’

  I ignored him. Moved to the drinks cabinet and poured myself a large measure. ‘Lived here long?’

  Liam watched me closely, his brow furrowed. ‘Since we moved from Manchester, when I was a kid. When my parents died I had enough cash to buy it from the council. I did it up a bit. My sisters think I’m crazy but I love it here. Happy memories.’

  Of course. Liam’s parents died in a plane crash shortly before we all went up to Oxford. The moon-eyed female population couldn’t pass that particular trinket round without misting up at the thought of Liam and his cheekbones enduring so much suffering. The memory made me roll my eyes, which Liam obviously mistook for my reaction to his parents’ death.

  His face darkened. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘You first.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell me about Lydia.’

  ‘I heard you found her body.’

  ‘Must have just missed you.’ I muttered it into my glass but could tell by the way Liam stiffened that he’d heard. ‘I thought you were supposed to be lying low, working on your public image.’ I set the glass down and slipped off my coat. ‘What were you doing at Lydia’s?’

  ‘I’ve already told the police everything I know.’

  ‘How gallant of you.’

  Liam emptied his glass, then sauntered over to where I was standing to refill it. It was the closest we’d been since he kissed me. I stood my ground. The whisky was melting my insides. They felt fluid. My whole body felt dangerously untethered.

  Liam paused, staring into his glass. For a second I thought he was going to close the gap, but he wandered over to the window and pulled open the shutters. The crescent moon hung in the night sky like a freshly shaped fingernail. Liam rolled his head round in circles. I could see the tension in his shoulders from here.

  ‘If I tell you what happened, will you explain why you’re acting like a lunatic tonight?’ I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. ‘I was in my studio all day Tuesday, working on my edit for a magazine. Alice interrupted me to ask if I’d seen Lydia’s meltdown on Twitter.’ He took a breath. ‘I called Lydia straight away but she didn’t answer. The video . . . she looked . . . I needed to get out of there, get some air. So I grabbed my coat and took off.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I walked around for a while.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘An hour or so. I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards Lydia after our fight on Monday night. But that video . . .’ I pressed my thumb against the corner of the drinks cabinet, watching the back of Liam’s head. ‘I’d made up my mind to leave her alone. Me bowling up to her gaff would only feed the drama. That’s what she wanted. But then,’ Liam turned round to face me, ‘she sent me a text.’ He drew his mobile out of his pocket and held it out to me.

  The text was sent at 3.58 p.m.

  I need to see you. I’m in trouble.

  ‘After that video, I was genuinely worried about her. I thought she might try something stupid. So I jumped on the Tube. Got to Lydia’s around five. The front door was open. There was a storm, and I wondered if the wind had somehow blown the door off the latch. I called out her name, but there was no sound. I . . .’ Liam leaned his head back against the window and closed his eyes. ‘I went upstairs and she was . . .’

  I shuddered as the memory of Lydia’s scored, sticky flesh flashed through my mind.

  Liam’s eyes snapped open. ‘I’ve had two run-ins this week with the police. Lydia was . . . there was nothing I could do for her. I panicked. Fell down the stairs, nearly broke my neck trying to get out of there.’

  I watched the torment play out on his face with a
sense of detachment, clinking my fingernail against my glass. ‘Innocent people don’t run.’

  Liam slammed his glass down on the window sill, his voice strained. ‘Sometimes they do, duchess.’

  For a moment, we stood on opposite sides of the room, like two repelling magnets. Was Liam telling the truth? I studied his face. The corners of his mouth tugged downwards, his eyes burned with emotion. He was unravelling in front of me. But was it part of the act? These murders were staged, brutal, violent. They required a steely stomach. David Sonoma’s words rang through my head: I don’t think he’s working alone. The thought made me reach for my glass.

  Liam gave me a cool look. ‘I really think you should stop.’

  ‘It irritates you when women don’t do what you say.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  I waved the glass around; whisky dripped over the side. I licked it off my fingers. ‘You’re used to being in control. You don’t like it when women defy you.’

  Liam ran a hand through his hair, his face hardening. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you tonight?’

  The whisky was beginning to screw with my brain. I tried to order them. Natalia and Lydia were both scared of Liam. Why? What hold did he have over them? Was he involved in the Juliets?

  ‘Did Lydia betray you? Or did you betray her?’ I looked him in the eye. ‘I know about Lydia’s sex tape.’

  Liam’s hand closed tightly around his glass. ‘How the fuck –’

  ‘I’ve seen it. That gives you a pretty strong motive, right? You find out your girlfriend is cheating on you with other men. For money. You want revenge. Unless you were the one blackmailing her.’

  ‘Blackmailing her?’

  ‘The tape, you fuck. The blackmail tape.’ When Liam still looked blank, I slapped my palm against my forehead. ‘Do I really need to spell it out?’ The alcohol started to knead the corners of my vision. My words were sticking to my mouth. ‘That tape was insurance. To keep Lydia quiet. To keep her working.’ The colour drained from Liam’s face and he sank back against the window.