Mack coughed loudly, then held his hands up in mock apology. I ignored him and focused on Rowley. ‘An ex-copper who worked the Amanda Barnes case told me there was DNA evidence of a second abuser, but the sample was never identified. There’s a fighting chance it belonged to John Bairstow.’
Rowley tapped his pen on the edge of the desk. ‘Where’s John Bairstow now?’
I leaned back in my chair. ‘That’s the question. Police have no forwarding information for him, he’s ex-directory and there’s no evidence he changed his name.’
‘It’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?’ Mack’s voice was calm but the tightness around his eyes told me he was holding back in front of Rowley.
I gave him a cool look. ‘You don’t think it’s worth investigating? Two models who look like Amanda are sexually abused and strangled exactly twenty years later. Natalia and Lydia both had their hair cut off into the style Amanda sported when she was murdered.’ I opened my laptop and slid it across Rowley’s desk. ‘This is a post-mortem photograph of Amanda. Look at her face. Bad shape, right? Natalia and Lydia’s faces were also slashed to pieces. I think the killer is re-enacting Amanda’s murder.’ I paused, gauging their expressions, not wanting to show all my cards at once.
‘Wouldn’t the police have already looked into Amanda Barnes?’ Kate sounded apologetic. ‘I mean, if you found the similarities between –’
‘I was lucky. I doubt the similarities would show up on the Police National Computer.’ I clicked on another attachment and swung my computer round to face them, ready to play my trump card. ‘We know Natalia and Lydia were both sexually assaulted with a blackthorn branch. Check out this crime-scene photograph from 1994. See where Amanda’s hidden? That’s a blackthorn tree. Those thorns caused the lacerations on her face.’ Rowley and Kate were leaning forward in their chairs; even Mack looked interested. ‘The blackthorn tree wasn’t mentioned in the press. So the only people who knew about it were Michael Farrow, the police, someone Michael told, or someone who saw him kill Amanda. Michael is dead, so unless someone on the police force has switched sides, it’s got to be one of the last two. I think Michael and John were friends and they both abused Amanda as part of a sordid sex game. If we find John Bairstow, my bet is we find the man behind the Juliets, and our serial killer.’
Rowley sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘What’s his motive?’
‘He gets wind that two of the models are talking to the press and decides to silence them. When he does it, he imitates Amanda’s murder. It’s what he’s fantasised about all these years.’
‘And by some coincidence the two models who were spotted talking to you just happened to look like Amanda. Give me a break.’ Mack had a point.
‘There is another option.’ Kate rested her forearms on Rowley’s desk. ‘Police got the wrong man. Michael Farrow didn’t kill Amanda. Maybe this Bairstow guy killed her.’
I pushed my hair behind my ear and nodded. ‘The thought’s crossed my mind, but the evidence against Farrow was irrefutable. His semen was all over Amanda’s clothes and the footprints found around her body matched his shoes. Plus, there are loads of statements from friends talking about how obsessed he was with his stepdaughter. He was a nutter. He abused Amanda’s mum, then made her watch him kill Amanda.’
Kate whistled. ‘Where’s the mum now?’
‘I’m working on it.’
Rowley paused, then steepled his fingers together. ‘Let’s talk about the holes.’
I sighed. ‘Well, motive, clearly. I’d always assumed Natalia and Lydia were killed because they talked to the press. But once you factor in Amanda Barnes . . .’ I shrugged. ‘And then there’s the second person. Both the coroner and my Juliets source think another person is involved, but I have no idea who, or why, unless it’s just another crony who joins in for the ride. The stakes are raised each time, hence the escalating violence. But my biggest hole is the twenty-year gap. If the killings are linked to Amanda, why wait two decades to murder again?’
Rowley poured more coffee and nursed the mug between his hands. ‘What leads have you got on John Bairstow?’
I explained what Dmitri had told me. Kate was doodling on her pad, but she looked up.
‘Did he give you a name?’
‘No, but it all ties in with your theory on Lydia. I think Liam Crawford found out what Lydia was about to do, which is why he went back to the hotel to confront her.’
Rowley cleared his throat. ‘Am I the only one who can see what’s right in front of us?’ We all looked at him, perplexed. ‘What if Liam wasn’t stopping Lydia? What if he was forcing her to go through with it?’ There was a pause. Rowley pushed his mug to one side, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Look, Liam knew Lydia was a prostitute. He admitted that to you, Sophie. He told you someone sent him Lydia’s sex tape anonymously, but he could have lied about that. Once he realised you were on to the Juliets he had to change his story.’
I breathed slowly, forcing my voice to stay calm. ‘But Liam would have been twelve when Amanda was killed. He couldn’t be linked to her.’
‘Couldn’t he? Where did he grow up? Plenty of kids witness traumatic things that stay with them. Or even if he isn’t directly linked to Amanda, isn’t it possible that Liam is the second person? You said yourself that Natalia and Lydia were scared of Liam. Plus his alibis have always been suspect, and he knew both victims. Let me tell you, I’ve been doing this a long time, and often the most straightforward theory is the right one.’
I looked out of the window at the expanse of Hyde Park. The oak trees stood silent and still, like vast timber towers. ‘If Liam’s involved, why has he been released?’
‘There’s a thing called evidence, Kent.’ Mack’s voice cut straight through me. ‘Perhaps they don’t have enough to charge Liam yet.’
I thought back to my conversation with Durand. Forensics had lifted a print off the scissors. Surely if it matched Liam’s, he would be in custody.
Kate swivelled round to face me, frowning. ‘How did Liam seem last night?’
I dug my nails into my palms. ‘He was upset when he found out Lydia was being blackmailed.’
‘Or was he upset you found out Lydia was being blackmailed?’ asked Rowley.
I stared down at the nail marks on my hand.
Rowley cleared his throat. ‘OK, here’s what we’re going to do. The Amanda Barnes link is compelling, I grant you. But it needs more digging. Right now, my concern is that we’re going to lose our Juliets exclusive. According to Rahid, one of the hotel employees let slip that another paper asked him the same questions. So, do we have enough to run it?’
Kate flipped through her notebook. ‘We have Sophie’s source on record giving us background colour to the Juliets. This source ties the sex ring to Lydia and Natalia. We’ve seen the sex tape ourselves. Rahid has got quotes from two hotel employees who suspect their guest rooms were used for such activity, and Jasdeep is looking into whether the sex tapes have appeared online.’
Rowley slammed his hand on the table, his eyes shining with adrenaline and caffeine. ‘I want this pulled together by seven. That will give the lawyers one last chance to look over it before we go to press.’
I looked up, startled. ‘For tomorrow’s edition? But it’s Lydia’s funeral.’
Mack stretched his arms over his head and yawned. ‘Didn’t you hear what our esteemed editor said? We’re going to lose the exclusive.’
I looked desperately at Kate. ‘We’re breaking the story that Lydia was a prostitute the day she’s buried?’
Kate shrugged and stared down at her notepad.
Rowley pushed up his shirtsleeves. ‘Sophie, keep tracking John Bairstow and see what turns up. But the Juliets copy is the priority. Flesh the story out with Kate. Let’s see where we are in an hour.’
We trooped out into the corridor and Mack pushed past me. Kate opened her mouth to say something, but I dodged her and ran after Mack.
‘Why didn’t you tell Rowley about
Amanda Barnes?’
‘I didn’t have a chance. I was busy. We’re all fucking busy. We’re a reporter down, remember?’
‘Well, whose fault is that?’
Mack clenched his jaw and I braced myself for the verbal punch. Instead, he leaned heavily against the wall. ‘She left me, Kent. Rachel fucking left me.’
‘What?’
‘She found the text messages I sent you. The other day . . . in the lift. She’d just called. She’s taken the kids to her parents. I’ve fucked everything up.’ Mack’s voice wavered and he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
I reached out to put a hand on his arm, but stopped myself. I didn’t know who was watching. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘I never meant for you to lose your job. I thought you’d just get a warning,’ he finished lamely.
‘Does Rowley know?’
‘He knows Rachel’s gone, but not why.’ When Mack finally looked at me, his eyes were wet and pink and full of sadness. ‘So much for the happy-ever-after.’
By the time Rowley was happy with the copy and pictures, it was pitch-black and too late to think about dinner. Not that I could have stomached food anyway. Mack’s news had affected me more than I was letting on. I’d spent the past twenty-four hours wishing all sorts of horrors on him. Now that justice had been served, why did I feel so sad? I sighed, turning my thoughts to the other Bad Choice in my life: Liam Crawford. I couldn’t shake Rowley’s theory. Could Liam have been lying to me this whole time? My fingers itched; I couldn’t settle. I dialled Durand.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite detective.’ I waited for Durand to speak, but he didn’t. ‘I’m just calling to shoot the breeze, catch up, discuss the theory that the killer has an accomplice –’
‘That’s classified information.’
Durand’s sharp tone threw me. ‘I know but –’
‘Classified. Anything else?’
I frowned. Was he worried he’d get in trouble for talking to me? ‘You know I was reinstated as a freelance reporter at The London Herald?’
‘Good for you.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m too busy to talk to the press.’
‘I’m not asking as press, I’m asking as a friend.’
‘Is that what we are? That’s funny, I thought you wanted something.’
I coiled the phone wire around my finger, watching the blood shoot to my fingertip. ‘Have I done something to piss you off?’
‘How’s your story going? You getting an objective view?’
‘What?’
‘Only I imagine it’s hard to be objective when you’re sleeping with the prime suspect.’
I felt the colour drain from my face. It took less than a second for my brain to piece together what an idiot I’d been. As if Durand would have released Liam without setting up surveillance on his flat. It would have been bugged too.
I swallowed hard. ‘Sam –’
‘Look, it’s no skin off my nose who you jump into bed with.’ Durand’s voice hummed with a quiet fury that took me by surprise. ‘But it does highlight a certain character flaw.’
‘Who else knows?’
‘I must thank you, actually. Liam denied he’d seen Lydia’s tape during our interrogation, so that was helpful.’
‘Sam, please . . . did you hear what I’d just found out? The reason I wasn’t . . . myself?’
‘Your brother, yes.’ There was a pause. ‘For old time’s sake I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Your boyfriend is lying to you. Liam knew Lydia was being blackmailed.’
My head jerked up. ‘What?’
‘Perhaps you two are made for each other.’
‘Sam, listen to me –’ I stopped. I’d been haphazardly shuffling the case notes, piling them into the folder, when my eyes landed on a small black-and-white photograph of a group of people gathered on the steps of Liverpool Crown Court. The caption read: Justice for Amanda’s mother as Michael Farrow, 48, is sentenced to life imprisonment. I hung up the phone and pulled the cutting towards me, the blood rushing through my ears.
It couldn’t be, could it?
29
I belted out of Shepherd’s Bush Tube Station and across the street. The wind was picking up, and the heavy wedge of clouds choked all the light out of the sky. Tadmor Road was a quiet residential street tucked away behind the roar and bustle of Westfield Shopping Centre. I ran up the steps of number fourteen – a pretty red-brick house with window boxes on the balcony – and lifted the heavy brass knocker. A few moments later the yellow front door opened.
‘Isabel told me you were on your way round. This isn’t a good time.’ Cat gave me a startled Botox stare. She was holding a leather diary in one hand, her phone in the other, her peach silk blouse billowing in the draught.
‘I need to talk to you.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m up to my eyes in it. Milan is kicking off and I’m losing tomorrow morning because of the funeral. If this is about Lydia –’
‘It’s not about Lydia.’
She started to close the door. ‘Well, whatever it is, it will have to wait.’
‘It’s about Amanda Barnes.’
Cat’s phone slid to the floor, and she stared down at it, unable to move. Then her large frame collapsed inwards, like a cardboard box.
I glanced over my shoulder. ‘You don’t want to do this on your doorstep. Let me in, Cat.’
Cat bent down to pick up her phone and had to steady herself against the door frame. Then she raised a limp hand and I helped her through a narrow hallway, and into a large open-plan kitchen. The back door was open and the chill breeze brought with it a wet cement smell. A passport lay on the counter, next to a pot of coffee. Cat saw me looking.
‘Milan . . .’ It was all she could manage, before her legs gave way and she crumpled onto a chair.
I sat down opposite and waited, not wanting to make this any more difficult.
Cat raised her head and looked at me with flat, lifeless eyes. ‘I haven’t heard her name for so long.’ She let out a long, shaky breath and closed her eyes. ‘Who else knows?’
‘Just me.’
Cat nodded, her eyes still closed. I could see them moving underneath her eyelids. Her forehead was shiny, like a bar of soap. It was odd to think of Cat as a mum. Even weirder to think that she was Amanda’s mum. I searched her face for similarities, but years of plastic surgery had erased any trace of her daughter.
I undid my coat and took it off without standing up. The radio in the corner trotted out the weather forecast: rain, rain and more rain.
Eventually I spoke. ‘Tell me about her.’
Cat checked her watch, then fiddled with the large gold necklace around her neck. She stood up. ‘Would you like a Scotch?’
‘No, thanks.’
She strode across the kitchen and, as she reached up towards a cupboard, her blouse snagged on the counter. She ripped the fabric away and a button popped off; it clicked across the wooden floor. Cat was moving oddly, exaggeratedly, as if she was in a play and was making up for missing her cue. I watched her pour a large measure, knock it back, then pour another.
‘I’m sorry to be so . . . Amanda’s death was . . .’ She paused, searching for the right word. ‘I died the day she died. The whole process, the police, the trial. It was . . .’ Her solid bob swung stiffly as she shook her head.
‘Do you know what the detective said to me the day my husband was sentenced? He hoped it brought me closure.’ Cat gave a brittle laugh, and clutched her glass to her chest. ‘Let me tell you, there’s no such thing. And you don’t stop being a mum, just because your child is dead.’ She rocked gently on the edge of the chair, staring at nothing. ‘Amanda was everywhere. The house still smelled of her vanilla perfume. Her scuffed Dr Martens were by the back door . . .’ Cat drained her glass. She stood up, closed the door, sat down again. ‘They say you don’t know true lo
ve until you have your own child, but that didn’t happen to me. Amanda’s father left me when I was six months pregnant. I was sixteen. Single motherhood wasn’t part of the plan. I considered all the options but couldn’t go through with the one I really wanted.’
She smiled ruefully, looking down at her nails. ‘It wasn’t until Amanda was two that I fell in love with her. What happened to her . . . what happened to us . . . I thought I was being punished for not loving her straightaway.’
I looked down at my hands. ‘Did you know about the abuse?’
Cat pulled out a tissue and started ripping it apart on her lap. She didn’t speak until it was completely shredded. ‘Michael was so charming at first. But a few months after he moved in, things changed. Small things at first. Commenting on my clothes. Belittling me in front of people. He became harsher and harsher until words weren’t enough anymore. After a while the abuse sort of stopped. I thought he’d got bored. Turns out he was only bored of me.’ Cat slugged back the amber liquid, her hands shaking. ‘Amanda would have been thirty-six next week. I’d be a grandmother by now.’ She gathered up the scraps of tissue and piled them on the coffee table. A sad silence settled over the room like dust.
A loud noise rattled through the air and we both jumped.
Cat sighed. ‘Next door’s builders. It’s quieter in the sitting room.’
I followed her into a large room, with a bay window and silvery-grey walls. Cat plopped onto the cream sofa, unzipped her boots and slid them off. I settled onto the armchair in the window and warmed my hand on the radiator.
I paused, wondering where to start, but Cat didn’t need any prompting.
‘After Amanda died, whispers followed me everywhere. They haunted my dreams. Why didn’t she leave her husband? I lasted a year before I left. Giving up Amanda’s surname felt like a betrayal at first. Ramsey was my mother’s maiden name. Catherine was Amanda’s middle name. So it felt as though she was still with me.’
Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 25