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

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘And the model agency?’

  Cat fiddled with her blouse cuff. ‘Amanda was killed because I didn’t protect her. I had a lifetime of making up to do. When I was a girl, I used to help out with the beauty pageant my aunt ran. I massaged my CV and managed to get a job at Models International, or Models UK as it was back then. It was hell at first. Every girl reminded me of my daughter.’ Cat gave a sad smile and ran her fingers through the ends of her hair. ‘But the more I invested in the girls, the stronger I felt. It became my salvation. After a while, it didn’t hurt so much to remember Amanda. Lydia reminded me of her in many ways. It’s probably why I was so fond of her.’

  It all started to make sense. The accent I couldn’t place; the fierce way Cat protected her girls. I looked round the room. Barely any photographs. Cat flanked by six models at a fashion show; rowing in a scull boat; the snap of Lydia and Cat in New York. That was it. No personal effects. Symptomatic of someone living a lie. Still, it was her lie on her terms. I understood. How many times since Tommy’s death had I wished I could disappear?

  I cleared my throat. ‘Does the name John Bairstow ring a bell?’ Cat’s eyes were fixed on the floor, but a faint line appeared between her eyebrows. ‘He is a convicted rapist. Amanda’s friend, Melissa Wakefield-Channing, remembers Bairstow turning up at your house the week before she died. Melissa confessed she never told the police about Bairstow. But she did tell you.’ I hesitated, continuing more gently. ‘Why didn’t you report him?’

  ‘I . . . don’t remember. I – there was a man but . . . I’d just lost my daughter. Then my husband . . .’ Cat took another slug, her eyes watering.

  Suddenly, I understood. ‘Another suspect meant the spotlight would shift from Michael. This was your chance to escape.’

  Cat closed her eyes. ‘You don’t understand what he was like. Michael had a way about him. He’d talked himself out of trouble in the past. I was terrified he’d be let off. And I knew he’d killed Amanda. I watched it with my own –’ Cat’s voice cracked, and she leaned forward with her head in her hands.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I have a theory, Cat. I think Bairstow is involved in the sex ring, the killings, all of it. But I don’t think he’s working alone. Can you think of anyone else who knew about Amanda?’ I thought back to the second DNA trace in the shed. ‘Did Michael invite anyone else to join in the abuse?’

  Cat hugged her knees, staring at the ground. When she didn’t speak, I shifted my weight and softened my voice.

  ‘If there’s something you know, Cat, you need to speak. To me, or the police.’ I didn’t voice the irony that if Cat had told the police about Bairstow twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have been free to kill again.

  Cat turned towards me, her eyes wide and desperate. ‘Sophie, you’re not printing this, are you? Please don’t drag Amanda into this. Please don’t destroy the life I’ve carved out here.’

  I sighed. ‘Even if The London Herald doesn’t publish the story, it’s only a matter of time before another reporter makes the connection.’ A siren wailed past the window. I waited until it faded to nothing. ‘You could face this head-on. Get out in front of the story. Tell the world who you are. Who your daughter was. Perhaps the truth will flush Bairstow out.’

  Cat stared into her glass, looking utterly drained. ‘I . . . can’t. I can’t go back to the whispers and pitying stares.’

  I considered Rowley’s decision to expose the Juliets on the same day as Lydia’s funeral. Wait until he heard about this story: a dead daughter, a killer husband, the friend he inspired to murder decades later. Rowley would never give Cat a free pass. I understood Rowley’s choices, but I didn’t always agree with them. Compassion might not sell papers, but we had to draw the line somewhere.

  ‘Look, what my editor doesn’t know, he can’t publish, right? I can keep this to myself for another day or two. Until you’ve had a chance to get your head round things. But, Cat, the past is catching up with you, whether you like it or not. I’d rather be the one to help you through this. Think about it.’

  I reached out to touch Cat’s knee, but stopped when I saw the look on her face. Narrowed eyes, jutting chin, clenched jaw. It reminded me of the first time I met her, when I barged into her office. Now I understood Cat’s frosty demeanour was nothing more than armour; armour that had enabled her to pack up her grief, move to a new city and start over.

  I stood up, scanning the room for my bag. ‘I’m so sorry, Cat . . . about all of this.’

  Cat nodded once, fighting to keep her face in check. ‘Your bag’s in the kitchen. I’ll get it.’

  She swept back into the room, holding out my bag, then followed me to the front door. By the boozy waft that lingered in the hallway, I could tell she’d sneaked another Scotch in the kitchen.

  Cat leaned against the front door, trying to smile. ‘I appreciate you coming to me first. I . . . it’s just a lot to take in.’

  ‘Will you be OK?’

  ‘I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?’

  I stepped out into the dark, turning just in time to catch the smile slide off Cat’s face.

  30

  I powered down Sydney Street towards St Luke’s Church. The cold wind threatened to rip off my hat; an oversized wedge of felt that I’d bought in a red-eyed fog for Tommy’s funeral. It pinched my temples, but it hid my pale hair and today I needed all the help I could get. The London Herald’s Juliets exclusive had lit a fuse on Lydia’s funeral. Every news site was running with the story, and the paper had come under fire for its insensitive timing. As my name was on the piece, I woke up to a flood of calls from breathless news broadcasters. I buried my chin in my scarf, feeling sick with nerves.

  Hordes of people stood outside the church, packed together like pencils in a jar. Uniformed police officers stood guard behind the metal barriers that lined Sydney Street, pushing back eager bystanders who were craning their necks, eyes diamond-bright with the drama. Some held candles and signs emblazoned with RIP LyLaw. Most waved smartphones in the air. I hurried past the press area, which was ablaze with flashbulbs and TV crew spotlights, faltering as a wail from the crowd pierced the air behind me. A blonde Hollywood starlet, all bee-stung lips and five-inch heels, was tottering up the steps, dabbing her tiny nose with a tissue. I slid into the back row, peering out from under my hat.

  The congregation fidgeted and jerked, as if it were being poked with a cattle prod. Every so often someone leaped to their feet to air-kiss an incoming guest. I recognised a smattering of movie stars and supermodels, a chart-topping boy-band, the Shadow Home Secretary, the photographer Nathan Scott. Radiators blasted out heat and grandiose displays of crimson flowers filled the stuffy church with their thick perfume. Gold easels holding giant photographs of Lydia were scattered around and a twelve-piece orchestra was playing Elton John’s ‘Candle in the Wind’. As I thought back to Natalia’s pitiful send-off, a zingy voice made me look round.

  ‘Too tragic, darling. I mean, no one wanted Lydia to get better more than me . . .’

  The gossip columnist, Amos Adler, sailed past, blowing kisses to no one in particular. He bent down to whisper something to a statuesque black woman in a feather headdress. Next to them was Cat Ramsey. She caught my eye and gave me a cold stare. I lowered my eyes, regretting not giving her a heads-up about the Juliets story breaking.

  Suddenly a roar outside split the air in half. I glanced back, then wished I hadn’t. Smoky orange light filtered through the stained-glass windows, throwing shadows across Liam’s face. His eyes slid across the congregation, then he shoved his hands in his pockets, scowling. The kick in my stomach was swiftly followed by the acid flare of anger. Liam had lied to me, but was that all he was guilty of? I shrank down in my seat waiting for him to pass, but when I peeked again, he’d disappeared.

  The orchestra began to play Elvis Costello’s ‘She’ and a nervous hush descended. We all stood as the double doors at the back of the church swung open and a white co
ffin appeared, draped in red roses. I did a double-take when I spotted the lead pallbearer. Liam. That was a much-needed show of support from Lydia’s family. As the coffin glided past, I stared at the stone floor, not wanting to think about Lydia’s mutilated face, bloated and ribboned with cuts.

  The vicar, stilt-thin with a neat white beard, invited us to sing the hymn ‘Abide With Me’ and, as the organ’s honking tones reverberated through the church, I spotted Durand leaning against the back wall, his auburn hair slicked to the side. He caught my eye and I felt my face burn.

  An elderly man with Lydia’s heart-shaped face and laser-blue eyes shuffled up to the front. He gripped the lectern and threw nervous glances towards the coffin.

  When I gave the eulogy at Tommy’s funeral, I couldn’t take my eyes off his coffin. It wasn’t Tommy the man I pictured lying there. It was Tommy, four years old, all skinny shins and pointy elbows. As I’d opened my mouth to speak, a memory flitted through my mind of Tommy, at that age, climbing into my bed, peering up at me through long blonde lashes. Pease, Sops, can I have a hug? Me pulling him close, feeling his smile against my chest. The rawness of that memory almost floored me. My speech was a disaster. Not that it mattered. My father sat like a lump of rock in the front row, my mother limp and pallid beside him, taking up so little room it was as though she wasn’t there. We held the wake at Redcroft, but she never appeared. I spotted her through a crack in the drawing-room door, drifting upstairs clutching two cloudy-green gin bottles, her eyes shining like the pearls around her neck. My father flew to Hong Kong that night and I stayed at Redcroft so she wasn’t alone. I was woken in the early hours by the splintering sound of glass smashing. I crept along the hallway just as my mother hurled another bottle against the wall. I knocked on her door, quietly at first, then with the heel of my hand, but the door never opened. And it had stayed that way ever since.

  A husky voice brought me back to the present. I looked towards the lectern with a start. Liam was running a hand through his hair.

  ‘I want to thank Jerry and Sarah for letting me say a few words about their daughter. Lydia was a pain in the arse. Pardon my French,’ he nodded towards the vicar as nervous laughter rippled through the church. ‘Lydia was a prima donna. She was a diva. That’s what the tabloids want you to think, anyway. The Lydia I knew – the Lydia I loved – was definitely some of those things. On some days, she was all of those things. But she was also kind-hearted, funny and filled with joy.’ Liam fixed his gaze on the back of the church. ‘Our first date was in Los Angeles. I took her to a tiny Italian restaurant in Santa Monica, right on the beachfront. The sort of joint only insiders know about. I was trying to impress her.’ Liam chuckled, and a sigh rustled through the congregation. ‘I told her all the places to visit in LA and Lydia nodded along to everything I said. It was midnight when we left. She told her driver to whisk us up the Pacific Coast Highway to a hidden beach on Point Dume. We held hands, watching the moon dance across the sea. Eventually Lydia pointed to a beautiful clapboard house perched on the cliff behind us and told me she’d spent every summer there since she was eight. She’d been humouring me all night, not wanting to hurt my feelings.’

  Liam smoothed his tie down and gazed down at his feet for a moment. When he looked up, a faint smile had spread across his lips.

  ‘Lydia wasn’t only beautiful, she was compassionate. Even though we’d split up, she was the first person to contact me when my sister died last year. It’s a kindness I’ll never forget.’

  A man two rows in front of me doubled over coughing and loud tuts popped through the air as people strained to hear Liam.

  ‘But the more famous Lydia became, the deeper she buried her real self. She was hunted, provoked, tormented by the press. It’s ironic that on the day we come together to celebrate Lydia’s life, a tabloid,’ he spat the word out, ‘runs yet another filthy story about her. That’s what she was up against: soulless hacks with one agenda: to shift papers.’ Liam’s razor-sharp words sliced at my stomach, and I twisted the Order of Service into a cone on my lap. ‘Before you get swept up in the rumours and the drama, I come to you with one request: to remember Lydia the woman, not Lydia the celebrity. She was more than just a perfect face with an imperfect personal life. And she deserves our respect and our love, today more than ever.’ Liam kissed his fingers and pressed them to Lydia’s coffin.

  The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur of speeches and hymns and, as the coffin made its sombre way up the aisle, I caught Cat’s eye again. This time she looked away, wrapping an arm round Lydia’s weeping mum.

  I pushed against the throng, grateful that I hadn’t been busted. If I could sneak out the side exit, the path would lead me to Britten Street, and away from the crowds.

  I raced through the door, straight into Liam. For a moment we just stared at each other. The fire in Liam’s eyes threw me for a second. But I squared myself, refusing to look away.

  ‘There she is, scuttling off to write her next poison-pen piece.’ Liam’s voice was low and deep, like muffled thunder. ‘You know, you had me fooled the other night. I genuinely thought you gave a shit.’

  ‘What makes you think I don’t?’

  A fat man, in a pinstriped suit, with a face resembling a Halloween pumpkin that had been carved then left to rot, charged round the corner. ‘Lovely words in there, Liam.’ He grasped Liam’s hand between his meaty fists, and pumped it up and down. Liam gave him a curt nod, then turned back to face me, eyes flashing.

  ‘I never said we weren’t running the story.’

  He nodded towards Sydney Street. A mob of paparazzi were yelling at bewildered mourners. News vans, parked at odd angles, were causing a bottle-neck in the street. The air was shrill with car horns and shouts. ‘That fucking circus, there? That’s your fault.’

  ‘Liam, I’m sorry you’re upset, but it wasn’t my decision to run the piece today. I don’t have that kind of –’

  ‘It’s a win–win for you this, isn’t it? The extra impact is doing wonders for your circulation.’

  ‘Look, I agree the timing sucks, but the Juliets is relevant to the investigation. If this sex ring has anything to do with Lydia’s murder, more women could be in danger. The more people who know about it –’

  ‘My God, you actually believe that drivel.’ Liam’s lips curled, baring his perfect teeth. ‘Either you’re a complete idiot, or you’re lying, which would make you exactly the sort of person I despise.’

  ‘Oh yes? And what’s that?’

  ‘Spineless. The London Herald needs to do something drastic to get themselves back in the game. But judging by the public’s reaction, your little stunt may have backfired.’

  I glanced over Liam’s shoulder to where Lydia’s parents were shielding their faces against the fireworks of camera flashes. A knot formed in my stomach. ‘Liam, I –’

  He closed the gap between us and, for a moment, I was knocked off balance. ‘So, the other night, you were just working me for quotes?’

  I stared at the curve of his mouth and a spot on my neck lit up with memory. I shook myself free of it. ‘You told me it was off the record and I honoured that. You’re not quoted any—’

  ‘This isn’t about me.’ Liam dragged his hand over his chin, his voice catching. ‘It’s about Lydia. Her legacy. Do you know what today has been like for Jerry and Sarah? They’re burying their child, for Christ’s sake. And thanks to you, they’re now dealing with this . . . public bombshell. The police are looking into the Juliets. Quietly. There was no need to plaster it all over the papers. So, don’t fucking come at me with a shit-show of an excuse about how your story is helping people. Be honest, the only people it’s helping are the Premier News shareholders.’

  The look of disgust on Liam’s face sent me over the edge and I looked at him coldly. ‘Honesty? Give me a fucking break.’ I balled my hands into fists and jammed them into my coat pockets, my voice rising. ‘You also talked a convincing game on Thursday night. You knew Lydia was bein
g blackmailed. In fact, you knew about the Juliets a long time ago, but you didn’t go to the police. Do you think Lydia’s parents would give you the time of day if they knew that?’ People were starting to stare, and I shifted my position, blocking out their curious expressions. ‘Why did you really go back to The Rose that night?’

  Liam laughed softly. ‘You really want to do this here?’

  ‘Why not? We’re on sacred ground. You might think twice about lying.’

  Liam reached his hand out towards me and I took a sharp breath. His fingers stopped an inch from my face. A muscle pulsed in his cheek. ‘You still don’t believe me.’

  I shrank back from him, realising how inappropriate we looked in front of the gawping crowd. ‘Can you blame me?’

  Suddenly a reedy woman with a dripping red nose bowled towards us, squawking like a hen. ‘Liam, darling! The cars are leaving.’

  A flash of irritation crossed his face, then his eyebrows pulled low into a frown. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘This isn’t over, duchess.’

  Liam stalked off and my legs buckled. I steadied myself against the church wall and glanced across the courtyard. Durand was glowering at me.

  My phone vibrated, and I was grateful for the distraction.

  ‘Sophie? We need to talk.’ It was Jasdeep. We hadn’t spoken since I was fired but the urgency in his voice made me shelve the small talk. ‘I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours on the deep web.’

  ‘The what?’

  Jas’s voice was strained. ‘It’s a secret part of the internet; not a place you want to visit. A twisted theme park for every paedo and sex offender out there. Have you –’

  The funeral procession pulled away from the curb and the crowd roared. I pressed my hand against my ear. ‘Can you repeat that?’

  ‘. . . heard the term hurtcore?’