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

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s rape porn. There’s a whole movement of fans that pay a lot of money to watch. Unfortunately, lots of it involves children.’ I leaned my head against the cold stone. ‘I found a website posting links to Lydia’s tapes, and Natalia’s, plus loads of other models. The videos, they’re graphic. Worse than the ones on the tape you found. And they’re not filmed in hotel rooms either. The girls were taken to a warehouse, or a cellar or something. And,’ he paused, ‘I found a league table.’

  ‘A what?’

  Jasdeep’s voice was flat. ‘Men score points for inflicting the most amount of pain.’

  It was like they were competing with each other for a sick crown. Eva had been closer to the truth than she’d realised.

  A cold wind shuddered through the trees. I pushed myself off the wall and paced up and down. ‘Can you trace the users?’

  ‘I’ve gone one better. The website creator used an anonymous software program called Steal. You have to register a username to download it.’ Jasdeep’s phone rang and I heard him pick up and tell the caller to wait. ‘Look, I’ve got to be quick, but his username is silver boy, spelt s-i-l-v-a b-o-i. I worked my way through everyone connected to Lydia and Natalia, and you know who uses the term silva boi?’ He didn’t wait for me to answer. ‘It’s appeared six times in the past year on Stitched.com.’

  My head snapped up. ‘Amos Adler? Are you sure?’

  ‘A hundred per cent. I got pulled onto another story, but not before I cracked the encryption code and traced the website back to Adler’s IP address. I don’t know if he’s running the sex ring, but he definitely uploads the tapes.’

  Jasdeep rang off and I darted round the side of the church and scanned the crowd. Amos had wandered over to a sheltered corner of the courtyard to light a cigarette. He looked up when he heard me approach. ‘Want a light?’

  ‘No, ta. Just a breather. Nice send-off.’

  Amos raised an over-plucked eyebrow. ‘Sure. If phoney is your thing. Most of the congregation hated Lydia’s guts.’

  I gave him a cool look. ‘Weren’t you the one who came up with Loony Lawson?’

  Amos shrugged. ‘Gotta make a living, doll.’ His fur coat was draped over his shoulders and his shirt was so sheer I could see the faint outline of a tattoo on his chest.

  Amos’s phone beeped. He glanced at the screen, swearing under his breath, then punched away at the keyboard, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. I stared at him. He couldn’t be any older than me, which meant he was barely into double figures when Amanda was murdered. I heard the coroner’s voice in my head: the killer wasn’t working alone.

  I reached into my bag for the cigarettes I always carried. ‘I will borrow that lighter now, if that’s OK?’ I leaned towards the fluttering flame, shielding it with an ice-cold hand. I hadn’t smoked since I was seventeen, and I didn’t inhale.

  Amos lit another, studied me through the veil of smoke. ‘I remember you. You were at Jemima Snow’s show in Berkeley Square. You’re a reporter.’

  ‘Sophie Kent, The London Herald.’

  A flicker of something registered on Amos’s face. ‘You wrote the piece about the Juliets.’

  The cigarette felt weird between my fingers. ‘Like you say, gotta make a living.’

  Amos patted his quiff. It was the colour of curdled milk. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Durand staring at me, arms crossed. We stood in silence, Amos inhaling deeply, me pretending to smoke. Then I turned to him, feigning nonchalance. ‘How long have you been running it?’

  ‘The website?’

  ‘The Juliets.’

  Amos’s hand froze midway to his mouth. ‘Doll, it’s not nice to make sick jokes at a funeral.’

  ‘Who says I’m joking?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to do with that fucked-up –’ Amos flicked his cigarette onto the ground and spun round to leave.

  I put my arm out. ‘Turns out the deep web isn’t deep enough, silva boi.’

  Amos turned to face me. He pulled out another cigarette, lit it, then picked something out of his teeth. His eyes gave him away. They darted across my face as if he couldn’t believe I was real.

  I stubbed my cigarette out and thrust my freezing hands in my pockets. ‘The one thing I could never figure out was how Lydia argued with Liam, met a client upstairs, then went to DreamBox with you at 11 p.m. The timings didn’t make sense. But you banked on the fact everyone was too drunk to remember whether Lydia was there or not.’ Amos blew a thread of smoke over my head, watching me closely. ‘So while you were hitting DreamBox, Lydia was at The Rose. You filmed it, posted it online and, then what? Made a load of money? Won the respect of perverted rape fans?’ Amos licked his lips. When he didn’t answer, I shrugged. ‘No matter. I’ll figure it out. I’ve got this far.’

  I started to walk away, then paused. ‘See that man over there, with the red hair. That’s DCI Durand of Scotland Yard. He’ll be over the moon when I give him the news. Oh, and in case you try to cover your tracks, we’ve printed off all the evidence we need.’

  I had no idea if this was true, but Amos didn’t look as though he was going to challenge me. A thin film of sweat coated his forehead.

  ‘The public is after blood, Amos. Lydia was an icon, and Natalia, well, she was just a kid. Imagine what it will feel like when you’re the one under fire. After all the bitchy things you’ve written, there’s not a lot of love lost for you. I would hate to be in your shoes right now. Unless . . .’ I paused, pretending to consider something. ‘Unless I’m mistaken and you aren’t the big chief. The name John Bairstow mean anything to you?’

  Amos’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped, then he leered towards me with yellowy, nicotine breath. ‘Leave him out of this.’

  ‘Does the name Ariel Butters mean anything to you? What about Amanda Barnes?’ Amos flinched. ‘So you do know about Amanda. That she was murdered a week after Bairstow was seen at her house?’

  Amos swayed from side to side, as though making up his mind whether to make a run for it. I took in the hard curl of his lip, the flare of his nostrils, the backwards stance. I was losing him.

  I rearranged my voice, softened it. ‘Bairstow needs help, Amos. Stop protecting him. You’re only making this worse.’

  Amos’s cheeks turned white; his body stiffened into concrete. The crackle-cold air shimmered between us and I held my breath. Over his shoulder, Durand was striding towards us with a grim look on his face. I was seconds away from being sent packing.

  ‘Amos, think. Is Bairstow worth losing everything for?’

  He opened his mouth to speak, but Durand got there first.

  ‘Amos Adler, I’m arresting you on suspicion of controlling prostitution for gain, converting criminal property and blackmail.’

  I watched in shock as Durand read a snivelling Amos his rights, then led him to a waiting car. The press area erupted; the crowd swelled towards the blue flashing lights.

  I called Rowley and told him what I’d just witnessed.

  ‘But we’re no closer to finding Bairstow?’

  I kicked a mound of grass with my shoe. ‘No, but I think the police are closing in on him.’

  Rowley coughed impatiently. ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out. Get down to the station and pressure your police source.’

  I glanced down at my hands, not wanting to tell Rowley there was a greater chance of hell freezing over than Durand sharing classified information with me. Then I stood up straight. There is always a way.

  ‘Philip, how do you feel about me making a deal?’

  31

  I ducked into New Scotland Yard just as a raving drunk was being hauled through the double doors, and scooted up to the front desk.

  ‘Wanda Woman.’

  ‘What’s up, Kent. Been a while.’ Wanda was in her fifties, built like a Ukrainian weightlifter, with a fuzz of black hair and a filthy sense of humour. ‘Got two words for you: Monkey Face.’

/>   ‘Huh?’

  Wanda grinned, revealing large stained teeth. ‘Wanna hear what it means?’

  I glanced past the desk to the locked door that led to the interrogation rooms. ‘Sure.’

  ‘So the guy gets a blow job, but before he does, he – get this – cuts off a handful of his pubic hair and when he, you know, ahems in her face, he lobs the pubes on top and yells Monkey Face!’

  I stared at her. ‘Where do you get this stuff?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you’ve never done it.’ Wanda cackled into her coffee mug.

  I waited a beat, then leaned over the desk. ‘Is Amos Adler here?’

  Wanda winked. ‘Stretching out in the interrogation suite, waiting for the show to start.’

  ‘What about DCI Durand?’

  ‘Who do you think’s running the show?’

  ‘I’ve got information that he needs to hear before he questions Amos. Can you get a message to Durand?’

  ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

  Wanda waddled to the door, swiped her pass and disappeared. My mouth went dry at the prospect of seeing Durand again. A few minutes later she appeared in the doorway and beckoned me over. ‘You do know he wouldn’t do this for anyone else. Room five. Go.’

  I pushed open the heavy fire door and was met with a whiff of stale sweat. I glanced over at the two-way mirror, then sat down at the table in the centre. I was just pulling out my notepad when the door opened quietly and Durand slipped in.

  His auburn hair grazed his collar like a copper paintbrush. Colourless eyes flicked over me once, then he folded his tall frame into the chair opposite and undid his jacket button. ‘You have two minutes.’

  I nodded, opening my bag. ‘I have information but I need something in return. The gist of that fingerprint report from the scissors we found, and confirmation that you’re looking for an accomplice.’ Durand picked a hair off his suit cuff and flicked it onto the sludge-grey floor. A brittle silence filled the room.

  Eventually Durand gave me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on a live investigation.’

  Anger flared in my chest. ‘So why agree to meet me?’

  ‘Because I wanted to give you this.’

  Durand pushed a piece of paper towards me. At the top in black capital letters were the words POST-MORTEM REPORT: THOMAS ANTONY KENT. I could feel Durand’s eyes on me as I scanned the document all the way down to where it said: cause of death – inconclusive.

  ‘But . . . there was no investigation.’ My voice sounded off, my breathing flat.

  Durand’s face softened a fraction. ‘I made a few enquiries and it seems the whole thing was quietly dropped.’

  I stared at the piece of paper, and the words started to swim. I looked at Durand through a mist of tears. ‘Sam –’ I couldn’t bring myself to say I was sorry for sleeping with Liam. It would be a lie, and he’d know it. ‘Do you know about Amanda Barnes?’

  Durand looked blank. I folded the post-mortem report in half and slipped it into my bag. I didn’t need any more distractions. ‘I need your word I’ll get something in return.’

  ‘That PM report doesn’t count?’

  ‘Something relating to the case.’

  Durand sighed and gave me a nod.

  ‘You first.’

  Durand put his forearms on the table. ‘Yes, we’re working on the theory that there are two killers. We found anonymous threatening emails on Natalia’s and Lydia’s phones. Traced them back to Amos Adler’s computer. It was enough to bring him in.’ Durand ran his hand back and forth across the table, obviously debating something in his head. ‘Forensics found a tiny piece of latex on the carpet in Lydia’s room. It’s from a glove. We think the glove ripped during the sexual assault. The PM found traces of someone else’s DNA inside Lydia. Results should be in later today. We’re hoping they’ll tally with Adler.’

  ‘It might tally with someone else. A guy called John Bairstow.’ I opened the Amanda Barnes file and laid out the photographs on the table. Then I told Durand everything, except for the fact that Amanda’s mum was Cat Ramsey. A promise was a promise.

  Durand sat for a few moments, shrewd eyes on the ceiling, piecing together what he’d heard. ‘And John Bairstow is . . . where now?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Durand exhaled loudly. ‘I’ll get Waters on it just in case.’ He pushed his chair back and stood up. When he rebuttoned his jacket, I noticed how much weight he’d lost. ‘Thank you, Sophie.’

  His formal tone made me want to cry. I opened my mouth to speak, but Durand left the room before I could get the words out.

  I pushed open the door of a café across the road and ordered a tea. Then I buried myself at a corner table and pulled out my laptop. Amos was in custody but Bairstow was still at large. I’d uncovered a stalker, a sex ring, a twenty-year-old murder, but I still couldn’t nail the killer. Or killers. I sighed, and rooted around in my bag for The Rose’s CCTV footage. What was I missing?

  Plugging it in, I watched the familiar scene unfold. An ache twisted my stomach when I saw Lydia arriving with Leo Brand, knowing she would be dead in two days.

  Then it was time for Natalia’s strange zigzag across the lobby. I watched her lurch forward, then stop, her face etched with terror. I hit rewind. Then I hit it again. I don’t know how many times I watched. Each time Natalia’s expression embedded itself deeper into my consciousness. I was about to call it a day, when something shifted in my head. Frowning, I opened the Natalia Kotov folder on my desktop and pulled up the copies of Nathan Scott’s party pictures.

  I scrolled through them in order. Natalia striding across the lobby. Looking over her shoulder. Eyes to camera. Background sharpening. Liam’s face.

  Walk, glance over shoulder, eyes to camera, face crumples. My heart rate started to pick up. I zoomed in on the shot of Natalia gazing towards Liam. The mirrored bar.

  My fingers fumbled as I dialled DI Rob Birch. He answered on the second ring.

  ‘Twice in one –’

  ‘Rob, that name you gave me, John Bairstow. Were there any other names on his file?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks for asking.’ There was a pause. ‘Uh, let me check.’ I drummed my nails on the table, willing him to hurry. ‘Yes, sorry, a middle name. Scott.’

  The trick is to disappear.

  It was another second before the penny dropped and, when it did, I slid down the chair in disbelief.

  Natalia wasn’t looking at Liam. She was looking in the mirror. At Nathan Scott.

  Jonathan Scott Bairstow. Nathan fucking Scott.

  32

  I stared at my laptop, frozen.

  My phone rang, but I ignored it. I had to be certain. I pulled a photo of Nathan off the internet and emailed it to Ariel Butters. As I hit send, I heard Jasdeep’s voice in my head. Users pay a lot of money to watch.

  I reached for my keyboard and searched for Operation Tike, a police taskforce that shut down an Eastern European sex ring three years ago. According to reports, founders were making half a million quid a year.

  The blood pumped through my veins. Nathan was broke, living in his office. Suppose the Juliets started out as a money-making scheme. It satisfied his perverted side, but it wasn’t enough. When Nathan got wind that Natalia was blabbing to the press, he murdered her. And he copied a killer who meant something to him. Ever since they had both acted out their sadistic desires on an innocent sixteen-year-old girl.

  I sipped my too-hot tea, barely registering the burn on my tongue. How the hell did Amos get caught up in all this? Clarity came a moment later: Amos’s chest. His tattoo. I’d seen it before, in the photographs hanging in Nathan’s office.

  When I have a subject in my sights, I don’t let go.

  Amos was one of the chosen few. I’d witnessed Nathan’s charisma in action. I pictured the besotted face of his assistant, Margot. Heard Ariel’s voice in my head: He had a certain way about him. That’s why I didn’t see it coming.
/>
  An email flashed up on my screen from Ariel and I glanced at it.

  He looks different without glasses, and I think he’s had a hair transplant, but, yes, it’s him.

  When my phone rang again, I picked up.

  ‘Sophie, you were right.’ Cat’s curt tone cut through me. ‘I’ve just had a reporter from the Mail on the phone, asking questions about Amanda. If this story is coming out, I want you to write it. But, listen, I’m on a flight to Milan at five. Could we –’

  ‘Do it now?’ I started to gather my things, picturing Rowley’s face when I waltzed into The London Herald with this story.

  ‘Sorry, I know it’s not much notice. But you could ride with me to Heathrow and my driver will drop you home after.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  I skidded to a halt outside Cat’s front door, taking a moment to get my breath back. I’d left a message for Kate to call me at once. We needed an urgent pow-wow about how to handle the Nathan Scott revelation. We couldn’t accuse a member of the public without hard evidence. We’d learned that lesson after the Joanna Yeates murder. The arrest of her neighbour, Christopher Jefferies, sparked off national hysteria, and The London Herald wasn’t the only publication guilty of jumping the gun. Jefferies’s brutal trial by press resulted in several newspapers paying out substantial damages. None of us came out of it well.

  Cat opened the door, waving me in. ‘My driver’s outside. I need to grab my suitcase. I’ve just heard about Amos Adler’s arrest. Can you believe it? Come in, it’s freezing.’

  I followed her inside, and perched on the arm of the sofa, glancing again at the photograph of Lydia and Cat in New York. For a moment, all I could hear was the tinny trill of the kitchen radio, the scratch of a bird on the windowsill, the slam of a car door. Then something stirred in my mind.

  ‘Cat, I –’

  A car horn sounded outside.

  ‘Shit, my driver’s on a double yellow. We need to run.’

  Night had fallen. I slid into the black Mercedes and rested my head against the expensive leather, inhaling the damp air through the driver’s open window. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them Cat was looking at me.