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

  ‘Did she tell you his name?’

  Eva screwed up her face. ‘I don’t know. We never really discussed him. Even here, he had some kind of hold over her.’

  ‘Why, what did she say?’

  ‘It wasn’t what she said. It was an impression I got. The way her voice grew smaller the few times she mentioned him. As if he could hear her. I asked her about him but she wasn’t big on sharing. Sometimes keeping your feelings inside is the only way to survive.’

  Eva didn’t meet my eye and I got the impression she wasn’t just talking about her flatmate.

  Suddenly she checked her watch and rolled her eyes. ‘Shit, I’m going to be late. I really need to change. Ever since my agent, Laura, caught me at an appointment in a romper suit and cowboy boots, she makes me go into the office for a pre-casting outfit check.’ She pulled her plait into a bun and laughed. ‘There was an upside, though. She took me to Topshop and bought me a load of new clothes. Out of my future earnings, of course,’ she added.

  I stood up. ‘Would you mind if I took a quick look at Natalia’s bedroom while you’re changing?’

  She pointed at a door to the right of the kitchenette. ‘Be my guest.’

  Natalia’s bedroom was small and dank. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling and the nicotine-coloured walls pressed in on me as I stood in the middle, looking round. The single bed had already been stripped, indicating the room had been searched by police. They would have taken anything of interest but it was still worth a look.

  A pile of magazines stood against the wall. I turned my head sideways and read their spines: Vogue, Elle, Glamour. Two pairs of earrings lay in a small, blue dish. I opened the wardrobe door, unleashing a faint waft of citrus and mothballs, and ran my hand along Natalia’s clothes. Dark denim, baggy T-shirts, oversized sweaters. I brushed the soft fabric of the flowery skirt she’d worn the day I met her.

  The memory made me light-headed and I sank onto the bed. Being surrounded by Natalia’s things, the minutiae of her life, weighed me down with sadness. I stared at the scuffed crate that served as a makeshift bedside table. On it was a half-used tube of hand cream, a Russian dictionary and a picture frame. I leaned across and picked it up.

  It was a photograph of Natalia and her brothers, bundled up in coats on a snowy street. Natalia’s face was soft and doughy, and she held baby Pyotr on her hip. Five identical pairs of blue eyes gazed at the camera. The casual intimacy, the love and warmth, caught in my throat like a fishhook.

  ‘She looks so happy there.’ I jumped as Eva appeared at my shoulder. She’d changed into leather trousers and a green parka.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Where was it taken?’

  ‘Ivanovo. She was about eleven. Look at Pyotr’s dimples. Couldn’t you just eat him?’

  ‘Do you know Ivanovo?’

  Eva shuddered. ‘I know of it. It’s a bit of a backwater. I don’t blame her for escaping the City of Brides.’

  I stared at Eva. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What, City of Brides? When they shut Ivanovo’s textile factories, the female workers never left. Women still outnumber men two to one. Someone nicknamed it City of Brides and it stuck.’ She must have noticed my expression. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  Natalia’s Twitter account: The daily tweets from @Cityofbrides.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

  Jasdeep Chopra was a quiet, tidy man who trudged to work at The London Herald IT department every day in the same polyester suit; a packed lunch tucked under his arm. While colleagues progressed up the career ladder, Jasdeep sat in his small, windowless office on the seventh floor in a state of rapture. He didn’t want more money or responsibility. The higher he climbed, the further away he’d be from the coalface. Jasdeep loved technology. He once told me that the sight of an elegant sequence of computer code gave him goosebumps.

  His office light was off and I swore as I remembered it was Sunday. I was about to leave when I heard a clatter from inside. Jasdeep was hunched over his computer.

  ‘Sophie!’ Switching on his Anglepoise lamp, he gestured for me to sit in the chair opposite his desk. ‘Just move those files. What brings you to the Bunker?’

  I squeezed into the chair, my knees touching his desk, and unwound my scarf. I’d sprinted from the Tube station and beads of sweat trickled down my back.

  ‘It’s a Twitter handle. I can’t identify the sender. It might be nothing . . .’

  ‘But it might be something.’ He grinned, and the bluish light of his computer screen made his teeth look absurdly white. I explained the background and Jasdeep nodded. ‘OK, let’s see what we’re dealing with.’

  He tapped at his keyboard and I glanced at the sign on the wall behind his head. Swirly black writing spelled out No stone unturned. I smiled. Jasdeep’s dogged determinism had got me out of a scrape before.

  Two years ago, I had interviewed Aimee Waters, a twenty-eight-year-old lobbyist who was campaigning for better treatment of rape victims. Not everyone thought she was right. An internet troll going by the anonymous Twitter handle @ll32 sent her a litany of threats and Aimee, being a smart woman, reported him to the police. In my report, I called him a poisonous coward and @ll32 found a new target: me.

  For three days my phone pinged intermittently with abuse, but police couldn’t track him. Then @ll32 made a fatal error. He upgraded his mobile phone and forgot to hide his IP address. Jasdeep found the chink in his armour. When police knocked on the door of unemployed computer repairman, Eric Simpson, twenty-four hours later, he was smoking a joint in bed. His mum, Julie, was horrified to find out her university graduate son was moonlighting as a misogynistic Twitter troll. ‘All that time I thought he was on his computer looking for a job,’ she had told me sadly. When Jasdeep brushed off my thanks, I realised his motive wasn’t rescuing me; it was solving the problem.

  Jasdeep leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. ‘You’re right, it’s a fake account. And it’s a good one. I can’t trace the sender from these public tweets but there’s always a chance they sent Natalia a Direct Message. The more messages I see, the greater the odds of cracking it.’

  I knew where this was going.

  Jasdeep lowered his voice. ‘How badly do you want this, Sophie?’

  The portable heater under his desk belched warm, stale air and my toes felt clammy in my socks. After the phone-hacking scandal, we were walking on eggshells, no longer able to get into places we shouldn’t. Mostly it was a good thing. Until moments like this. But with Mack and Rowley breathing down my neck, I couldn’t afford any missteps.

  ‘More than you know, Jas, but I won’t be able to do much if I’m in jail.’ I smiled weakly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. Thanks. And say hi to Sameera for me.’

  He didn’t reply. I was almost at the door when a tap-tap-tap made me turn back. Jasdeep’s eyes were fixed on the screen, his fingers flying.

  I can smell her on me.

  On my skin, my hands, embedded in the seams of my shirt.

  The cold night air vibrates through the trees. My hands close around the masking tape, but I hesitate. She isn’t likely to make a sound. Not tonight.

  My shoes glide on the sodden leaves. I kneel down beside the girl and my knees sink into the mud. She is on her stomach, still as a stunned calf. Her skin glows in the moonlight. Milky and pure. Except for the marks. Like notches on a bedpost, every bruise is a memory. Every scar, a flash of ecstasy. I slide off her pink trainers. The girl’s slender feet are ice in my hands. I run my fingers up the soft fuzz of her legs, feel the heat of her young body through my gloves. I slip the polka-dot nightie up over her shoulders. I want to see every inch of her.

  A rustle in the bushes behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy my companion, head low, back turned.

  I clear my throat. ‘Come closer, you’re missing the show.’

  Hesitant footsteps, a sharp breath. A pair of cool, blue eyes meet mine.

  ‘That’s
better.’

  A whimper draws my eyes down again. The sound ignites my blood. I twist the girl onto her back. Her breath is high in her chest, her wet mouth struggles to form words.

  I bend down, her voice grazes my ear. ‘I . . . forgive you.’

  She gazes up at me through swollen eyelids. Defiant. Judging. Who the fuck does she think she is? I don’t need her forgiveness. This is her fault. Not mine.

  My daddy’s rank, whisky-laced voice in my head.

  You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it.

  I close my eyes. Feel him panting behind me. My small, six-year-old hands leave sweat marks on the headboard.

  The blackness descends. I breathe. Savour the moment. I squeeze her white throat. Gently at first, then harder. Her pulse thrashes against my fingers.

  It’s over too quickly. I bring my hands to my face and inhale deeply. I can still smell her on me. Only now she’s mixed with something sweeter.

  It’s a moment before I realize, it’s the scent of death.

  15

  The following morning I took a deep breath outside the stucco-fronted building on Shelby Street, and pushed memories of the last Narcotics Anonymous meeting I’d attended out of my mind. I couldn’t afford to fall apart, not when I’d disappointed Rowley for the second time in five days. Squaring my shoulders, I strode down the corridor and through the door marked 4C.

  The morning sun was out, but the grimy window drained the cobalt sky of all its colour, casting a gloomy light over the room. Slate-grey walls jarred with colourful posters and their upbeat shouty slogans: You are not alone! Trust in miracles! Although rows of chairs had been lined up in the centre, knots of people huddled around the edge, their shoulders hunched over, as though the air above them, thickened with broken promises, pressed down until they couldn’t move. Even now, I wanted to believe they could help themselves.

  But faith was a weakness. Tommy’s death had taught me that.

  ‘Time to get started, people.’ A booming voice cut through my thoughts. I slid into a seat in the back row as a large, bearded man in a grey polo-neck lumbered towards the lectern. ‘For those who don’t know me, I’m Sean. I run the group. Welcome. Do we have any new members here today?’ I shrank down in my seat. ‘OK, who wants to start?’

  A man in the second row raised his hand, then shuffled to the front of the room, his skinny frame swamped in baggy jeans and an oversized Adidas sweatshirt. Something about the shrunken, apologetic way he carried himself reminded me of Tommy.

  Looking back, that scorching August day was the last time I allowed myself to hope Tommy could get better. He’d done his usual and turned up at my house unannounced. After a good night’s sleep, Tommy stared down at his breakfast and told me he wanted to get help. By the time he showered, I’d found the nearest NA meeting, printed off the details and left them on the kitchen table.

  ‘Will you come with me, Sops?’ Tommy’s eyes were troubled as he looked at the piece of paper.

  Two days later, I ducked out of work mid-afternoon and held Tommy’s arm as we walked up the steps of St Luke’s Church in Chelsea. It was a disaster from the start. Tommy fiddled with the frayed edges of his parka and tapped his scuffed boots on the stone floor. He asked to leave twice but I put a firm hand on his leg. Five minutes in, just as a pasty woman called Sally broke down in tears, Tommy bolted. He was silent on the walk to the Tube station and I went back to work more worried than ever. When I arrived home that evening, Tommy was gone, but not before he’d cleaned out the spare cash I kept in a box under my bed. It was the first time he’d stolen from me and my heart broke.

  All of a sudden, the flat grey air around me shimmered, as though displaced by Tommy’s presence. I heard his voice, low and urgent. ‘Sops, let’s go.’ My heart began to race and tiny coloured lights flashed in front of my eyes. I gripped the seat of my chair with damp hands. A white-haired man a few seats down looked over and mouthed ‘You OK?’

  I forced myself to nod back. My head felt heavy but my arms felt lighter than air. I looked down to check they were still there. My mind whirled. My heart slammed in my chest. I closed my eyes and Natalia’s terrified face burned into the darkness behind my eyelids, then morphed into Tommy’s face, smiling, then not smiling, then crying, then sobbing, his mouth all twisted and sad like it was the day he was sent away to school.

  I stifled a sob. People glanced round and I pretended to cough. Breathing deeply, I focused on the back of the man in front of me, on the dandruff that looked as if a bag of flour had burst over his brown, tweed shoulders. Slowly, I felt control ease itself back into my body.

  The kid in the Adidas sweatshirt mumbled to a close and Sean half-rose from his seat. ‘Who wants to go next?’

  At first no one moved, then a figure dressed all in black marched to the front, head lowered, shoulders rigid, as though she were battling through gale-force winds. She had short dark hair and a heavily made-up face, with vast sweeps of eyeliner that, ironically, made her look younger.

  ‘My name is Violet and I’m an addict.’ She had the gravelly voice of a die-hard smoker.

  ‘Hi, Violet.’ The room replied in flat unison.

  ‘Most weeks are dark when you’re in recovery, but this one was the ninth circle of hell. My mate got killed. You might have seen it on the news. Some of you might know her; she came to this meeting a few times.’ I sat up a little straighter, momentarily distracted from thoughts of Tommy. ‘It makes you think, right? She fought her demons. Tried to clean up. And then some fuck kills her. All that struggle. All that effort. And she winds up dead in a hotel room.’ She ran a hand through her hair and it stuck up in angry, black spikes. ‘It’s bullshit. They tell us we have bright futures ahead of us. If we stay strong, good things will come our way. But the way I look at it is, you don’t know what ten-tonne load of shit is about to hit your fan. So, what’s the point?’ Violet spat the last word out, her top lip curling into a sneer.

  The room was silent, poised, waiting for her to continue. Violet took a long, shaky breath. ‘That’s what I told myself, anyway. As I racked up a line on Saturday night. Cut, scrape, cut, scrape. I was dizzy at the sight of it. My powdery salvation. I could already taste it at the back of my throat. But as I shoved the tenner up my nose, it hit me.’ She gave a hollow laugh that sounded like pebbles dropping in a bucket. ‘My mate got killed and I made it all about me. I used her death as permission to get high. And that ain’t fair.’ Violet swatted a tear away, leaving a sooty smudge on her cheek. ‘There ain’t no answers in a rolled-up tenner. There ain’t no answers full stop. It’s too late for her, but you know what, maybe it’s not too late for me. I’m alive. Against all the odds, here I fucking am. And I owe it to her not to . . . not to . . .’ Violet wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her voice cracked but she stuck her chin out and glared at us. ‘I owe it to her not to fall apart.’

  Violet paused for a moment, then stomped back to her seat. As the group broke into quiet applause, Sean moved towards Violet, but she recoiled from him.

  I fidgeted in my chair as Sean gave a final speech full of life-affirming soundbites that had me wondering whether recovering addicts ever stopped talking like self-help pamphlets. Then the meeting ended and I scanned the room for Violet. I spotted her next to a long table laid out with coffee. The last thing my post-panic-attack system needed was caffeine, but I sidled over to pour myself a cup, swearing under my breath as I spilt scalding liquid over my wrist.

  ‘I almost poured the whole bloody pot over myself the first time I came.’ Violet blew into her mug and then inhaled sharply. ‘Ahhhh, caffeine. The closest I get to a hit these days.’ She leaned against the table and raised her eyebrows. ‘First time?’

  ‘Uh, second.’

  ‘You have that look about you.’

  I finished mopping up my mess and held out my hand. ‘I’m Sophie.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ Violet’s hands were ice-cold.

  I took a sip of watery
coffee and shuddered.

  Violet grinned. ‘Yeah, the coffee sucks. They don’t make it strong in case the buzz sets us off. Weak willpower, weak coffee. They should put that on a sign above the door.’

  ‘How long have you been coming to NA?’

  She chewed a fingernail. ‘This one? A few months. I was down at Dellis Street but it got too crowded. The bigger the meeting, the more nutjobs there are.’ She smiled sweetly, revealing small, pointed teeth. ‘Not that I’m judging or anything but that place was full of ’em. The final straw was when one guy confessed to me he fantasised about killing his parents. He’d actually planned it step by step. Said he’d wait till they were asleep then slit their throats. Apparently it was the most effective way to knock ’em both off together without one raising the alarm.’ Violet sipped her coffee. ‘He was only sixteen.’

  ‘Christ.’ I ran my fingernail along the polystyrene cup, wondering how to broach the subject. ‘I’m sorry about your friend.’

  Violet’s dark eyes clouded over. ‘I hope they catch the bastard and hang him up by his nuts.’

  ‘Had you known her long?’

  ‘Few months. It’s hard to make friends at NA. You’ll find out. Half the group is one hit away from a nuclear breakdown and the other is drowning in a pool of “me”. A bunch of fuck-ups all in one room.’

  A couple of people drifted over, including the kid in the Adidas sweater and I lowered my voice. ‘How bad was your friend’s addiction?’

  Violet gave me a cool look. ‘Why are you so interested?’

  I looked down at my hands and shrugged. ‘No reason, I just . . .’

  ‘What are you in for anyway? Coke? You’re too la-di-da for meth. Molly? I doubt it.’ Violet looked me up and down, then her eyes hardened. ‘Why are you really here?’

  I shifted awkwardly, wished I’d told her who I was from the start. Lying to an addict is a mug’s game; they know every trick in the book. I cleared my throat. ‘Actually I’m a reporter.’