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

  Violet’s eyes narrowed. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘My name is Sophie Kent and I’m looking into Natalia Kotov’s murder. I’m trying to figure out who killed her.’ The corners of Violet’s mouth twisted and I thought about pushing it but, on the off-chance she didn’t report me, I wanted to leave the door open for another go. It’s amazing how often people talk once they have a chance to calm down. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I came here today for answers. Natalia was a friend. I know how you feel –’

  ‘You know how I feel?’ Violet wheeled towards me and the heat in her eyes made me take a step back. ‘You? With your posh voice and your fancy suit? I bet you’ve never hung out in a room like this, have you? Amongst people who didn’t go to fancy schools and end up in cushy jobs.’

  ‘Wait a sec—’

  ‘You’re preying on a bunch of losers to sell papers. Don’t pretend otherwise. It’s a fucking insult. To me, to Natalia, to every person in this room.’

  Violet’s words grated my skin, scraping off my composure in thin flakes. ‘You know nothing about me, Violet. Coming here might be misguided. But I took that risk because I want to help. Question my methods, but never question my motive. I care more deeply than you know.’

  Violet gave a thin laugh and all the emotion bubbling inside me boiled over and oozed out as though I were made of cracked glass.

  ‘In your speech, you asked what the point is. The point is saving each other. When someone has been swallowed up by darkness, it’s yanking them back into the light. And if we’re too late, we save the next person, then the next. We never stop.’ I crumpled the empty cup between my hands and threw it on the table. ‘You get it, Violet. Deep down, you get it. You had the note in your hand, the coke on the table, but you turned away.’ I stared up at the ceiling as tears threatened to spill over.

  ‘Who was it?’ Her voice was flat. ‘I saw you earlier, struggling to get through the door. I figured you were a first-timer, psyching yourself up, but if you ain’t an addict, there’s only one other explanation. You lost an addict. All this saving people stuff, it’s not just about Natalia, is it? So, who died?’

  I was scared to open my mouth, scared of what might come out if I let it. My tears blurred Violet’s features and I couldn’t read her expression. ‘My brother, Tommy . . . he didn’t have your strength and the darkness stole him from me. I think the darkness has taken me too.’ A sob escaped, and I bent over the table taking ragged breaths.

  There was a pause. ‘Like I said, a room full of fuck-ups.’ Violet slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed my arm. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  We walked in silence past a parade of rundown shops. The vinegary scent of a fish-and-chip shop mingled with fatty smells wafting out of the fried-chicken place next door. We reached a small triangle of grass and Violet led me over to a bench.

  ‘I live round the corner. Opposite the Co-op, above the Sun-Do. It’s a Chinese restaurant,’ she said, when I looked blank. ‘Handy, really, because I can’t cook. Although I sometimes wonder if I’m going to start shitting spring rolls.’

  I smiled. It felt good to be outside, even if the cold air pinched my fingers and toes. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was in there. When I’m on a story I get tunnel-vision and forget to behave like a human being.’

  Violet kicked the grass with her boot. ‘What happened to your brother?’

  I leaned back against the bench, shaking my head. Every single detail about the day Tommy died was carved into my brain. But I never told anyone. It was as if speaking the words aloud would preserve the memory, wrap it in velvet and bury it in a pocket of my soul.

  Violet registered my silence and I felt her shrug. ‘Don’t matter. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  The wintery sun ducked behind a cloud, then reappeared and suddenly I felt the words in my throat. ‘It was October. A Wednesday.’ I stared down at my gloves and took a deep breath.

  That day, I’d rushed over to Earl’s Court after a woman’s body was discovered in a basement flat in Nevern Square. It was an apparent suicide but you could never be sure. When I arrived at the expensive, red-brick building, my first question to the officer on duty was whether the suicide could have been an accident.

  ‘Not unless she accidentally took off all her clothes, climbed into a bin, then stabbed herself in the stomach,’ he said.

  Jennifer Lyle was a neat freak. Even in death, she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone having to clear up after her. On 9 October, Lyle left her office where she worked as an upmarket travel agent, came home to her one-bedroom flat and sat down to write three letters. One to her friends, one to her boss and one to the police. She wrote that, ever since her parents were killed in a plane crash the year before, she was living in a world with no light. Lyle sealed the envelopes, then stripped naked, climbed into a large black dustbin and stabbed herself with a serrated knife.

  The story was so bizarre that when I heard my phone ring and saw it was Tommy, I hit cancel. We hadn’t spoken since he’d stolen from me, and I wasn’t in the mood. I knew what he was going to say. Tommy would tell me how sorry he was, how he wanted to get clean. I would inch open my heart and let in a sliver of hope, telling myself that this time it would work. Then he’d decide real life was too hard and slink off to the nearest crack den to disappear, leaving my heart in tatters. So, when Tommy called again ten minutes later, I put my phone on silent. Only Tommy wasn’t ringing to apologise.

  He was ringing to say goodbye.

  By the time I got home at midnight, Tommy had phoned six times. But I was too exhausted to return his calls. The following morning, I woke at dawn and went for a walk along the river. I couldn’t shake the tragedy of Jennifer Lyle. The shiny brass knocker on her front door, the neat window boxes filled with blousy hydrangeas. How could a woman who’d taken such obvious pleasures in her home be filled with such despair that her only salvation was folding herself up in a bin and bleeding to death? I didn’t look at my phone again until I’d showered the strangeness off. Only then did I see the text from my father: Call me. His phone rang three times and, by the time he picked up, I knew in my heart what he was going to say.

  Tommy is dead. Three words, spoken so matter-of-factly he could have been talking about the weather. I waited for the catch in my father’s voice, the trace of emotion, but it never came. Neither of us spoke. I couldn’t breathe. Then my mind detached from my body and I floated upwards so that I was looking down on myself, shivering in a towel in my bedroom.

  ‘He was found under Albert Bridge this morning.’ My father cleared his throat. ‘Overdosed.’

  I wanted to tell my father that Tommy couldn’t be dead because he’d been calling me and I was about to call him back, and it must be another junkie’s body that had washed up on the banks of the Thames.

  ‘Let’s not pretend this is a surprise. Tommy never even got out of the starter blocks.’ His voice softened a fraction. ‘He’s at peace now, Sophie. It’s the most we could hope for. I’m in Tokyo for the next few days but my secretary is handling the funeral plans.’

  My father hung up and I floated higher and higher until the woman below me was a tiny blue dot. I watched her sink to the floor.

  Violet put a cold hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie.’

  I touched my wet cheek and smiled ruefully. ‘I haven’t told anyone that. The part about me ignoring Tommy’s calls.’ I twisted my coat button round and round. ‘In Breakfast at Tiffany’s Holly Golightly calls it the Mean Reds. You’re afraid, but you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Protecting Tommy filled me up like helium in a balloon. It kept me afloat. But I turned my back on him when he needed me most. And the guilt? Well, that’s the meanest red of all.’

  We sat in silence, watching a flock of pigeons peck at the grass in front of us.

  Eventually I sighed. ‘Do you mind if I ask you about Natalia?’

  Violet shrugged. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Did sh
e ever say anything to you that might lead us to her killer? Anyone she hung out with? Any boyfriends?’

  Violet leaned back, rested her boot on the bench. ‘Definitely no boyfriend. She used to say how hard it was to meet decent men in London. She thought they were all flash. I was like, Listen love, maybe they are at them fashion parties you go to but the men round here certainly ain’t.’

  I thought about the man who raped her. ‘Did she seem scared of anyone?’

  There was a pause. ‘If I tell you this, I don’t want my name in the paper.’ I nodded, my heart starting to beat faster. ‘Natalia was being stalked. Some Russian bloke who followed her to London.’

  ‘Her ex-boyfriend was here?’

  Violet nodded. ‘Not sure if she used the word ex-boyfriend, but he was definitely someone from back home. He kept appearing all around London. He left blue flowers to show he’d been watching. On her doormat, in her gym bag, even in her bedroom once. She was a wreck.

  My mind raced. ‘Blue flowers?’

  ‘They were symbolic, she said. Something to do with the part of Russia they were both from. The stress really got to her, and she started self-medicating. I told her she should report him but she was too scared.’ Violet looked down at her hands. ‘She wasn’t the first woman to fall for a violent man.’

  I clung on to the arm of the bench, tethering myself to something solid. ‘Can you remember the last time Natalia saw him?’

  ‘It was really recent. Uh. . .’ Violet scrunched her face up like a fist, then she sat bolt upright. ‘It was the same day that black kid got killed with an axe on her estate. She was proper messed up about it.’

  I stared at Violet, my brain taking a second to piece it together. Natalia’s stalker was there the day Jason Danby was murdered? How far behind him had I been? No wonder Natalia was so upset.

  The sun disappeared behind a pillow of cloud and I hugged my coat around myself. ‘Have you told the police what you know?’

  I felt Violet stiffen. ‘I called that number, the one on the news.’

  I closed my eyes. Thousands of people called those helplines. It would be ages before the police managed to sift through all the information.

  Violet seemed to read my mind. ‘I ain’t talking to them. Me and the filth don’t have the best relationship.’

  I heard the edge in her voice and handed over my business card. ‘If you change your mind or if you think of anything else, call me.’

  Violet took it and stood up. ‘Nice to meet you, Sophie Kent. Keep on saving.’ She made a peace sign with her fingers. ‘And I’m sorry. About your brother.’

  Violet strode across the grass, the heavy tread of her boots scattering the pigeons as though she were Moses parting the Red Sea.

  My phone trilled in my pocket and I pulled it out with raw hands, still reeling from Violet’s bombshell.

  ‘That slimy bugger Liam Crawford has been released.’ Rowley’s whiny voice cut straight through me. ‘I want a quote from him for tonight’s edition. I don’t care how you get it, just get it.’

  He rang off and I dialled a number.

  ‘Liam Crawford Studios.’

  ‘Alice, it’s Sophie Kent from The London Herald. We met on Saturday. Is Liam there?’

  ‘He’s not shown up yet. Not since,’ she lowered her voice, ‘he was arrested. What a shocker. Do you know why he went back to the hotel that night? Stitched.com is saying it’s got something to do with Lydia. Is that true? Do you think they’re back together? I mean –’

  ‘Alice,’ I didn’t have time for this, ‘do you know where I could find Liam?’

  ‘At the bottom of a whisky bottle, I imagine. Try his apartment.’

  ‘Which would be?’

  ‘Number 47, Block B, Sandalwood Close, Islington. But don’t tell him I told you that. And if you see him, find out if he and Lydia are back together.’

  I fished around in my bag for my Oyster card. ‘Why do you care, Alice?’

  There was a pause. ‘No reason.’

  I was almost at the Tube when I realised what had been bugging me about the blue flowers Violet mentioned. I’d seen blue flowers very recently. On top of the mirrored cabinet, next to the candles.

  In room 538.

  16

  An army of council blocks stretched upwards, like giant concrete needles piercing the heavy, woollen clouds. A dense smell of sewage hung in the air. Other than a plastic bag dancing in the wind, the estate was still, deserted. I scanned the buildings, then shuddered as my foot sank through a brown puddle. I found the communal front door to Block B and was about to ring Liam’s bell when I changed my mind. The less warning he had that I was here, the better. I sat down on a brick wall and pulled out my phone, trying to ignore the icy gunk seeping into my sock. I’d received another text from Mack, asking to go for a ‘drink’ after work. I really needed to end things, but not by text. Mack could wait. I dialled Eva’s number. When she didn’t pick up, I left a message warning her to be on the lookout for Natalia’s ex-boyfriend.

  Just then, a baggy-clothed kid darted out of the building. I caught the door, scampered up to the fourth floor and rang Liam’s doorbell.

  Footsteps approached and a shadow passed across the peephole. I held my breath.

  ‘I thought I told you to fuck off.’

  ‘I’m just here to talk. Can I come in?’ I stepped back from the peephole.

  There was a pause, then the door opened. ‘How did you find me?’ The soft hallway lighting hit Liam’s sharp cheekbones, carving shadows across his face. Dark circles ringed his eyes, but the irises were Tiffany-box blue.

  ‘I’m a reporter. It’s what I do.’

  ‘This is reporting, is it? Harassing people in their homes?’ He leaned against the door frame and a faint, slow smile spread across his lips. ‘All that class and money, duchess, and look at you now. Down in the gutter with the rest of us.’

  ‘The gutter’s fine. It’s closer to the action.’ I ignored the tug in my stomach, opened my notebook. ‘Would you care to comment on what happened at the police station earlier?’

  Liam gave me a cool look. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Can you explain why you lied to police about returning to The Rose?’ His jaw tightened and I braced myself for a slammed door. ‘If there’s a reasonable explanation for why you lied about your alibi, now would be the time to reveal it.’

  ‘Is that right, duchess? Unless I’m mistaken, no one’s charged me yet.’

  ‘Do I need to explain to you how trial by press works?’

  Liam’s eyes slid over me. ‘You know, ever since you turned up at my studio, I can’t stop thinking about that night.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Liam, that was ten years ago.’

  ‘You left before I woke up.’

  ‘I had some place to be.’

  ‘At 4 a.m.?’

  ‘You knew the time?’

  ‘I wasn’t really asleep.’

  I shivered as a slice of cold wind struck the back of my neck. I wasn’t about to get sucked in. ‘You know what’s interesting, Liam? A witness saw you having words with both Lydia and Natalia after dinner. I didn’t put the pieces together before, but you told me you left at 9 p.m. Dinner didn’t start until then. That means your fight with Lydia occurred after you returned to The Rose.’ A strand of hair blew across my face and I pushed it behind my ear. ‘Why did you go back to speak to her?’

  Liam’s mouth twitched. ‘No comment.’

  ‘You were halfway home but you cycled all the way back. It must have been important. Something you couldn’t say over the phone.’

  ‘I said no comment.’

  ‘Was it about Natalia? Is that why she came over to break up the fight?’

  The mention of Natalia snuffed out all the warmth in Liam’s face. His voice took on a hard edge. ‘No. Fucking. Comment.’

  I knew I should stop, regroup and find a different approach but the words swelled in my mouth. ‘Did Lydia know you raped Natalia? Did s
he threaten to expose you? Why else would you lie about going back to The Rose?’ Liam glared at me, his eyes like the barrels of a handgun. ‘Do you see what I’m getting at, Liam? Even if you’re innocent, none of this adds up. And staying silent only makes you look more guilty.’ A loaded, angry stare stretched between us. Eventually, I sighed. ‘I saw Lydia yesterday at Natalia’s memorial. She thinks the police are wrong about you.’

  Liam exhaled slowly and leaned against the wall. ‘She’s a smart girl.’

  ‘Is she smart? It’s not the first time she’s covered for you with the police.’ An image of Lydia’s famous black eye flashed through my mind. ‘You threatened her at Leo Brand’s party, you lied about your alibi, God knows you weren’t boyfriend-of-the-year material. And yet, on the two occasions I’ve talked to Lydia, she won’t hear a word against you. So, is she smart?’ I paused, watching him closely. ‘Or is she scared?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Liam slammed his fist into the wall. The sound made me jump. ‘That’s what you think? That Lydia’s scared of me?’

  I stared at the spot on the wall where his fist made contact. ‘Can you blame her? You broke her heart publicly. And now she’s acting as if she’s too frightened to speak out.’

  Liam pushed himself off the wall and ran a hand through his hair. ‘You think I broke her heart? Let me tell you this: Lydia isn’t the victim she makes out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Liam stared through me, as though I were invisible. ‘She’s a difficult woman to love. A beautiful, impenetrable fortress.’

  I narrowed my eyes. It annoyed me when a man labelled a woman difficult, absolving himself of responsibility.

  ‘If Lydia has put up barriers, whose fault is that? Ever since you got together, she’s been torn apart by the press. Maybe sharing your toxic limelight forced her to toughen up.’

  Liam gave a hollow laugh. ‘Yeah, well, certain shades of limelight can ruin a girl’s complexion.’

  ‘If Lydia isn’t the innocent in all this, why keep quiet? People want to believe you’re guilty. If you explain why you lied about your alibi, it might help.’