Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 14

  Liam inched closer, his gaze on me hot as a bare hand. ‘You know what, Lois Lane? This might be hard for you to understand but I care about Lydia. I won’t air our dirty laundry in public. If that screws me over, then so be it.’

  I stepped backwards, removing myself from the rapidly shrinking space between us. ‘Can you be sure Lydia would do the same for you?’

  ‘You’re missing the point. People are going to believe what they want. So, why bother?’

  I could feel the truth slipping away from me like quicksilver. ‘This is going nowhere, is it?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Liam –’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. I just . . .’ He held his hands up. ‘Why do you care so much whether I talk?’

  I remembered the edge in Rowley’s voice. I don’t care how you get the quote, just get it. ‘Because I don’t want to see an innocent man crucified in the press.’

  ‘How can you be so sure I’m innocent?’

  ‘Who says I’m sure?’

  A soundless storm swelled in the doorway. When I spoke, my voice was calm. ‘I asked you this once before, Liam, and I’m asking you again: did you kill Natalia Kotov?’

  Liam leaned in close, his breath sweet and hot on my ear. ‘If you still need to ask me that, then you’re right. This is going nowhere.’ He bent down to kiss my cheek. ‘See you around, duchess.’

  The door closed. I stared at the chipped blue paint, willing my feet to move. Screw Liam. It was all an act. He was messing with my radar. For what? For kicks? Because he had something to hide? As I ran down the stairs, my foot squelched in my shoe.

  And Liam’s kiss burned a hole in my cheek.

  I raced along Kensington High Street towards The London Herald, already writing the Liam update in my head. The office block was a lit firework against the black sky and I sprinted into its welcoming heat. Skating into the lift, I flexed my fingers to get the blood flow going. Just as the doors closed, a bony hand appeared.

  ‘Kent, what a pleasant surprise.’ Mack brought with him a sour waft of alcohol. I gave a tight smile and hit the button for the eighth floor. ‘So you’re not replying to my texts now?’

  I unbuttoned my coat and sighed. ‘Mack, I don’t have time for this.’

  His dark eyes narrowed into slits. ‘I thought you’d say that.’ He reached across me, lightning quick, and pulled the red Stop button. The lift juddered to a halt.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘We’re going to talk, Kent.’ Mack raised his arm along the wall by my head, trapping me in the corner. ‘About us.’

  I ducked away from him and pressed my back against the wall. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t trap me in a lift. Look,’ I ran my eyes over his crooked tie and creased suit. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right, we do need to discuss it. But not here. Let’s –’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere.’

  I yanked my flimsy shield of a bag in front of my body. ‘OK, you want to talk? Let’s talk. This has to stop. You’re married, for Christ’s sake. And I’m a mess –’

  ‘I know that, Kent. I see the late nights and the mornings after, the five cups of coffee it takes before you can even log on to your computer. You don’t eat. You don’t laugh. Half the time I look over at your desk, you’re staring at nothing. Your work is shoddy, you’re missing things a retarded work-experience kid would pick up, and you look homeless.’ The expression on my face made him pause and his voice softened. ‘I see you, Kent.’

  I couldn’t look Mack in the eye. Instead I focused on the over-gelled strand of hair that had glued itself to his forehead. ‘I appreciate the concern. More than you know. But I can’t handle this anymore. I’m fighting fires on all fronts.’ I couldn’t tell Mack the truth. That I felt nothing, for him, for anyone. I wasn’t fighting fires. I was arming an arsonist with kerosene.

  Throw another barrel on the fire. Watch your life burn.

  But sleeping with your married boss only got you so far. And it wasn’t fair on him. ‘I can’t live each day wondering if we’re going to be found out.’

  ‘I need you, Kent.’

  Up close, I could see the desperation in Mack’s eyes. Not love, or even lust. Despair. Something shifted. I put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Think, Mack. If things go tits-up at the paper, you need something to fall back on. You have a family. A chance at the happy-ever-after. But that’s at risk all the time we’re fucking around. So, go home. Be happy.’

  The words sounded ridiculous. Who the hell was I to give advice on how to be happy? Exhausted, I reached out to press the Stop button, but Mack swayed towards me, loosening his tie. When he spoke his voice was soft. ‘What if I choose you?’

  The sharp edge of shame needled through me. ‘You won’t. Because you’re smarter than that. Listen to yourself, Mack. You think I’m the answer, but I’m not. We can’t make each other happy. What we have is . . . co-dependence. Cheap hotel rooms. Pity fucks.’ I regretted the phrase the moment I saw the hurt in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘Fuck you, Kent,’ he said softly. ‘If that’s all this is to you, then fuck you.’ I watched as he drew himself up, and ran a shaky hand over his face. ‘Saint Sophie, crusader of truth, fighting evil, one sentence at a time. You should be careful about burning bridges.’ He started to move away, then changed his mind.

  Before I could move, Mack was on me like a fallen tree. The heat of his hands burned through my shirt. His lips on mine, rough and painful; his acid breath filling my mouth. Without stopping to think, I pulled my knee up sharply between his legs. Mack folded over in pain.

  ‘Shit, Mack. I’m sorry. Are you –’

  He slammed the Stop button and the lift swept upwards.

  Still wincing, Mack smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. ‘You’ve made your point, Kent.’

  The doors opened and I turned towards the jet of cool air. ‘Go home to your wife. One of us should get a shot at happiness.’

  Kate’s fingers clattered across her keyboard and she didn’t look up as I reached my desk. ‘I heard Growler tore a strip off you for missing the Liam story.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ I sat down, feeling momentarily winded. I couldn’t shake the hurt look on Mack’s face. I already knew he would make me pay for it. Throw another barrel on the fire. Watch your life burn.

  I checked my emails. Mikhail Chernov had responded to say he’d tracked Natalia’s mother down, but she didn’t want to talk. I glanced at the time on my computer screen. Three hours until dinner with my father. Dread corkscrewed through my veins. First Liam, then Mack and now my father. I tossed my notebook onto my desk and massaged my temples, attempting to soften the sharp edges of a headache.

  Ours was always a fractured relationship. Affection had been in short supply in Antony Kent’s childhood. His own father had steel running through his veins, so he grew up equating emotion with weakness. My father did his duty in the marital bed but that was as far as his parental responsibility stretched. No sports days or school plays. No steadying hands or words of encouragement. He’d pass Tommy and I in the long corridors at Redcroft without making eye contact, let alone speaking to us. My father was in Tokyo when I got my A-level results, and read about my four As in the weekly newsletter his secretary compiled to keep him up to speed with family news. Instead of calling, he sent me a text. Pathetically I saved it in my phone, as though it were sent by God himself.

  The irony is that other kids were jealous of my life. They were charmed by the airy grandeur of Redcroft where gossamer-thin Georgian windows turned sunlight into rainbows; where staff served gin cocktails on the terrace, and we spent long, lazy days baking by the swimming pool. A weaker person might say they would have traded in all that luxury for a loving father.

  While my peers basked in parental applause, I was busy taking care of myself. I was bright but studied hard, and my grades carried me to the gleaming spires of Oxford and a first-class degree. My degree, my job, my money, my l
ife. Everything I did, I did for me.

  And Tommy.

  Tommy took our mother’s emotional distance harder than our father’s. Twenty years falling short of Antony Kent’s expectations had broken her. She floated around Redcroft, tethered to the earth by the highball she clutched in her right hand. When I was little, I used to hide behind the pool-house and watch the sun glinting off the pearls around her neck as she swam. She was so slight, her strokes barely made a ripple on the water’s surface. I could handle her indifference, but Tommy couldn’t. She acted like he wasn’t there. So I became Tommy’s mother and his father. I took care of the freckle-faced boy, and the wounded, angry man he became. Until I couldn’t take care of him anymore.

  The sound of my phone ringing jolted me out of my thoughts.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Sophie Kent?’

  ‘Eva? Hello. Did you get my message about Natalia’s ex?’

  ‘I did.’

  I frowned. ‘You sound . . . what’s wrong?’

  There was a pause. ‘I just saw him.’

  I sat up straighter in my chair. ‘Where?’

  ‘I got back from a casting five minutes ago and he was on the other side of the road.’

  I chewed the end of my pen. ‘Is he still out there?’

  ‘I can’t see him.’

  ‘Eva, call the police, just to be –’

  ‘No police!’ The sharpness in her voice caught me by surprise. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. I just thought you should know.’

  The line went dead.

  Why was Natalia’s ex-boyfriend following Eva? Why was he still in London? Did he have unfinished business? I stared down at my keyboard as sinister thoughts hijacked my brain, and noticed the edge of a brown envelope poking out. It was marked Sophie Kent, PRIVATE.

  Intrigued, I cut it open and emptied the contents onto my desk. A Post-it note had been stuck on the front of an A4 page. I read the scrawled handwriting:

  Don’t look if you don’t want to. No stone unturned.

  I laid the pieces of paper face down on my desk. What had Jasdeep done? I glanced over my shoulder. Kate was on the phone; Mack was nowhere to be seen. I hesitated, fingers tingling. Then I slid the pages back into the envelope and stuck it in my drawer.

  ‘Sophie!’ It was Spencer Storey, the City Editor. ‘I need an ETA on your Crawford copy. We’re moving it to page three.’

  I raised my head. ‘Ten minutes, fifteen tops.’

  Spencer grunted in response and I turned back to my computer screen. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, then my eyes flicked towards my drawer. Who was I kidding? I yanked it open and grabbed the envelope before I could change my mind.

  The first page was a printout of all the direct messages @cityofbrides had sent to Natalia’s private Twitter inbox. Individually they sounded innocuous, but the sheer volume was compelling. The last one was sent on 11 February, six days ago: @Cityofbrides @N_Kotovofficial Don’t ignore love. You’ll regret it. Forever.

  My hands slowly turned over the second page. On it was an address. 84 Cautley Avenue, Clapham.

  Underneath Jasdeep had typed:

  IP address came from this location. Sender: Alexei Bortnik.

  17

  I lingered outside L’ondine, breathing in the brittle night air. Liam’s piece had taken longer than I anticipated and then I’d wasted forty-five minutes doing a fruitless background search on Alexei Bortnik. By the time I’d emailed Mikhail Chernov asking for help, it was almost 8 p.m. and I’d raced over to Mayfair in a blind panic.

  I ducked inside, into the candlelight and warm scent of log fire and freshly baked bread.

  ‘Welcome, Miss Kent, your father is waiting.’ The whippet-thin maitre’d stepped forward to take my coat but I shook my head. I wouldn’t be staying long. He led me through the hushed, wood-panelled restaurant and stopped by a corner table. My father sat alone, like a freshly carved ice sculpture; his face chiselled into razor-sharp edges, a severe parting in his white-blonde hair.

  He gave me a sharp look. ‘You’re late.’

  I slid onto the velvet chair, flinching as my knee brushed against his. ‘I got caught up at work.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘It’s been a long day.’

  My father raised his hand an inch off the table and a dark-haired waiter glided over. ‘Albert, two sirloins, rare, and two glasses of the Argentinian Malbec. And not the ’87 I had last week, far too young. Bring the ’65.’ My father slid his frameless glasses into his blazer pocket. ‘The steaks are hung for fifteen months. As the blood drains, the muscles relax, which makes for a far more tender cut. But it must be rare. To cook it any longer would be sacrilege.’

  I nodded, wondering how I was going to manage an entire steak with no saliva in my mouth. ‘Are you going to tell me why I’m here?’

  My father unfolded his napkin and dropped it onto his lap. ‘How are things at the newspaper?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? The latest circulation figures are dismal. It must be demoralising to work so hard, for so little.’

  Albert poured red wine into my father’s glass. He tasted it without taking his eyes off my face, then nodded curtly. Albert filled my glass and I grabbed it gratefully.

  ‘Don’t gulp, Sophie. Where are your manners?’

  Reluctantly I put my glass down, watching as my father ran his hand over the white tablecloth. As a girl, I always imagined his skin to be cold and hard, like the bonnet of his steel-grey Jaguar.

  ‘A smart person in your shoes would be looking for an exit strategy.’ His BlackBerry vibrated on the table and he turned it face down. ‘The goalposts are changing. It’s all about the 360-experience. Print, web, mobile, television, social media.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘But I probably don’t need to tell you that.’

  I raised my glass to my lips and allowed the warmth to spread through me. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Where will you be in two years’ time? Five years? Ten?’

  ‘Why do you suddenly care what I’m doing with my life?’

  My father leaned forward and steepled his fingers together. ‘Humour me, Sophie. What’s your goal?’

  ‘My goal?’ A dull ache pressed behind my eyes, and it felt as though a lump of clay had settled in my stomach. ‘I want to report the news. I don’t care how I do it. The platform doesn’t matter. What matters is the story, the truth. And consequences. Holding people accountable for what they’ve done.’ I looked him in the eye as I said the last part.

  ‘Any idiot with a smartphone can report the news, so where does that leave you?’ My father tilted the blade of his knife and the reflection of the candle flame danced across its surface. ‘What is The London Herald’s readership?’

  A waiter set a plate down in front of me. The wet, meaty smell turned my stomach. ‘You wouldn’t have come here without doing your research, so you tell me.’

  ‘It stands at 1,700,000.’ A smile spread across his lips as he cut a sliver of steak. ‘Readership is falling by nearly ten per cent year on year; advertising revenue is declining by fifteen per cent. How long do you think Premier News can sustain it? The business model no longer works.’ He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Do you know how much Premier News makes from digital advertising a year?’

  I shrugged, the lump of clay in my stomach hardening.

  ‘Put it this way: you’re on borrowed time. So, I’ll ask you again. What’s your goal?’

  I pushed my food around, not meeting his eye. ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘Don’t be petulant, Sophie. It’s weak and unbecoming.’

  I took a fortifying sip of wine and shifted forward in my chair. ‘You’re missing the bigger picture. It’s not about number-crunching. Methods are changing, yes, but the stories remain the same. Murder, war, oppression, revolution. People will never tire of reading about human struggle. The world is getting smaller. It’s a cliché to say knowledge is pow
er, but that’s exactly what it is. It doesn’t matter how we know about gun crime in South London, or protests in the Middle East, or sex-trafficking in Namibia. The point is we know. And if we know, we can do something about it.’

  I glanced down. My fingernails had left miniature crescent moons in the tablecloth.

  ‘You say any idiot with a smartphone can report the news. To call them idiots is both narrow-minded and patronising. Technology has given everyone a voice. And, for good or bad, they’re using that voice. They feel part of something – a greater cause, humankind, whatever you want to call it. You’re wrong if you think technology is my enemy. It’s my friend. If I can reach a wider audience, if I can make people care about things that matter, how can it be anything other than good? News is evolving so fast it’s like trying to nail a lightning bolt to a brick wall. But if I can play some small role, if I can inform an over-saturated, over-stimulated public, that is goal enough for me.’ I leaned back against the chair and lunged for my wine.

  A skeleton of a smile spread across my father’s thin lips. ‘I see you’ve lost none of the Kent spirit. But I don’t agree with everything you’ve said. There are finite options for someone in your position. At some point, the bubble will burst.’

  I stabbed my fork into a morsel of steak. ‘So, you’re here to discuss the future of journalism?’

  My father cleared his throat. ‘Actually, I’m here to offer you a job.’ My fork froze mid-air. ‘I’ve been following your career. You’re talented, Sophie. You’re tenacious, fearless and resourceful. Good qualities in a reporter, but great qualities in a Head of Digital Media.’

  My fork clattered onto my plate. My father had been following my career? He thought I was talented? The compliments were tiny grenades, burrowing deep inside me. ‘You don’t own a media company.’

  My father pushed his cutlery together. ‘Let’s say I’m in the process of acquiring one. I need someone to head up the digital department. Someone I trust. Someone who has knowledge of the news industry and isn’t afraid of pushing it into unchartered territory.’