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

  I eyed him suspiciously. I had no experience of digital media strategies and my father knew that. ‘What makes you think I would work for you?’

  ‘Because you’ve chained yourself to a sinking ship and I’m offering you a lifeboat. And a six-figure salary, with a bonus. You talk a good game about changing the world, Sophie, but are you willing to act on it?’

  My father was cold and ruthless, but he was also shrewd. If I allied myself with him, I would have more power and influence than I could have dreamed. A genuine chance to nail that lightning bolt to the wall.

  On the table beside us, an elderly lady in mint-green cashmere leaned across the table and took the hand of her male companion. The double-breasted jacket hung off his frail frame and the patchwork of lines across his face was softened by the candlelight. The tenderness of the moment caught me off-guard.

  ‘Do you know it’s three months ago this week that Tommy died?’ My father held my gaze for a moment, then glanced down at the table, silent. ‘What, we can’t even talk about him now?’

  ‘Talking won’t bring him back.’

  ‘That’s your attitude to everything. God forbid we should ever discuss anything in this family. Bury it deep. Hope it will go away. That’s what you did with Tommy, Dad. Well, it worked. You got your wish. He went away.’ My father flinched. ‘You may be a king in the world of percentages and profit-margins but, in real life, all that empathy you lack makes you a shitty person, and an even shittier father.’ The stem of my wine glass slipped between my clammy hands. ‘Tommy was flawed but he was your son –’

  ‘Enough.’ My father’s voice was fringed and sharp. ‘You’re not the only one who lost Tommy. I’m not here to explain myself. I came to offer you a job, which I see now is a mistake. I took you for someone smart and ambitious. But if you can’t get over the whole Tommy thing –’

  ‘The whole Tommy thing?’ My words came out in a strangled heap. ‘You talk about him as though he was a problem to be fixed. Your son – your flesh and blood – killed himself.’ Tears melted through my eyes. ‘Poor, sweet Tommy, who had only goodness in him until you stamped it out. He chose to end his life, because of you. You failed him. You failed all of us.’ My words weren’t fair, but it was too late to take them back. I twisted the napkin with hot, angry hands and let the tears fall noisily into my lap. ‘Where have you been since he died? I needed you, Dad. I still need you.’

  A sound escaped from my father’s mouth. It sounded suspiciously like a sob. I stared at him, amazed. Watched as he pressed his lips together, battling his emotions. It was almost enough to make me reach for his hand. But then the crack in his armour sealed shut.

  He folded his napkin and calmly placed it on the table. ‘I didn’t come here to fight you, Sophie. So go ahead, live your life your way. Be average, be unexceptional, be ordinary. But don’t come crying to me when your world implodes.’

  ‘It’s already imploded!’ My words hissed out in a half-scream, half-sob. I was dizzy with hate and grief and fury and regret. I couldn’t breathe. Stumbling out into the cold, unforgiving night, I collapsed against a building.

  Then I pounded my fists against the brick wall until they bled.

  It’s easy to disappear if you’re a crime reporter. The all-consuming nature of the job protects you. You climb inside it, build yourself a cosy little home filled with darkness, and burrow deep until you’re nestled amongst the rubble of other people’s sorrow. Then, just like that, you vanish.

  When I surfaced from Sloane Square Tube Station, to the sight of flashing police lights, my heart lifted. Whatever drama was unfolding would help me forget my father, and Tommy, and Mack. It was only when I glanced up at the street name that my happiness turned into something else.

  Sloane Gardens. Lydia’s street.

  I squinted into the blackness and saw two police officers surrounding a figure on the pavement. I hurried towards them.

  ‘What are you punks going to do, handcuff me again?’

  I faltered as I recognised the voice. ‘Liam?’

  One of the police officers looked round. ‘You know this man, miss?’

  I ignored him. ‘Liam, what’s going on?’

  Liam lurched towards me, a sneer curling his lips. He was horribly drunk. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ He nodded behind him, towards a front door that was open a crack.

  The other police officer grabbed his arm. ‘Come on, Crawford. It’s time you left.’

  ‘Areyoufuckingdeaf? She’s not pressing charges.’

  ‘Do you want to sleep this off at the station?’

  ‘Fuck off. I’m not going back to that place.’

  ‘If you don’t move, Crawford, we’ll arrest you for disturbing the peace.’

  Liam raised his arms in the air. ‘Fucking fine then. I’ll go.’

  The police officer gave him a cool look. ‘There’s a taxi rank over there. I suggest you ask the cab driver nicely if he’ll take you home.’

  Liam stumbled forward and ricocheted off some steps. ‘Fuck.’

  I ran towards him. ‘Liam, are you –’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Liam wheeled round and the look on his face burned straight through me. ‘Why is it that every time I turn round, you’re there, duchess? Don’t you have someone else to harass?’ He staggered off towards the square, like a kid who’d overdone the carousel.

  I turned back to the police officers. ‘What happened?’

  The one nearest to me shrugged. ‘He’s a bloody liability, but there’s nothing we can do without her say-so.’ He slid into the car and slammed the door.

  I watched the tail lights disappear, then ran up Lydia’s steps. ‘Lydia, are you OK?’

  ‘Please, just leave me alone.’ Her voice sounded small and sad.

  ‘Is there anyone I can call for you? Are you hurt?’

  The door opened another inch. Lydia’s hair was scraped into a topknot, her almond-shaped eyes were pink and puffy, but even in grey tracksuit bottoms and an old T-shirt she looked achingly beautiful.

  She thrust her face forward. ‘See, Liam didn’t hit me. He did nothing wrong.’

  Under the bright porch-light I could see signs of strain on her face. ‘Just because Liam didn’t leave a mark doesn’t mean he did nothing wrong. What happened?’

  Lydia stared down at her bare feet. ‘A row. It was hardly anything.’

  ‘That can’t be right. The police –’

  ‘I didn’t call them. It must have been my neighbour. Meddling bitch. Honestly, we weren’t even that loud.’

  As she talked, a curtain twitched in next-door’s window.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  Lydia nodded, not meeting my eye. ‘I need to go. Big day tomorrow at the shows.’

  The door closed and her footsteps faded. I hesitated, then ran next door and pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Yes?’ A woman’s clipped tone came over the intercom.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, I’m a reporter with The London Herald.’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘I understand your reluctance. But whatever happened next door was serious enough for someone to call the police. If it was you, it was very sensible.’ There was a pause. ‘Your neighbour looks shaken but she’s not pressing charges. Do you agree with her decision?’

  Silence. I didn’t move until the door opened. A slender woman in her sixties, with a small, ferret face and sharp, darting eyes, stood in the hallway in stockinged feet. ‘I’m not in the habit of speaking to reporters.’

  ‘I understand. And I appreciate you sparing the time.’ I took out my notebook. ‘Did you call the police?’

  The woman sniffed. ‘I don’t regret it.’

  ‘Did you hear what they were fighting about?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Are you suggesting I’m an eavesdropper?’

  ‘I only mean, if they were shouting loudly, did you happen to overhear?’

  She folded her arms. ‘I couldn’t make out the act
ual words. But, my goodness, the noise. I heard something smash against the wall and, well, I’ve read the newspapers. I know what sort of man he is.’ She glanced towards Lydia’s door and lowered her voice. ‘I thought he might hurt her.’

  ‘You did the right thing, Mrs . . .?’

  ‘Smythe.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t want my name in your newspaper. Heavens no. I shall sue.’

  I suppressed a smile. ‘I won’t use your name. Can you remember anything else? What time did Liam arrive?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘About an hour ago. I was just settling in to watch Newsnight and I heard a man shouting on the street. I looked out of the window and it was him.’

  ‘What was he shouting?’

  ‘No idea, he was drunk. But then he pressed his face against her front door and whispered something over and over. I heard him apologise.’ She fiddled with a bangle on her wrist. ‘He said something about drapes.’

  ‘Drapes?’ Fear fluttered through me. ‘Mrs Smythe, could Liam have said the word rape?’

  She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I suppose so. As I said, he was very drunk. I was amazed Lydia let him inside. Fifteen minutes later I heard loud shouts, then a scream, and something smashed, so I dialled 999.’

  I closed my notebook and handed her my card. ‘Thank goodness you did. You might have saved Lydia’s life tonight.’ It was a bit much, I’ll admit, but Mrs Smythe drew herself up an inch taller. ‘If you remember anything else or if you see anything important, you have my number.’

  It wasn’t until I fell into bed an hour later that I noticed my knuckles were crusted with blood. I lay there, heart thudding in my ears, willing sleep to come.

  But it never did.

  18

  By the time the buttery sun rose above the rooftops, my body was rigid with exhaustion. I dragged myself into a scalding shower and out of the front door where the cold morning air slapped me awake. Shuffling up the King’s Road, everything seemed detached and far away, as though I were looking at the world through the wrong end of a telescope.

  I passed the end of Sloane Gardens on my way to the Tube station and glanced along the tree-lined street. A throng of paparazzi loitered on Lydia’s steps, their collective breath thawing the air in white streams. I recognised a large figure leaning against the railings, smoking a roll-up. It was Jurassic Jones, so called because he chased celebrities with the ferocity of a T-Rex hunting lunch. JJ had been in my speed-dial for years. Paps made great sources; they were sharp-nosed with loose morals, a crime reporter’s dream date.

  JJ glanced up from his camera screen as I approached. ‘Come to slum it with the guttersnipes, Sophie?’

  I laughed and pulled the collar of my coat up. ‘Any action yet?’

  JJ swung the camera strap over his neck and sighed. ‘S-l-o-w. A snooty blonde arrived twenty minutes ago.’ He held his camera out and I saw Cat Ramsey, wearing dark glasses and a grim expression on her tight face. ‘They’re bunkering down but Lydia’s doing Burberry at eleven so she’ll be out of there in an hour, tops. She’s got to get to Somerset House and the traffic is grid-locked. Indiana is in town for the Brits and the streets are teaming with girls on heat.’

  I frowned. ‘Indiana?’

  He flicked his cigarette onto the ground. ‘Boy band. Sounds like five colicky babies howling in a bath. But they’re bigger than One Direction, so it’s ker-ching for anyone who snaps them.’

  My phone beeped and I moved away from JJ, shielding the screen from the sun’s glare. It was a text from Eva.

  He is outside again.

  A bad feeling coiled in my stomach. That was two sightings in two days. What did Alexei Bortnik want with Eva?

  Suddenly a loud shout went up. In the distance, Lydia’s door opened and the paparazzi fell on a figure leaving the house. I glimpsed a blonde head, pushing herself through the fireworks of flashbulbs with surprising grace for a woman her size. At first the paparazzi followed, but they gave up once they realised Cat wasn’t going to break.

  When she spotted me, a shadow passed across her face. ‘I might have guessed you’d be here.’

  ‘I was just passing, actually. Saw the paps.’

  Cat glanced over her shoulder. ‘I hope they freeze to death.’

  I slid my phone into my pocket. ‘How is Lydia?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Come on, Cat. I saw her last night. She was a mess after that fight with Liam.’

  Cat’s eyes flashed. ‘Don’t mention that man’s name to me. Honestly, if you knew what it took to get Lydia back in favour with everyone. And now she’s refusing to get out of bed. Christopher at Burberry will go ape-shit when Lydia doesn’t show. It’s career suicide. I give up.’

  I watched her storm down the street to the taxi rank. Then I drew out my phone and dialled Durand.

  He picked up on the third ring, sounding distracted. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good morning to you too.’

  ‘Sophie, I’m snowed. What do you want?’

  I was taken aback by his tone. Still, it had been five days since Natalia was killed and he was no closer to formally charging a suspect. ‘I’m just ringing for an update on those fingerprints.’ I thought about Eva’s text. ‘And also to tell you that –’

  ‘I can’t speak to you.’

  I put a hand over my ear as a siren wailed past. ‘Shall I try you later?’

  There was a pause. ‘Listen, you should know that something’s going on at The London Herald. I had word this morning that you’re being investigated.’

  I stopped in my tracks. ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t risk anyone finding out we’re talking.’

  ‘Where did you hear this?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Sam, this is bullshit. I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you fine?’ I could hear the concern in his voice. ‘This is serious. You need to get your ducks in a row.’

  He rang off and I resisted the urge to smash my phone against the wall. I didn’t even get the chance to tell Durand about Alexei Bortnik.

  My phone pinged with an email from Mikhail Chernov.

  Hello Sophie, I find Alexei Bortnik in small newspaper. He is arrested three years ago for burglary with guns. No charged. People here say he is criminal. But he has friends in a high place. The newspaper is showing a photograph of him.

  Mikhail

  I huddled against the wall and opened the attachment. My eyes glossed over the Russian text and landed on a small black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired man. Thick stubble coated his face and both ears were pierced with studs. He glared at the camera with the air of a man who was used to getting away with it. I dialled Eva’s number with raw fingers.

  ‘Hello?’ She sounded out of breath.

  ‘It’s Sophie. I need you to do something for me.’

  Eva gave me her email address and I forwarded the newspaper article to her.

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘Yes, I just went to buy milk and when I got back he was waiting for me. He ran towards me but I managed to get inside the lift before him.’

  ‘Did you get a look at his face?’ A bus roared past me, kicking up rainwater. I raised my voice. ‘Eva, can you hear me?’

  ‘Just about. He had a cap on so I couldn’t see him that clearly.’

  ‘A cap?’

  ‘Black, with a red football on the front.’ I paced up and down along the pavement outside the Tube station. Sasha had said the mysterious man at The Rose wore a cap with a red patch on the front. Was Alexei at the hotel that night? ‘He started to say something but I shouted that I was calling the police.’

  My heart sank as I pictured Eva’s flimsy plywood door. ‘And have you? Called the police?’

  ‘No police, I told you. I just told him that to make him leave. Hang on, your email’s arrived.’ There was a pause. She sounded alarmed ‘Yes, that’s him. Oh my God. What does he want?’

  I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘Eva, Alexei Bortnik is d
angerous. Hang up and call 999.’

  ‘I can’t call them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I can’t . . . wait, he’s leaving. He’s running along Highland Road.’

  Where was he going? Was Eva’s threat enough to send him underground again?

  ‘If you won’t call the police, I will.’

  I hung up. The cold made my fingers feel leaden and I struggled to dial Durand’s number. One of my rules was never to do the police’s job for them. I didn’t work for them, I worked for the press. But that rule didn’t apply if someone’s life was in jeopardy.

  It went to voicemail.

  ‘I know you don’t want to hear from me, but this is important. Natalia’s ex-boyfriend is a Russian criminal and he’s been stalking her for months. I have a source placing him at The Rose the night she was killed. He’s moving on to her flatmate, Eva. If you get this message, his name is Alexei Bortnik and the address is 84 Cautley Avenue, Clapham. I’m going there now.’

  I hung up and broke into a run.

  Leaning against the black railings, I studied the large, Edwardian house in front of me. I hadn’t expected Alexei’s address to be so upscale. A box-hedge bordered the front garden, and rosemary and lavender bushes filled the wet air with their aromatic scent. The metallic sounds of a builder’s drill, and scaffolding poles clashing against each other, rang through the air.

  Had I beaten Alexei here? Innocent or guilty, I wanted his story. And it would be impossible, once he was arrested. I crunched up the gravel path, my heart rattling in my chest. I rang the bell, but there was no answer, so I counted to ten and rang again. Still nothing. I put my ear against the door. All quiet.

  I craned my neck and saw the hallway light on in one of the neighbours’ houses. I scooted round and pressed the buzzer. Moments later a blonde woman opened the door, with a bawling baby on her hip.

  ‘Yes?’

  I held up the photo of Alexei. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for this man. Do you recognise him?’

  The baby stuffed a tiny fist in its mouth, and the howl became a whimper.