Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 17

  I bristled. ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘I know that.’ Durand cocked his head to one side. ‘But you are five inches tall.’

  I met his gaze and a laugh bubbled up in my throat. ‘Six inches, you idiot.’ I glanced down at the notebook and a thought struck me. ‘Was this the only notebook you found?’

  Durand nodded. ‘Why?’

  ‘If Alexei is stalking Eva, shouldn’t there be photographs of her somewhere?’

  Durand crossed the room to the window so I couldn’t see his face. ‘So far, nothing has turned up.’

  ‘If he killed Natalia, why risk staying in London and getting caught?’

  Durand faced me and opened his mouth to speak, when his phone rang.

  He glanced at the screen. ‘I have to take this.’

  I stared down at the notebook, at the photographs of Natalia plastered across the page. Instinctively, I raised a hand to my neck.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be there shortly.’ Durand hung up and a smile spread across his face.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just had confirmation. Bortnik’s prints match the ones we lifted from Natalia’s bathroom door. And his shoe fits the imprints we found on her carpet.’ Durand drew himself up and squared his shoulders. ‘We’ve got him.’

  I rifled through my desk drawer for a first-aid kit. I knew my ankle wasn’t broken but I bandaged and elevated it to be on the safe side. Since leaving Durand, the nagging feeling had got worse. Why hadn’t Alexei put his gloves on before he touched Natalia’s hotel door, when he was so careful not to leave any traces of himself on her body? And why kill her at The Rose? He’d been to her flat; he knew where she lived. Why kill her somewhere so public?

  The fever of exhaustion spread through me. Only the fact that Alexei was in custody kept me going. Finally, justice for Jason Danby. Security for Eva. And, who knew, maybe Durand was right and he would confess to Natalia’s murder. These thoughts were tiny sparks that electrified my nerve endings and jump-started my fingers. I pulled my keyboard towards me.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sophie.’ A brisk voice interrupted my flow. ‘Mr Rowley has asked to see you in his office.’

  Rowley’s elderly secretary, Cheryl, stood over my desk, clasping her papery hands in front of her.

  ‘Sophie, did you hear what I said?’ She peered down at me through glasses that made her eyeballs appear twice the size. There was a tiny brown splatter on her lavender cardigan. ‘Are you quite well?’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Cheryl didn’t move. ‘I’ll wait.’

  I hauled myself off the chair and limped across the office in the slipstream of Cheryl’s scent: talcum powder and Imperial Leather soap. She smelled just like my grandmother; but my grandmother was small and round and full of laughter. In eight years, I’d never heard Cheryl laugh.

  She knocked sharply on Rowley’s door, then stood back to let me past, her eyes following me until I was safely inside.

  Rowley was flanked by Mack and a woman I didn’t recognise. ‘What happened to your foot?’

  I sank onto the chair opposite his desk. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘This is Helena Schriver from HR.’ I gave her a nod, then glanced at Mack. He wouldn’t meet my eye.

  Rowley rested his elbows on the desk, his voice more pinched than usual. ‘Less than a week ago, you sat in that chair and told me you’d get your act together. But this morning I received some very distressing news about your conduct.’ I stared at him, dread pooling in my stomach. ‘Could you explain how you came by the address of a man called,’ he glanced at the piece of paper in front of him, ‘Alexei Bortnik?’

  I frowned. ‘Where did you –’

  ‘Answer the question.’ Rowley’s voice was sharp.

  I fiddled with the button on my blouse; my tongue felt heavy in my mouth. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Rowley’s cheeks sagged with disappointment. ‘I thought you might say that.’

  He glanced at Helena and she cleared her throat. ‘Sophie, did you pressure someone in the IT department to hack into a dead woman’s phone?’

  I looked at them incredulously. ‘Do you know that Alexei Bortnik is in custody? He just confessed to killing Jason Danby. What’s more, Forensics can place him in Natalia’s hotel room the night she was killed. She was his ex-girlfriend, the one he was stalking right up until she was strangled.’ I gripped the arms of the chair and made an effort to slow my words. ‘This morning I confronted Alexei in Clapham and he assaulted me.’ I yanked down my collar, exposing the cuts on my neck. Rowley’s eyes widened. ‘Because I joined the dots, Jason Danby’s killer is off the streets. Natalia’s flatmate is safe. And you’re querying my methods?’

  ‘Your methods are illegal.’ It was the first time Mack had spoken and I barely recognised his voice. It was flat and small.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  Helena coughed. ‘Who hacked into Natalia’s phone? Give us a name and you won’t bear the full brunt of this investigation.’

  ‘The . . . investigation?’

  Rowley cleared his throat. ‘As you know, The London Herald has a zero-tolerance policy towards phone-hacking.’ He leaned forward and I saw a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. ‘Now, please, Sophie. Who assisted you?’

  I craned my neck to look at the pieces of paper in front of Rowley. It was the document Jasdeep had sent me, the document I’d hidden in my desk, minus the Post-it note he’d scribbled absolving me of responsibility. ‘Where did you get that?’

  Rowley gave an exasperated sigh. Mack sloped over to the window. I didn’t need to see his face to understand what was going on. He knew me well enough to know that I would never reveal a source. I sighed and looked out over the expanse of Hyde Park. An enormous oak tree lurched back and forth in the strong winds. The great battering had ripped the leaves from its branches, and yet the trunk remained solid and unyielding. It would take more than these gales to bring it down.

  ‘I take full responsibility for what happened. It was a calculated risk. If I hadn’t done it, Alexei Bortnik would still be out there. I had a target in sight. It’s not the same as hacking into a celebrity’s phone to break a kiss-and-tell story, and if you can’t see the difference, then I’m wasting my time.’

  Mack started to speak but Rowley shushed him. ‘The ends don’t justify the means anymore, Sophie. If you don’t know where to draw the line, you don’t belong at The London Herald. You committed a crime. I cannot – I will not – allow you to put this newspaper in jeopardy.’ He paused and I felt the blood drain from my face. ‘You leave me no choice but to fire you. Please gather your things and leave immediately.’

  My eyes burned with tears but I refused to break down in front of them. I mustered all the dignity I could and I limped out.

  I collapsed onto my chair, numb with shock. What had I done? Rowley was right: I broke the law. I didn’t ask Jasdeep to hack into Natalia’s phone, but it was my decision to read what he found. But there was a difference between hacking for good and hacking for bad. This wasn’t a celebrity kiss-and-tell. It was in the public’s interest to rid the streets of Alexei Bortnik. I was the good guy, right? I stared down at my desk. I didn’t know anymore. I had to get out of the office. I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed my wet coat and hobbled to the lift.

  ‘Sophie, wait.’ Mack appeared beside me, looking pale. ‘I never meant –’

  ‘What did you think was going to happen? That Rowley would shake my hand and congratulate me for breaking the law? I fucked up and, as my boss, you had every right to call me out on it. But we both know why you did it.’ Rage fizzed inside me; I couldn’t get the words out. ‘I knew screwing you would cost me, I just didn’t know how much.’

  Mack stole towards me. ‘I warned you about burning bridges.’

  ‘You think that was me burning my bridges? Try this.’ I slapped him hard across the face. ‘You may have convinced Rowley that you’re a competent news editor, but everyone ro
und here knows the truth. You couldn’t break a story if it landed on your dick. No wonder your wife won’t sleep with you. You clearly don’t satisfy her, you sure as hell didn’t satisfy me. So, if this is what it takes to make you feel like a man, be my fucking guest.’

  The last thing I saw as the lift doors closed was Mack’s shocked expression and a bright red stain spreading across his cheek.

  The wind beat against me, ripping the hot tears from my cheeks. I leaned my full weight into it as I crossed the street to Hyde Park. I stumbled across wet grass, with no idea where I was going. Eventually, my feet stopped under a large horse-chestnut tree and, before I knew it, my arms were wrapped round the trunk, clinging on as the wind roared around me. And there was another sound. Faint at first, then louder. A wail, carried away by the wind, then rolling back towards me.

  With a start, I realised the sound was coming from me.

  I sank to the ground and rested my head on the scratchy bark. I was so tired. Tired of pretending to be strong. Tired of fighting everyone. In the days after Tommy died, when I couldn’t move for all the hurt inside me, The London Herald was my lighthouse in the dark. But I was naive. My job couldn’t save me. Nothing could.

  All of a sudden, I became aware of a buzzing in my pocket. I ignored it, but it persisted.

  I held the phone to my ear. ‘Yes?’ My voice sounded as weak as a lamb’s bleat.

  ‘Is that Sophie Kent?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Mrs Smythe. We met last night. I’m Lydia Lawson’s neighbour.’

  She said something but the wind drowned it out. I pressed a frozen hand over my ear. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Where are you, my dear? You sound as though you’re in a wind tunnel.’ I sat up, wincing as pain burst through my stiff legs. ‘You said to ring you. I don’t know what to do. Lydia was very displeased with me for calling the police last night. I . . . and it sounded . . . once . . . check.’

  ‘I can’t hear you. Can you speak up?’

  Mrs Smythe raised her voice. ‘There was a crash next door. Just now. I saw Liam running away from Lydia’s apartment. I’m afraid to bother her if it’s nothing, but I really think someone ought to check on her.’

  A violent gust of wind shook my core and I closed my eyes.

  ‘Sophie? Are you still there?’

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

  I trekked back through the park to the taxi rank on Kensington Road. The taxi driver gave me an odd look in his rear-view mirror and I glared back. Screw him. Screw everyone. I’d swing by Lydia’s house, get a door slammed in my face, then I’d crawl into bed and sleep for the rest of my life.

  Ten minutes later we arrived at 42 Sloane Gardens. I threw the cabbie a tenner and swore as my ankle buckled on the curb, sending me crashing into a silver car. A dustbin rolled towards me, carried by the wind, its contents skating across the pavement.

  Lydia’s front door was open a few inches. I groped around in the hallway and found the light switch. ‘Lydia? Are you OK?’

  I edged past the glass console table, past the vase of wilting flowers that filled the air with their heavy scent, and through a door on the left. I flipped on the lights and found myself in a large sitting room with dove-grey walls and a corniced ceiling. A large photograph of Lydia hung over the fireplace. I poked my head round the door of a small, marble kitchen and padded round to the stairs. A brass coat-stand lay sprawled across the mosaic tiles. I stepped over the umbrellas and bags.

  ‘Lydia, it’s Sophie. I’m sorry to barge in but your front door was open.’

  The silence pressed heavily against my eardrums. Sighing, I leaned against the bannister and hauled myself upwards, pain splintering through my ankle. The landing was cloaked in darkness. I put a hand out to steady myself and staggered towards a chink of light coming from a door up ahead.

  The floral scent was even stronger up here. It took me four steps to realise it wasn’t the wilting flowers I could smell. It was something else. Something I’d smelled before. I reached out and pushed the door open.

  The smell of blood hit my face like a punch.

  20

  The scene flew at me in fragments through the candlelight. Splayed legs. Bloodstained camisole. Slashed hair. The rusty odour tasted like coins on the tongue. Vomit swelled in my throat. I forced myself to focus on the reflection of tiny candle flames fizzing and dancing in the brass bedposts.

  I dug around in my bag with clumsy hands and snapped on latex gloves and shoe covers. My ragged breath was loud in my ears. I flipped the switch but the bulb had blown, so I felt for my torch and limped across the room. My fingers were almost at the pulse point on Lydia’s neck when the torch beam fell on her face. Red-veined, bulging eyes stared straight through me. Her skin reminded me of the scored flesh on an uncooked joint of pork.

  Swallowing hard, I reached instead for her wrist, shivering as my fingers closed around spongy flesh. No pulse, but her skin was slightly warm. She hadn’t been dead long. I glanced over my shoulder. Could the killer still be here?

  I shrugged the thought away and slid the light over Lydia’s body, down to the sticky red mess between her legs. I glanced at the candles. Rose Blossom, same brand. I punched out a quick text to the photographer, Ned Mason. Outside a driver leaned on his horn, but the sound was muffled by the heavy gold curtains drawn across the bay window. My finger hovered over Durand’s phone number, then scrolled to another name, and hit dial.

  ‘What do you want?’

  I flinched at Rowley’s tone. ‘I have an exclusive for you.’

  I heard a thwack in the background, then a cheer. Rowley was watching cricket in his office. ‘Sophie, the fact you’re calling me mere hours after I fired you only reaffirms my belief that –’

  ‘Lydia Lawson is dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lydia Lawson is –’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’m standing next to her body.’

  Rowley switched off the TV. ‘Start at the beginning.’

  I ran through the details, shining my torch over Lydia’s bedroom at the same time. Plates crusted with food littered the carpet, along with overflowing ashtrays and empty KitKat wrappers. Clothes flopped out of open drawers like they’d made a half-baked bid for freedom. I crouched down next to Lydia’s bed where a row of cigarette burns dotted the carpet. I shone the torch under her bed. Two Smirnoff vodka bottles, both empty.

  ‘You said her killer was in custody.’ Rowley’s nasally voice sounded higher than usual.

  ‘Well, either Alexei Bortnik can shape-shift or he’s not our guy.’

  Rowley was silent and I could picture him leaning back in his leather chair, assessing his options. I knew better than to hurry him.

  Eventually he spoke. ‘What are you proposing?’

  I gripped the phone more tightly. ‘Either I hang up and call Ted at the Mirror. Or you reinstate me and I write the story of the decade for The London Herald.’ It was a bit much. I was already regretting story of the decade but Rowley didn’t pull me up on it, which showed how distracted he was.

  ‘Sophie, you broke the law. There are consequences.’

  ‘So give me an official warning. Do whatever’s necessary, but please,’ my voice wobbled for the first time, ‘let me come back. Philip, you don’t know how sorry I am about the way things have turned out. You were right. About my judgement, about everything.’ I took a deep breath, not wanting him to hear the desperation building in my chest. ‘The past few months have been . . . I let you down. I let Natalia down too. I should have realised the danger she was in. I should have stopped this man before he got to Lydia.’

  I caught my reflection in Lydia’s full-length mirror. My hair hung in wet ribbons around my pale face, but my eyes were bright. ‘You told me to find my line, Philip. This is my chance, but I need your help. I don’t want to write this story for anyone else. The London Herald is . . .’ My voice died as I caught sight of a figure in
the mirror behind me. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Sophie?’ Rowley’s voice was sharp. ‘What is it?’

  I spun round, then cried out with relief when I realised it was just a black dress hanging on the wardrobe door. ‘False alarm.’

  I waited, not daring to breathe.

  ‘Right, this is what’s going to happen. You’ll write this for The London Herald as a freelance reporter.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘No, Sophie.’ Rowley’s voice hardened. ‘You don’t get to waltz back in. Not after the stunt you pulled. Reporters have to earn their right to a seat at my table.’ I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. ‘I’m opening a back door. Use it wisely. Now, let’s talk logistics. We need to get a photographer to you ASAP.’

  ‘Ned Mason’s already on his way.’

  ‘I’ll ignore the fact you instructed a London Herald photographer before speaking to me. Now, call the police. I don’t want them filing a complaint against us for obstructing justice. You can’t write up the first report, not given the circumstances.’ Rowley was right. I was part of the story now. ‘Feed everything through to Kate. She’s, wait, where is she?’ Rowley raised his voice. ‘Where the hell is Kate Fingersmith?’ Someone must have responded. ‘She’s at a press conference. Police are announcing Alexei Bortnik’s confession. Expect a call from her soon.’

  ‘What about Mack?’

  ‘Forget Mack. Deal with Kate. When you’re done, file two hundred and fifty words and stick a teaser on the end that there’s more to come tomorrow. And tweet the living crap out of it.’ His voice swelled with adrenaline. ‘I want The London Herald to own this story. We need to give the killer a name. Something that sticks in people’s heads.’

  I stared down at Lydia’s mangled body and felt a shiver of self-loathing. A nickname would glorify the killer. But my career was hanging by a thread and I wasn’t in a position to argue. I ignored the fact that Lydia’s body was still warm and ran through options. ‘Uh, the Model Maimer, the London Strangler, the Fashion Slasher, the –’