Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 19

  Cat sat up a little straighter. ‘A USB stick?’

  I shrugged. ‘If I was blackmailing someone, I’d want to remove the evidence before I killed them.’ Cat’s phone rang and she ignored it. ‘We need to ask around. The sex ring needs exposing, even if it is a coincidence.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a coincidence?’

  I shook my head. ‘The timing is too suspicious. It won’t be easy getting people to talk. Whoever’s behind this has delivered the ultimate warning shot. Can you put feelers out?’

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do we tell them?’

  ‘Who’s to say they don’t already know? Perhaps whoever sent me the USB stick sent a copy to the police.’ I sighed. ‘I don’t want to do their job for them, but the other women involved in the sex ring could be in real danger. He’s already killed two of them.’ Cat gripped the desk more tightly. ‘I know it’s bad for business, but we can’t pretend it isn’t happening. A few lost contracts are a small price to pay for exposing the monster behind this.’

  Cat nodded briskly, her voice distant. ‘I wonder if anyone else has seen this footage?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Liam?’

  ‘It could explain their recent arguments.’

  Certain shades of limelight wreck a girl’s complexion. Liam said it to me on Monday and I hadn’t picked up on it. Now I remembered it was a line from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Spoken by Holly Golightly, the high-class call girl. He knows.

  ‘Do you think Liam is involved somehow?’ I asked.

  Cat leaned her chin against her hand. ‘Who knows what he’s capable of?’ Cat shivered. ‘I can’t believe this is happening again.’

  Cat had said the same thing the first time I’d sat in her office. I studied her face. Concealer was wedged in the lines around her mouth. A haze of white dotted her hairline where she hadn’t brushed out the dry shampoo.

  I leaned forward in my chair. ‘Who else had access to Natalia and Lydia?’

  ‘Besides me, you mean?’ Cat gave a thin laugh. ‘The list is endless. Photographers, make-up artists, casting directors, assistants. And that’s without the cranky fans.’

  ‘But the killer knew exactly where to find them.’

  ‘What I want to know is, who are the men in that video?’ Cat threw a quick glance to her computer screen.

  I nodded. ‘They’re rich if they can afford to do those . . . things to a supermodel. If we could track one or two down . . .’ I scribbled a note on my pad, without meeting Cat’s eye. I knew we had a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding. The wealthier the man, the more invisible he is. ‘Why did Lydia get involved in the first place? She was successful. Why risk everything for some extra cash? I could almost, almost, understand a rookie such as Natalia getting sucked in. But Lydia? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Cat clasped her hands on the desk. ‘There are things you don’t know about Lydia. She was complicated. One of those kids who had everything handed to them on a plate. The looks, the charm, the support. Her parents doted on her. Never told her no. The fashion industry fell at her feet. You know what happens to those girls? They take it for granted. And they push and push until someone tells them to stop. You won’t know this because I’m good at my job, but Lydia was arrested for shoplifting last year. Walked off a shoot wearing a £40,000 diamond necklace. Not long after she and Liam broke up, I think it was. She has all the money in the world. Could have bought a necklace three times that price, but she chose to steal it. What does that tell you?’

  ‘So the sex . . . she didn’t do it for the money, she did it for kicks?’

  Cat nodded. ‘Girls like Lydia, they’re always after the next thrill. Normal rules don’t apply. And they’re used to people cleaning up their mess.’

  I shifted in my chair. ‘Cat, if I don’t break this story, someone else will. You need to prepare yourself. The industry is going to be pulled apart; your agency will be put under the microscope.’

  Cat folded her arms, as though to protect herself. ‘Once people know what Lydia was going through, they’ll see she wasn’t a bad person. It might teach them to be less judgemental in future.’

  I frowned. ‘There’s something else, though, isn’t there? He loses his power, once the secret’s out. Perhaps it will help other young, vulnerable models to think twice before they get caught up in something like this.’

  Cat ejected the USB stick and was about to hand it over, when she paused. ‘I’m happy to help you, Sophie, but I have one condition. I don’t want my name in the newspaper.’

  ‘But, Cat –’

  ‘Take it or leave it.’

  I took the USB stick. ‘You have my word.’

  I opened the door and clusters of eavesdroppers dispersed like startled woodlice. The last thing I heard was Cat yelling at Isabel to hold her calls.

  He smiles at me, and I’m transported back to those heavenly nights, ripe with pain.

  I didn’t think I’d see him again. But somehow, through the black, the dirt, the muck, we found each other. And now I’m awake, for the first time since . . . her.

  There she is, reflected in the dark whirlpools of his eyes. The way she was at the beginning. Pink and pure, before we carved her open.

  The memory sets my skin off. I shiver. He blinks, feels it too.

  Lightning snaps at the window. The girl is on the bed, twitching, drowsy, drugged. Her skin calls to me. She is a blank canvas. I’m itching to colour her in.

  The candlelight dances across her downy limbs. He dips towards her, and the air thickens and slows. Tiny hairs bristle along her lily-white stomach. My fingers buzz inside my gloves as I watch him feed on her body. Soon, it will be my turn. We will share her until there’s nothing left. Just like we used to.

  He climbs off her. Catches his breath. Catches my eye. The years melt away. All twenty of them. I count them off in my head. Slowing down time.

  The bed is red and wet. The blade feels light in my hand. I run it gently across her forehead, her nose, her quivering mouth, then drop it onto the pillow. Not yet, my pretty.

  She moans, a clotted sound through parted lips. The blood twists in my veins.

  He leans forward, urging me on. The air fizzes with promise. I take a long, golden breath.

  Then I reach for her throat.

  22

  Dark, swollen clouds pressed down. It was going to snow. The media had dubbed it the Big Freeze 2.0, after last year’s Big Freeze, which entailed a centimetre of snow that melted by mid-afternoon. All fart, and no shit, as Rowley liked to say.

  By the time I got home, I’d called Durand to sound him out about the sex tape. Turned out my hunch was right; he’d received the same USB stick that morning. Then I updated Kate and left a message on Eva’s phone, asking her to call me urgently. I had to find out if she was involved.

  We didn’t have long to break the story. Every good reporter has inside sources in the police force so chances were, this would leak. But Rowley wouldn’t go for a hatchet job. Even in the current climate. He never printed a story until it was backed up by three sources. I had the sex tape; a quote from Durand would be two. I needed a third.

  I tapped my fingers against the flagstone floor and closed my eyes. The image of Lydia’s limp body being pawed by meaty hands seared itself across my eyelids. This story would send an already hysterical public into an orbit of melodrama. Lydia’s tape would become a global water-cooler conversation, crunched into soundbites, screengrabs, tweets and blog posts. It would taint Lydia’s image forever.

  I couldn’t let it cloud my head. My job wasn’t to pick and choose who and what I wrote about. My job was to report the facts.

  I jumped as my phone rang.

  ‘Just got out of conference.’ Kate was eating something. ‘Growler’s head nearly fell off when he heard about the sex tape.’

  I took a scalding sip of tea and burned my mouth. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Quite.
Look, Growler wants to run the story, but says you need more people on the record. All we have at the moment is that tape and it doesn’t actually prove there’s a sex ring. Do you have any idea who put it through your letterbox?’

  ‘None at all.’ I spun my chair round to face the corkboard. ‘What does Mack think?’

  Kate coughed. ‘Mack’s not here.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Kate lowered her voice. ‘He’s asked for some time off. Something’s happened. The newsroom’s buzzing with rumours.’ An image of Mack’s desperate, bloodshot eyes flashed up in front of me and I frowned. ‘Anyway, a lot of people are in favour of running with what we have. The London Herald is leading the pack for once and they reckon if we don’t break this, someone else will.’

  ‘They have a point.’

  ‘So, you’d better come up with two more sources, pronto. I’m sending a bike for the USB stick. Growler wants to see it with his own eyes.’

  ‘We need to trace the men in the video –’

  ‘Rahid’s working on it.’ Rahid was a junior member of the team.

  ‘Give me this afternoon to put something together.’

  ‘Will do. And Soph?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Great scoop, girl.’

  I clicked on the Models International website and painstakingly went through all two hundred female models, tracking down their social media pages, and messaging them directly to ask if they’d be willing to talk. Then I badgered my hotel contacts for their guest records. I was looking for patterns. If this sex ring was operating out of London hotels, someone must know something.

  By the time I’d finished, the sky had darkened and the windows were blurred with frost. I stretched my arms over my head, my stomach growling. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I grabbed a few crackers from my stash in the bottom drawer, then dialled Durand.

  I cut straight to the chase. ‘I’m writing up the sex ring story.’

  ‘I thought you’d been fired.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear? I discovered a supermodel’s body. My stock’s gone up. Can you give me a quote?’

  Durand sighed. ‘Is this running tomorrow?’

  ‘Doubt it. I need more witnesses. Why?’

  ‘I’d love to have a shot at this before mass hysteria sets in.’

  I squared my shoulders. ‘My piece might encourage women to speak out.’ There was a crumb of truth in that, but we both knew the bottom line was breaking the story before anyone else.

  ‘OK, we’re taking the contents of that tape very seriously. Prostitution and blackmail are illegal, and we will punish whoever is responsible.’

  ‘Any idea who that is yet?’

  ‘I’m not in a position to comment.’

  I heard the strain in Durand’s voice. Two murders, a serial killer and now a possible sex ring involving wealthy businessmen. Any one of those stories was a dynamite front-pager, and Durand was dealing with them simultaneously.

  ‘Can we talk about the crime scene?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The killer didn’t break in.’ I didn’t phrase it as a question because I knew Durand wouldn’t answer it. ‘Either he had a key, or Lydia knew him and let him in.’

  ‘It’s one of the possible explanations.’

  ‘What other explanations are there?’ I played dumb to keep him talking and Durand fell for it.

  ‘The killer could be someone Lydia didn’t know but let in anyway. An electrician, someone checking the gas meter. We have teams doing door-to-door, retracing Lydia’s steps, checking phone records, you name it.’

  ‘Did you get anything from the crime scene?’

  There was a pause. ‘This is off record. Forensics lifted a partial print from the scissors and we’re checking it against the database. That’s not to appear in print. I don’t want the killer to know.’

  I took a sip of water before asking my next question. ‘Can you give me anything on Crawford?’

  Durand’s silky voice hardened. ‘He’s still being questioned.’

  ‘You’ve detained him for almost twenty-four hours. You’ll have to release him soon if you’re not charging him.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, Columbo.’

  He hung up, and I spun my chair towards the window. A flurry of snow was falling and it was eerily silent. I reached for my leather contacts book. Amy Kaufman was a criminal profiler and one of the smartest women I’d ever met. A former criminal lawyer, she grew disillusioned after defending too many questionable characters and retrained as a psychiatrist. We first worked together three years ago, when the second-division footballer, Lawrence Pope, went missing: #findpope became a global Twitter sensation and police focused their efforts on tracking down a kidnapping gang. Amy researched Pope’s medical history, his social media and his friends’ testimonies, and eventually asked police to locate a person who was anonymously posting Bible quotations on Pope’s Twitter feed. Police traced the sender all the way to a rundown hotel in Ipswich. When the police knocked on the door, Pope thought it was room service come to restock his minibar. Turned out he couldn’t cope with the pressures of professional football and faked his own disappearance. He never realised it would blow up the way it did. Pope’s new plan was to swallow a bottle of painkillers, and then slip into a hot bath. He was just waiting for reinforcements. Without Amy Kaufman, I’m sure the police would have found Pope. But I doubt they would have found him in time.

  Amy picked up immediately. ‘I had a feeling you’d call.’

  I smiled. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I think the more pressing question is: how are you? You had quite the adventure last night.’

  I curled my legs underneath me. ‘I need to talk to someone about . . . what I saw.’

  Amy’s voice was soft. ‘Perfectly natural to want to make sense of a gruesome crime scene.’

  ‘Is it possible to make sense of it?’

  ‘Even killers have a behavioural pattern. You just have to reason the same way they reason. Give me the details and I’ll give you a ballpark theory.’

  I went through the two crime scenes in as much detail as I could.

  Amy cleared her throat. ‘What I’m about to tell you is surface-level stuff. I haven’t had access to the investigation records, the crime scene, witness statements.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘There are many interesting factors at play here. The first murder took place in a hotel, a public place; the second occurred in the victim’s home in a busy area. And they took place only days apart. All this implies a supreme level of confidence. The fact the killer is able to adapt the location means he is intelligent. From what you’ve told me, the murders are very well planned, and he left no fingerprints or traces behind.’

  I flicked my pen against my notebook. ‘What about the damage he inflicts?’

  ‘It’s in line with someone who feels he has been rejected by women in the past. He feels inferior. It’s no coincidence that he’s chosen models – women that society holds up as an ideal of beauty. Both times he’s destroyed their faces. In Lydia’s case, mutilating her breast could be a cheap thrill, or it could mean he intends to increase the violence each time he kills.’

  I drew in a breath. ‘What do you make of the blackthorn branch?’

  ‘It could signify his impotence. Or his perceived impotence. He can’t perform for these women, so he rapes them with an object. The rape itself is a form of orgasm for him.’

  I stared down at my hands, trying to process my thoughts. ‘Why does he allow them to be unconscious?’

  Amy paused. ‘My guess is that the fantasy is so strong in his mind, he doesn’t need them to play along. He just needs a vessel. The fact that the victims look so similar means they are conforming to his fantasy woman. And that’s the other thing. The bodies aren’t left in a haphazard manner. In both cases, the bed is made, the victims are dressed, candles are lit. None of those things happened by accident. The visual impact matters to him. When a kill
er leaves the victim face-up, it indicates he feels no shame.’

  I wandered over to the window. Snow was settling on rooftops like a layer of gauze.

  ‘In my view you’re looking for a highly intelligent, socially adjusted sexual sadist. Possibly someone the victims knew. The most useful piece of advice I can give you is this: murdering the country’s most famous model takes nerves of steel, and a calm hand. He’s killed before.’

  I pulled the keyboard towards me and searched for model and strangled. I read about the British model, Jessica Parker, who was killed in Tokyo in 2007. I vaguely remembered the case. A Japanese computer technician lured Parker to his car and strangled her with his belt. He was later executed. I kept scrolling. An American model, Brittany Weiser, was strangled by her boyfriend in Detroit in 2004. A Brazilian model, Alessandra Garcia, was strangled by an ex-fiancé in 2002. British model, Amanda Barnes, was strangled by her stepfather in 1994. My eyes were starting to glaze over and I was about to take a break when I spotted a photograph of Amanda Barnes. I grabbed the headshots of Lydia and Natalia that were pinned on my board and held them up. Cut-glass cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, shoulder-length black hair. The three women looked like sisters.

  I searched for Amanda Barnes murder but nothing in the national press appeared. A piece in the Liverpool Echo popped up.

  The body of a sixteen-year-old girl was found in the wooded area just outside of Formby at 7.30 a.m. yesterday morning. Initial reports suggest the girl – who has been identified as model Amanda Barnes – was strangled. Her best friend, Melissa Wakefield, told police that Amanda left the Old Oak pub at around 9.30 p.m. the night before. Merseyside Police are appealing for witnesses.

  The next mention was dated 23 March 1994.

  Michael Farrow, forty-eight, has been arrested on suspicion of murdering his stepdaughter, Amanda Barnes. Police uncovered evidence in the shed at the bottom of her garden that indicated Amanda was being sexually abused by Farrow. Detective Inspector Fred Weatherly is describing this as a ‘significant breakthrough’.