Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 2

  ‘Look, Mary Danby has been vocal with the press since then. She’s gone on record to say The Met is scaling back its investigation. I just wanted to get a quote.’

  Rowley’s leather chair squeaked as he leaned back, his voice tight with sarcasm.

  ‘And what quote did you get, besides fuck off and leave me alone?’

  I sighed. ‘Fine. I may have gone a bit overboard.’

  ‘A bit?’ Rowley’s round bald scalp turned crimson. He slid on his tortoiseshell glasses and glanced at the piece of paper in front of him. ‘It says here that you threatened to break down her door.’

  A snort escaped. ‘Break down her door? Have you seen the size of me?’ I opened my mouth to speak again, then closed it when I saw the expression on Rowley’s face. Instead I gazed out of the window. Thick clouds rolled across the sky over Hyde Park, building up to another downpour. Rowley’s corner office overlooked the very edge of Kensington Palace, which really railed against his socialist sensibilities.

  ‘One of the reasons I hired you is the talent you have for getting people to open up. You haven’t been back at work long and this is the second complaint about your conduct.’ Rowley’s voice mellowed into a low whine. ‘This isn’t about Mary Danby, is it?’

  I didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes so I studied the framed pictures behind his desk. Rowley at Downing Street with David Cameron, at a Nato Summit with Angela Merkel, on the red carpet behind George Clooney. For all his ordinary, one-of-the-people spiel, Rowley was a sucker for the rich and famous.

  ‘I need to go. I’m interviewing someone in Brixton in forty minutes.’

  Rowley sighed. ‘Sophie, what was the first thing I told you when you joined The London Herald?’

  I looked him in the eye. ‘Always know the line.’

  ‘Exactly. The line is the truth. The line is what sells the story. Doesn’t matter if you’re writing fifty words, or five thousand. If you can’t sum it up in one line, you haven’t cracked it.’ A shadow fell across Rowley’s face. ‘The line applies to more than just reporting. It applies to life. And when I look at you right now, Sophie, I can’t see the line.’

  ‘Philip –’

  ‘I’m not finished. I know you’ve been through a difficult time, but I’m not running a charity. We are haemorrhaging money.’ He yanked off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Not just us: the Mail, The Times, the Telegraph, everyone. We’ve been lined up against a wall and shot. All that’s left now is to see which of us bleeds out the last. Budgets have been slashed, readership is pitiful and we’re being forced to evolve into digital wizards overnight. I spend more time considering page hits than Page One now. But that’s the challenge: spend less, create more. We’re pressing on into an uncertain future, delivering top-drawer journalism in myriad forms, and the readers who are still with us deserve our A-game. But where is your A-game, Sophie? Where is your line?’

  He leaned forward, eyes hard, like varnished wood. ‘The Sophie Kent I know would never have threatened a source. She would also know that coming to work hungover was a mug’s game. You’re talented. One of the best I’ve ever worked with. But you’ve lost your way, Sophie. You’re a wordy, bloated overwritten piece of prose, bumbling from one sentence to the next with no structure, no line.’

  I focused on my hands, not trusting myself to speak. I was staring down the barrel of grief so raw it felt as though it had fused into my bloodstream. Some days, I could actually taste it, and the only way to get rid of it was to drink something flammable. Other days, it was an anaesthetic sliding through my veins, numbing me from the inside out. But I couldn’t tell Rowley how I felt. The newspaper industry was at war. He needed his soldiers firing on all cylinders.

  ‘I’m sorry I let you down. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.’ I kept my voice level but it sounded hollow, even to me.

  Rowley folded his arms. ‘You know what I think? You should have taken time off when it happened. Then I wouldn’t have had to force delayed compassionate leave on you.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t think a week was long enough.’

  A memory of the long stretch of sharp-edged moments arrowed through me. ‘Trust me, I’m better off here.’

  ‘Not if you compromise the newspaper, you’re not. The last thing I need is complaints from disgruntled civilians. You’re lucky Mary Danby isn’t pressing charges.’

  The chair dug into my back and I moved forward. ‘All she knew was that I was a reporter from The London Herald. How did she get my name?’

  Rowley shuffled his papers with small, neat hands. ‘No idea. Mack took the call. And took the sting out of her wrath, as it happens.’ I rolled my eyes, earning myself another stern look from Rowley. ‘He’s worried about you. Thinks the murder beat is bad for your recovery. Reckons I should move you off the front line and into something less demanding. Lifestyle, or fashion.’ The look on my face made the corners of Rowley’s mouth twitch. ‘If I don’t see a change, I’ll have no choice.’

  I nodded briskly, my mind still on Mack.

  ‘Anyway,’ he sounded irritable all of a sudden, ‘that’s beside the point. I want you to send Mary Danby a handwritten note. Not on Herald stationery, in case she shops it elsewhere.’ Rowley swung round to his computer screen, indicating our talk was over.

  I was almost at the door when he spoke again. ‘Don’t be a martyr, Sophie. If you need more time, tell me. Three months isn’t long when you’re dealing with a family death.’

  Harsh strip lights buzzed overhead as I sagged against the wall outside Rowley’s office. The newsroom was alive with the discordant sounds of phones ringing and keyboards tapping. To my left, five-feet-high steel letters spelt out THE LONDON HERALD. To my right, a wall of televisions flickered with rolling twenty-four-hour news. Banks of computers, two or three per person, sat on top of cluttered desks. Stacks of paper everywhere, proof that even in the digital age reporters relied on the tangible. I steered myself through the open-plan office, eyes firmly on the carpet and collapsed onto my chair.

  My phone chimed with a text, interrupting my thoughts.

  Want to get a drink after work and talk about it?

  I stared at the screen, deliberating possible replies, but who was I kidding?

  Fine. Somewhere private.

  He replied with the name of a Soho bar I’d never heard of. I slammed my phone down on my desk. Then I grabbed my coat. Rowley, Mary Danby, Mack could wait.

  I had somewhere to be.

  3

  She sat at our usual table, hunched over like a question mark.

  I strode across the gloomy pub and slung my bag over the chair opposite. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  Natalia Kotov stared at the space in front of her eyes. I put my hand on her shoulder and she jumped, spilling her drink.

  ‘Oh, is you.’ Morning light bled through the grimy, green window, giving the whites of her eyes a sickly tinge. The bruising on her face and wrist had disappeared, but my eyes were drawn to the invisible traces left behind. She slid a glass across the sticky table. ‘Orange juice. Is OK?’

  The pub was deserted except for two men in painters’ overalls perched on barstools. They bowed their heads towards a portable radio that was bleating out horse-racing commentary. Their paint-speckled hands were wrapped around pints of beer, even though it was only 11 a.m.

  I leaned back against the felt upholstery. It reeked of stale nicotine and sweat. ‘So, are you ready for London Fashion Week?’

  ‘My first show is Saturday. Bennett Turner. I have fitting tomorrow.’ She gave a careless shrug of her shoulders, but I could tell by the lightness in her voice that she was excited.

  ‘That’s great. A few days ago you didn’t have any bookings.’

  ‘Things change fast.’ Natalia fidgeted with the neck of her black sweater and bobbed her knee up and down. By now I was used to her jerky mannerisms, as though she was always on the verge of flight. But today they seemed more pronounced than usual.

  ‘Have you spoken
to your mum today?’

  Natalia reached for her glass, took a long swig. ‘Mamma is worried. Pyotr is sick. He has infection here.’ She pointed to her chest.

  A gentle tap-tap-tap made us look towards the window where rain was blurring the glass.

  ‘Natalia, about yesterday . . . you left before we could properly talk.’

  Her hand darted towards a china sugar bowl. She flipped it over, then began lining the sugar packets up in rows, separating them into colours, careful not to let their edges touch. I watched her for a while, remembering the first time we’d sat together at this table, the day after Jason Danby’s murder.

  Natalia had shown up looking as fragile as spun sugar. She barely lifted her eyes from the table; instead she’d arranged toothpicks into long, orderly lines. When I commented on it, she shrugged. ‘I like tidy.’ She told me how, back in Russia, she would fold the sheet corners on the mattress she shared with her brothers, until they were pristine. Her mother used to joke that Natalia was her little ghost-child. ‘When you leave a room, milaya moya, it’s as though no one was there.’

  We agreed to meet the next day, and we’d met every day since. I had a hunch our encounters would lead somewhere, to a revelation, an admission, a confession of sorts. Natalia was poised, old beyond her years, but a vein of vulnerability flowed through her, as though the child in her had yet to grow up. She touched lightly on her past; eyes softening when she spoke of her four younger brothers back in Ivanovo (‘Not a place where dreams come true’) and a mother who worked three jobs to put food on the table. When she was homesick, which was often, she wrapped herself in her mother’s green woollen quilt, inhaling the sylvan scent of fir trees and pine needles. If she focused, she could hear the quiet hum of her mother’s voice; a voice that grew softer with each passing winter.

  Natalia’s haunted eyes spoke of a difficult life, but she was quick to laugh. Her voice warmed when she spoke of her agent, Cat Ramsey, a woman she regarded as a second mother, and of her flatmate and fellow-model, Eva Kaminski. Occasionally I asked about the bruises she’d sported the first day we met, but Natalia always looked away.

  ‘We need to talk about what you told me last time.’

  ‘Why?’ Patches of concealer had faded beneath Natalia’s eyes, revealing skin the colour of claret. She raised her chin and gave me a defiant look.

  A punter shuffled past, wafting a vinegary bleach smell towards us. I lowered my voice. ‘Because we can do something about it.’

  Natalia drained her glass. ‘I need another. You want?’

  I stood up. ‘I’ll get the next rou–’

  ‘No!’ Natalia’s eyes widened. ‘I buy.’

  I stared after her, confused, as she trotted past a broken fruit machine and leaned over the bar. Her legs, wrapped in tight denim, were as thin as two pen lines. I sighed and opened my notebook to the page from yesterday. In the centre was one word, scrawled in blue ink and underlined. Raped.

  Natalia returned clutching another drink and a packet of crisps. She tore at the foil, unleashing a sour oniony smell, and offered me one. I shook my head.

  ‘It was a big step, sharing your secret with me.’ Natalia crunched loudly on a crisp, not meeting my eye. ‘Do you know the man who assaulted you?’

  She lunged for her glass and gulped half of it down. Then she looked at her watch. ‘Stupid thing. Is broken. You know time?’

  I sighed. Natalia was like a star in a moonlit sky. To see her clearly, I had to shift my gaze, something I wasn’t very good at lately.

  I looked at my wrist. ‘It’s 11.30 a.m. Why?’ Natalia rubbed at the watermark her glass had left on the table. ‘Is everything OK? You seem distracted.’

  ‘Sophie, I cannot tell you more.’

  I closed my notebook. ‘You know, I’ve lost count of the number of rape trials I’ve covered for The London Herald. Do you know what most convicted rapists have in common?’ Natalia scrunched the empty crisp packet into a ball, her knuckles white. ‘They’re repeat offenders.’ I caught her confused expression. ‘I mean they raped lots of women. No one stopped them. Look, I don’t want to pressure you. You don’t owe anyone anything. You have the right to keep this to yourself. But,’ I leaned across the table and put my hand on hers, ‘you also have a choice. You can speak out against this man. And I want you to know that if you do, I will be right beside you.’

  Natalia pulled her hand away from mine and rubbed her middle finger with her thumb, distorting the butterfly tattoo. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick. She didn’t lift her eyes. ‘My career . . . it will be finished.’

  ‘Because he works in fashion?’

  She took another large gulp and looked at me with glazed eyes. ‘Why I have to say something? Why not –’ She stopped abruptly, running her teeth over her thumbnail.

  ‘Last week, when I met you, those bruises. Was that him?’ Natalia piled the sugar packets on top of one another, building a rickety tower. ‘Is that when you were raped?’ She flicked the corner of a sugar packet with a pale finger and the tower collapsed.

  I rested my elbows on the table, fixing my eyes on her face. ‘You know what, Natalia? I think your attacker picked on the wrong girl.’ I squeezed her hand. ‘You’re here, you’ve done the hard part. I think his name is burning a hole in your tongue. All you have to do is speak.’

  Natalia’s hand twitched beneath mine. When she spoke, her voice was smaller than I’d ever heard it. ‘After London, is Milan, then Paris. It must be secret.’

  ‘You have my word. Give me a name, and we’ll wait until the shows have finished before we do anything.’

  Natalia drained her glass, wound a red scarf around her neck. She grabbed her cigarettes and gave me a rueful smile. ‘I take a minute.’

  ‘Do you want company?’

  Natalia shook her head. ‘You don’t smoke. I be back. Then we talk.’

  A chill wind blasted through the pub as Natalia opened the front door. I rested my head against the chair and closed my eyes, absorbing the sounds around me. The slide of glass across wood; the clink of empty bottles; the barman’s wet cough. Alone again, my thoughts turned to Rowley and the disappointment in his eyes. He was right. I’d slipped. Lost focus. I was hanging on by a thread. And Rowley had seen straight through me.

  The door slammed open and Natalia hurtled through, eyes wide.

  ‘Hey, what’s wro—’

  ‘I have to go.’

  I looked past her, towards the door. ‘Did something happen?’ Natalia’s bag got caught under the table and she yanked it free, knocking herself off balance.

  ‘Wait!’ Frustration swept up my back and I grabbed Natalia’s arm more forcefully than I intended. ‘Think, Natalia. If you run, he wins. Is that what you want?’

  ‘You think I want this?’ Natalia’s eyes flashed, like shards of glass in the sunlight. ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘I can help you.’

  ‘No one can help me.’

  Natalia crossed the pub in three long strides and was gone.

  I half-rose from my chair, then sat down again. What was the point?

  ‘Your girlfriend don’t fancy you no more?’ The bartender’s gruff voice cut through my thoughts. ‘Shame. We got used to your lady-dates round here.’

  I hovered in the doorway of the bar, fidgeting with my umbrella strap, squinting into the darkness. Where the hell was he? Stained-glass table lamps glowed womb-red. The cocktail-laced air was sweet, the floor sticky. A loud throbbing from the speakers marched in time to my headache.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The waitress wore horn-rimmed glasses and a bored expression.

  ‘I’m meeting someone.’ I didn’t want to say his name out loud. I pushed past a group of bearded hipsters who were drinking cocktails from jam jars. He was in a corner booth, leaning back against vinyl the colour of chopped liver. Bourbon, BlackBerry, navy suit (‘from Milan, custom-made’), terracotta tan.

  I slid into the bench opposite and saw his jaw unclench. ‘Grea
t choice, Mack.’

  ‘Shut up, Kent. You didn’t want to be seen, right?’

  Two shots were lined up on the table. Mack pushed one towards me. I swallowed it without flinching. He watched me, running a long, bony finger round the top of his glass. He probably thought it was seductive. Everything Mack Winterson did had a studied air about it.

  His BlackBerry vibrated on the table. ‘I need to reply to this.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a girl in a beanie hat and hot pants straddling a guy with greasy blond hair. He whispered something in her ear and she nodded. Then she climbed off his lap, pulled him towards a dark corner.

  As Mack punched away at his keyboard, I caught the glint of gold around his finger. I threw back another shot, welcoming the burn.

  ‘Steady, I don’t want to have to carry you out of here.’

  I said nothing. People have underestimated me my whole life. I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, it gives me the edge.

  ‘Big deal, so you fucked up with Rowley. It won’t be the last time that happens.’

  Was that a threat? I couldn’t think straight; the edges of my brain were starting to blur.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me.’ I said it too quietly for Mack to hear, but part of me wished he had. I pushed my empty glass away. ‘I need another drink. These aren’t working.’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic, Kent.’ Mack signalled to the waitress for another round. ‘Rowley gives every reporter the hairdryer treatment at some point. It was just your time.’

  The insincerity was deafening. I wanted to point out that Rowley would never have known about Mary Danby if it weren’t for him, but Mack already knew that. He pretended to support me, but we both knew the truth. He’d never forgiven me for making him look second-rate in front of Rowley. I hadn’t been at The London Herald long when a man called Steve Wright, aka the Suffolk Strangler, embarked on a brutal campaign against prostitutes. Mack was let loose on the story but failed to bring home the bacon, so Rowley sent me instead. I scored an exclusive with one of the victims and it made the front page. I was rewarded with the metal plate from the printing plant, a memento all Herald reporters are given when their first front-page story is published. As I bounded back to my desk, I caught the scowl on Mack’s face. Since then, our working relationship has been shaky, at best. But lately, there’d been a shift.