The Perfect Victim Read online

  4

  Emily: 49 weeks before the murder

  The wooden bench is digging into her legs and Emily breathes through her mouth to stop the teriyaki fumes turning her stomach. She doesn’t want anything to spoil this moment.

  ‘I really think we’re onto something here,’ says her publisher, Libby Stone, right before jamming a spring roll into her mouth. ‘Do you know how much the wedding industry is worth right now?’

  Emily shakes her head. All she can think is, Weeeeee, I’m going to be published!

  Libby pushes a cup of sake towards Emily. ‘And a wedding expert who’s just got married is even better. You can empathise with your readers. The way I see it is that you write the book exactly like your blog, Something Borrowed. Same tone – sisterly, insider-y.’

  Libby leans forward, her elbow in a puddle of soy sauce.

  ‘The Instagram photos look gor-geous, by the way. We’ll use them in the book if that’s OK? Show the readers how it’s done. It’s important that you build your brand. Your website gets a lot of traffic but we can increase that. Social media, obviously. Then there’s the publicity campaign and . . .’

  Emily tunes out Libby’s voice as a snapshot of ‘schoolgirl Emily’ flashes in her head. The itchy green uniform stretched tightly over her short, pudgy body. Hardly surprising given that Emily’s mum let her eat whatever she liked; her way of making up for things at home. At one point Emily was sinking a family-size Dairy Milk bar en route to school. She used to jam the wrapper into her pencil case, trying to hide the evidence, but teenage girls have a nose for weakness. And Emily was at the bottom of the school food chain. Her breathing quickens as she pictures the rows of girlish faces, aimed in her direction, their features arranged into sneers. ‘Dumpy Danson’ they called her. Well, look at me now, Form 3a. Dumpy Danson’s got a bonafide book deal.

  ‘Emily?’ Libby leaned forward, frowning. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’

  ‘So, how was the big day?’

  Emily picks up her glass and focuses on the feel of it between her hands. Well, Libby, funny story: it was both the happiest and the unhappiest day of my life.

  There was a moment in the hotel, right before Emily left for the wedding ceremony, when she was all alone in the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror: at the vintage, long-sleeved dress falling in ripples down her body, at the diamond-studded ‘E’ pendant that Charlie had sent to her room that morning as a gift. As a wedding planner, she was used to being on the other side of the glass. This felt weird, and thrilling. But, as she smiled at her reflection, an icy feeling swept through her. What if Charlie didn’t show up? That happened to a client once: a leggy lawyer arrived at the packed-out church in her twenty-thousand-pound dress to find the groom had done a runner through the back door. She can still picture the bride’s face as it dawned on her she’d been jilted. ‘But, this only happens in movies,’ she wailed, collapsing on Emily’s shoulder.

  Emily knew she had a lot to prove. There were mixed feelings about this wedding. Charlie’s camp hadn’t accepted her, not really. Most were still in thrall to his dead wife, Lizzie. They were protective of Charlie; weirded out by the fact that Emily had organised Charlie and Lizzie’s wedding. His friends tolerated her for Charlie’s sake, but she caught the eye rolls. The only one who hadn’t given her a hard time was Sophie Kent, Charlie’s friend from work. Emily pictured Sophie: all elfin features and white-blonde hair. Emily could have done with Sophie being a degree or two uglier. Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

  Standing in that bathroom, decked out in ivory silk, Emily’s skin had started to hum. She snatched a pair of nail scissors off the counter and pressed the point into her thumb. What did Charlie’s friends expect? That he would spend the rest of his life alone and miserable? She sucked the blood as it blossomed on her thumb, picturing their gleeful expressions if Charlie did a runner. She half expected him to flee herself. Even she couldn’t believe Dumpy Danson had bagged a man like Charlie.

  Emily wipes her mouth with a paper napkin as a waft of soy sauce threatens her stomach. ‘It was perfect.’

  *

  Emily closes the door behind her and kicks off her heels. Her long blonde hair is wet with rain. As she pads through the hallway, she feels the draught whistling through the cellar door and shivers. Bloody builders, she thinks, pulling her black cardigan round her. The scent of jasmine from the diffuser on the table hits the back of Emily’s throat and she wobbles into the bathroom, wincing as her knees hit the cold tiles. The rain drums on the skylight, her heart thuds in her ears. She retches but nothing comes out. Her wedding ring grazes the porcelain. She taps it – plink plink plink – waiting for her stomach to settle.

  Eventually she hauls herself up and sits on the side of the bath. As the nausea passes, she puts a hand to her stomach. Her sleeve falls back, exposing the whisper-thin lines along her wrist. She traces them with a finger.

  A key turns in the lock. Emily forces herself to her feet and glances in the mirror. Her face is ashen; she pinches her cheeks to give them some colour. The lights are off, and Charlie is silhouetted against the kitchen window.

  Emily’s heart lifts at the sight of him, but then she frowns. Something is wrong. He’s swaying.

  ‘Baby, what are you doing home so early?’

  Charlie doesn’t answer. He’s looking at something outside. Emily crosses the room and puts a hand on his shoulder.

  Charlie flinches and a sour waft of booze hits her. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  Charlie mumbles something as he crashes against the kitchen counter. Emily stares at him. In the eighteen months they’ve been together Charlie has never touched a drop of alcohol. They’d served it at their wedding, but Charlie toasted his new bride with a champagne flute filled with Appletiser. He made a joke of it but the guests who’d known him the longest hadn’t laughed. It pissed her off at the time. Emily doesn’t really like to think of people knowing Charlie before her.

  ‘Baby, talk to me.’

  Charlie swivels round to face her. There’s a trail of vomit down his suit and his eyes are bloodshot. ‘What’s there to talk about?’

  He ricochets off the counter and, as Emily reaches out to steady him, Charlie shoves her against the wall.

  ‘Is it . . . has something happened with Vanessa?’ she says, momentarily winded. She can tell by the way Charlie’s shoulders tighten that she’s said the wrong thing. Emily fills the kettle with shaky hands and switches it on. ‘Baby, please. Sit down, I’ll make coffee.’

  She takes two porcelain mugs from the cupboard. One has ‘Mr’ printed on the side, the other ‘Mrs’. Emily had spotted them at an upmarket pottery shop on Westbourne Grove and snapped them up before Charlie even popped the question. When he proposed, she uploaded an image of the mugs to her blog alongside the headline: BREAKING NEWS: I SAID YES #pinchme.

  Emily closes her eyes as she waits for the kettle to boil. She’d bet any money Charlie’s relapse was triggered by Vanessa. His mum is a liability, a drunk. Emily first heard about their fractured relationship when she was organising Charlie’s wedding to Lizzie. She remembered the debate they had about inviting Vanessa to the wedding. In the end, Charlie won and his mum remained firmly off the guest list. But Emily hadn’t realised quite how deep the scars ran. On Charlie’s birthday, a month ago, a card arrived from Vanessa. It was sealed under wads of sellotape and she’d drawn a wonky birthday cake in one corner. Charlie glanced at the envelope, then threw it in the bin unopened. She sent one every birthday, but he stopped reading them years ago. When Charlie left for football practice, Emily fished the card out of the bin. Vanessa’s tiny blue scrawl covered every inch of the white space.

  Charlie, my love. I’m thinking of you. Always. Always. Today I walked round Sandhurst Park and sat on our bench and remembered that time we fed the geese and one charged at you and you leaped into my arms. I’m getting better, Charlie, clearer – haven’t had a drink since Tuesday
. Will you help me with that thing I asked at your wedding? Please help me I need you when can I see you have I been good enough yet. I love you Charlie I love you Charlie I love you.

  When it was her turn to marry Charlie, Emily thought she was doing him a favour by secretly inviting Vanessa. Charlie’s dad died when he was a baby and she really wanted him to have family there. In her mind, the wound would be healed and Emily would have succeeded where Lizzie failed. Misjudged that one, didn’t you?

  Emily pours coffee into the mugs then sets them down on the table. She watches Charlie drag his hands over his face. He hasn’t shaved; he looks like he hasn’t slept for days. His nightmares are getting worse. Fire. Always about fire. Emily blames herself for allowing Vanessa to inch her way back in. And she feels the unspoken accusation levelled at her; Lizzie would never have put him in that situation.

  Across the table, Charlie sips his coffee. The normality of the action seems to calm him. After a minute, he raises his gaze to her face. ‘Hospital called. Vanessa fell down the stairs. Postman saw her through the window.’

  Emily reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Define “OK”.’ Charlie snatches his hand away.

  ‘Well, is anything broken?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t be fixed with a short hospital stay and a bottle of Smirnoff’s finest.’ He gives a thin laugh and Emily catches a glimpse of the hurt little boy and a childhood scarred by empty promises. Over the months, Emily has tried to piece his broken past together. Charlie almost never speaks about Vanessa. The most she got out of him was six weeks into their relationship when a midnight walk along Embankment loosened Charlie’s tongue. He talked of the wine bottles stashed in his toy box, the accidents caused by a selfish mum who cared more about her next fix than her struggling son. He dealt with things no kid should have to. And then, he said, something happened when he hit his teens that destroyed their relationship forever. When Emily pressed him for details, Charlie had clammed up.

  Emily sits forward in her chair and opens her mouth to speak. To point out the irony that Charlie’s response to his mum falling off the wagon is to fall off the wagon. But Charlie needs her love, not her judgement.

  She sighs and puts on a bright voice. ‘I had lunch with a publisher today. She wants to go ahead with the book.’

  Charlie says something into his mug and Emily feels tears prick the back of her eyes. Their marriage is only thirty-six days old and it’s unravelling. Perhaps I should tell that to my publisher.

  She stands up too suddenly and a wave of nausea engulfs her. For a split-second, Emily wants to grab Charlie by his perfect hair and tell him that Vanessa’s death wish isn’t the only thing that happened today. Then she looks at the broken figure in front of her. The man she’s vowed to love in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad. The centre of her world.

  Emily’s hand brushes her stomach. Now is not the time to tell him the news.

  5

  Present day

  ‘Hello? Is that the great Sophie Kent, reporter extraordinaire? Call me when you get this. I need to talk to you about something . . . personal.’

  The sun was setting and the newsroom lights took on a migraine-inducing hue as I played Charlie’s voicemail for the millionth time. Over the past hour, I’d deduced two things. One: Charlie’s voice dipped on the final word, ‘personal’. Two: I was a terrible friend. Charlie left me this voicemail on Friday evening. Three days ago. What on earth possessed me to turn my phone off? I swigged my cold coffee not wanting to admit the answer to myself. I heard Dr Spado’s voice in my head: ‘Think of these tablets as a short-term fix to take the anxiety away.’ Truth is, they took away more than that, but I hadn’t really cared . . . until now.

  I sighed. Text, email, Twitter, Facebook. I’d tried them all. I left a message with Charlie’s best friend, Dominic; the man Charlie once referred to as ‘the man who knows too much’. Still no word from Emily, either. We hadn’t been able to hide the situation from Rowley anymore. When he got back from a board meeting, Kate and I came clean and told him that Charlie was missing. Rowley nodded curtly and disappeared into his office. We hadn’t seen him since.

  I stared out of the window at Kensington High Street in rush hour. From the eighth floor, people looked like woodlice scurrying along a forest floor. I envied their journey home. I wouldn’t be getting out of here any time soon.

  I turned back to my computer and pulled up LegalLens.com, the gossip website Rachel Cornish had told me about earlier. The headline story was about a law firm, Medly & Flynn, poaching a powerhouse American lawyer. No mention of Sabrina’s murder anywhere.

  I clicked on the Wicked Whispers section and scanned the page for any mention of Sabrina. Mostly the posts were about which lawyer was shagging whom. Then I saw it, 6 May, ten days ago.

  –Which flame-haired Partner has been overdosing on happy pills?

  And another, the following day.

  –Rumour has it this gingernut takes it up the arse.

  This thread sparked off a debate about which law firms employed the least frigid women. I pictured Sabrina staring at the screen, feeling each comment like a punch in the chest.

  ‘What’s eating you?’ Kate slumped down next to me, wafting spicy cologne in my direction.

  ‘Cretins who hide behind their computer screens.’

  ‘I’ve told you. Ignore the fucktards. Wouldn’t know a sentence structure, or a great pair of tits, if their lives depended on it.’

  I snorted. ‘Not my reader comments. Sabrina Hobbs. The Thames victim. Looks like someone was waging a smear campaign against her.’

  Kate studied my screen over my shoulder. ‘Christ, look at that one. Which crimson-haired lawyer deserves everything she gets. Sticking her beak in will only end in tears.’

  ‘The username changes each time. Look, there it’s in_the_know, but that one is cuckoo_crusher.’

  Kate sighed. ‘Goes with the territory. Yesterday someone called ovary_killer commented under my piece on female crime rates that I looked as if I hadn’t got laid for decades and I needed to be raped by a thousand men.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Nice.’

  ‘I told him thank you very much for the concern, and that yes, meticulously researching and campaigning for justice does play havoc with your libido so I was greatly looking forward to all the sex.’

  I slapped her on the arm. ‘Don’t engage with them, you idiot. They’re nutters.’

  ‘They’re spotty shitgibbons who still live at home with Mum.’ She reached into her drawer and pulled out a miniature bottle of whiskey. ‘Today has been the worst.’

  ‘What’s the latest on Rowntree?’

  She shrugged. ‘Wish I knew. Radio silence from the courthouse. It’s unlikely anything will be decided tonight. If they need to replace a jury member, the whole trial has to start from scratch.’ She unscrewed the lid, took a large swig and held out the bottle. I hesitated, remembering my therapist’s warning not to mix alcohol with antidepressants. Then a vision of the ugly sleepless hours ahead of me made my fingers twitch. I snatched the bottle out of Kate’s hand.

  Kate cleared her throat, the way she does when she’s uncomfortable. ‘Were you telling Growler the truth earlier? Did therapy help?’

  ‘You were eavesdropping?’

  Kate ignored me, digging her teeth into the end of her pen. ‘This place is so frenetic, Soph, we don’t always catch each other. Look, we don’t have to talk about things. The Herald is your safe space. I get that. But I’m not a mind-reader. If the tide is pulling you out, wave a sodding hand. I can’t spend all my time worrying you’re going to drown.’

  I didn’t trust myself to speak. Instead I pulled Kate into a fierce hug and her hair tickled my nose. ‘No need to deploy the life ring yet, I promise.’

  She squeezed me back, just as I heard an awkward cough behind me.

  ‘Sorry to ruin the moment, ladies.’ Charlie’s deputy, Adam, was ch
ewing his fingernail. ‘Could you take a look at something, Sophie?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Shoot.’

  Adam perched on the side of my desk. ‘I went through Charlie’s files looking for clues.’ He caught my expression and gave a tired smile. ‘What, you think you’re the only sleuth in town? I found this in his bottom drawer. A bunch of research into something called Christ Clan. A religious organisation. Down in Bournemouth.’ He handed me a file. ‘Charlie stuck your name on the top so I wondered if . . .’ he shrugged.

  I looked at the Post-It note. Charlie had scribbled my name and the word ‘urgent’ in his loopy handwriting.

  ‘Thanks, Adam, I’ll take a look.’

  As Adam walked away, Kate cast me a glance. ‘It’s late, you should get out of here.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Sophie, you look like hell. Go home, take a break.’

  *

  I hurried up my road just as the sky turned from smudged charcoal into black. Number 7, Bywater Street was a pastel-pink Victorian terrace nestled in a Chelsea cul-de-sac. I closed the door behind me, soaking up the silence. My flatmate, Poppy, was in Texas working for an oil baron client and wouldn’t be back for a fortnight. I wandered into the kitchen; a snug room with a large window that overlooked my unkempt garden. I still hadn’t got around to decorating the house, even though I’d lived here for four years. Working the crime beat for a national newspaper doesn’t leave much time for picking out curtains. Still, it was much better than my previous digs. Poppy and I had lived together since we were students at Oxford University, but when she relocated to New York for a year, I moved in with a friend of her brother’s. A guy called Rick, who had a penchant for video games and crack. I didn’t last long. Dipped into my trust fund to get my foot on the property ladder. Timed it perfectly; Poppy was back in time to help me house hunt.

  ‘But why do we need a third bedroom?’ she’d asked, brow furrowed as we leafed through property details. When I didn’t answer, Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘Tommy doesn’t need a room, for God’s sake.’