Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 6

  I clicked on Instagram. The last photo Natalia had posted made me do a double-take. A slightly blurred selfie of Natalia and Lydia at the designer Leo Brand’s party at The Rose the night she was killed. Underneath the photo she’d written: #leobrand4eva #lylawurock. Lydia pouted at the camera, her shoulder-length ebony hair falling across her eyes. Natalia was laughing with her head thrown back, her sharp features thrust into the spotlight. They looked like sisters. The money shot, I thought grimly. I copied the image into an email and sent it to the Picture Desk. So, Lydia was with Natalia the night she died. I needed to get to her fast, but that was easier said than done with London Fashion Week in full swing. A quick search revealed that Natalia and Lydia were both represented by the same agent, Cat Ramsey.

  Kate was on the phone so I fired off an email.

  If Nutsack asks, I’m at Models International. Don’t wait up.

  7

  I stood outside the imposing glass doors of Models International and peered inside. The sleek lobby looked like a spread in an interiors magazine. A huge pendant light in the shape of a pyramid hung low over the orange reception desk. Poster-sized photographs of Models International’s biggest names adorned the walls. Tammy French, Nadya Vodiova, Lydia Lawson. Even amongst the world’s most beautiful women, Lydia dominated. Feline-shaped eyes the colour of expensive ink, set in an angular face with full lips. She was part Liz Taylor, part Angelina Jolie and as intimidating as hell. Something about her intense gaze made me shiver.

  A striking black girl sat stiffly on the olive-green sofa with an unread magazine on her lap. She kept glancing at reception, where two women were chatting animatedly. One was girl-next-door pretty, the other edgier with custard-yellow hair. I looked up at the ragged clouds, willing the rain to stay away. I had to pick my moment.

  Just then, a tribe of twenty-somethings approached the office, dressed in variations of slouchy harem pants, dark cable-knit sweaters and biker boots. A couple lingered outside to smoke and I held my phone to my ear, pretending I was on a call.

  ‘I mean, it’s fucked up.’ A girl with ash-blonde hair sucked on her cigarette and the tip glowed neon against her black clothes. ‘Dragon made me cancel her lunch with Christopher. I’m telling you, something’s going down. She got a call, next thing I know she’d pulled the blinds.’ She flicked her cigarette butt into a puddle. ‘It’s Fashion Week for Christ’s sake. Like, crazy fucking busy. It blows.’

  ‘Want my advice?’ Her male companion ran a gloved hand over his shaved head. His ear was pierced with a miniature black tusk. ‘If Dragon’s having one of her moments, keep your head down or she’ll knock it off.’

  He pushed through the revolving door and I seized my moment. I slipped in behind them, thanking my tiny-person genes as I sailed past reception. I followed them into a large, open-plan office with concrete floors and exposed pipes running along the ceiling. In the centre, staff sat facing each other along walnut desks. I was momentarily thrown by the chaos in front of me. It made the newsroom feel like church.

  ‘I’ve got Dominic on hold!’ A willowy brunette screamed across the room. ‘Joan is a no-show. What was her call time?’

  A man with a peroxide quiff shot past trailing spicy aftershave. He had a mobile phone under his ear. ‘Erdem’s show has been pushed back. Check it’s not going to clash with Serene’s hair and make-up at Burberry.’

  I assumed Cat Ramsey was senior enough to warrant her own office. The one closest to me was empty, but the office in the far corner had its horizontal blinds pulled down. I marched towards it, hoping everyone was so preoccupied they wouldn’t notice me, and opened the door.

  Cat was bent over her chair, rifling through her bag, her sleek blonde bob hiding her face. She looked up and I saw the sculpted face of a woman in her late forties or early fifties. It was hard to tell. Her skin was pulled tightly over her bones, giving her an expensive, Harley Street expression. Red lipstick only emphasised her pallor and her tall frame was hidden under a black tunic.

  Cat frowned, her muscles not moving as much as they should for a woman her age. I took a moment to weigh up my approach. My job depends on my ability to decipher a person’s state of mind bullet-quick. Nine times out of ten, they don’t want to talk and so all I have is an intake of breath, an eye-blink, to assess their body language and decide how to proceed.

  Something about Cat made me choose the direct approach. ‘I’m sorry to barge in on you. I wanted to ask you about Natalia Kotov.’

  ‘How do you know about – who are you?’ Cat’s voice emitted a don’t-fuck-with-me tone, and there was an accent I couldn’t place.

  I kept my voice level. ‘My name is Sophie Kent and I’m a reporter at The London Herald.’ The shutters came down. ‘Please, before you kick me out . . . I’m not looking for anything on the record. I just want to talk.’

  Cat’s eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you think I have any interest in talking to the press?’

  ‘If you hear me out, you’ll understand. Please, it will only take a minute.’

  She gave me a hard look, then said, ‘A minute is all you have.’

  I nodded and sat down in the chair opposite her desk. ‘Natalia and I were working on a story together.’

  Cat’s bag was still on her lap and she gripped it tightly. ‘I doubt that very much. Natalia wouldn’t say boo to a goose, much less a reporter.’

  ‘You’re wrong. She was talking to me. Reluctantly at first, I’ll admit, but we were getting somewhere.’

  ‘What was the story about?’

  I took a deep breath and explained how I met Natalia at her flat, describing her emotional state and the bruises all over her.

  ‘And this was when?’ Cat tried to sound nonchalant but I could hear the anxiety in her voice.

  ‘Last week. I was worried about her so I stayed in touch.’

  Cat looked at her watch. ‘You’re out of time.’

  ‘Come on, Cat. I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Are you?’ Her voice was sharp. ‘As far as I can see, you’ve muscled your way into my office to dig up dirt for your paper.’

  Cat’s reaction got under my skin and I was more direct than I intended to be. ‘Did you know Natalia was raped?’ To her credit Cat didn’t flinch. ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘I know that it’s none of your business.’

  ‘Wrong again. When Natalia met me yesterday, she agreed to identify her attacker, but something spooked her and she bailed. She was terrified, Cat. Then twelve hours later she was dead. I can’t forgive myself for letting her walk away from me. So I can assure you, catching her rapist and her killer – whether they’re the same person or not – is very much my business.’

  Cat glared at me, then all of a sudden she put her head in her hands. ‘God, I can’t believe this is happening.’

  I heard her sniff and handed her a tissue, seizing the fleeting chink in her armour. I continued more gently: ‘Did Natalia tell you she’d been raped?’

  Cat didn’t look up. ‘Not exactly, but I suspected something. She was using again . . .’

  ‘You mean, drugs?’

  Cat gave me a long look. ‘This is off the record. I don’t want you making her sound like a junkie in your paper. I’ve been looking after models long enough to know the signs. Dark circles under the eyes, extreme weight loss, oversleeping. I called Natalia into the office. It was a sweltering August afternoon, but Natalia showed up in a charcoal sweater and knee-high boots.’ I thought about Tommy; he was always cold, no matter how warm the weather. ‘She denied it at first. Said she just wasn’t sleeping. I told her if she didn’t get clean she’d be on the first plane back to Russia.’

  I couldn’t hide my scepticism. ‘I thought drugs were pretty rife in the fashion industry.’

  Cat’s voice was pure ice. ‘Not on my watch. I can’t afford to be sentimental. Each year it’s getting harder. More models competing for fewer gigs and for less money. I tell my girls, you’re only as strong as your last
job. Reputation is everything. Late nights, bad skin and ratty moods don’t cut it in this climate. All I’m saying is that if a girl is showing signs, I nip it in the bud.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Narcotics Anonymous, rehab, whatever. Depends how much I have invested in the girl. Natalia wasn’t a big earner yet, she’d only been on the scene for five minutes. But I had high hopes for her. She was definitely a girl worth investing in. She had the current look – a wide-eyed androgynous vibe – but it was more than that. There was fragility to her beauty. Like she didn’t know how stunning she was. The industry goes nuts for that sort of innocence.’ Cat uncapped an Evian bottle and poured it into a glass. ‘Sometimes a firm chat is all it takes. In other cases, well, it takes a little more persuasion. But they only get one chance to clean up or they’re out.’

  My coat was still on and the heat was making me sweat. I looked longingly at Cat’s bottle of water. ‘And did Natalia clean up?’

  Cat’s phone rang. She looked at the screen, gave a dramatic sigh, but didn’t answer. ‘At first, but she slipped. I was about to send her packing but I couldn’t do it. Natalia was too special. So I got her into NA. I thought it was working. Excuse me.’ Cat’s phone rang again and she spun her chair round to take the call.

  Cat’s office was sleek and orderly, much like the woman herself. On the shelves behind her desk, framed magazine covers of her model clients were dotted with agency awards and trophies. One had two oars engraved on it along with a plaque: Women’s Single Sculls champion 2000. A large whiteboard hung on the wall with what I presumed was the London Fashion Week schedule. Rows of columns were headed with each model’s name. Under Lydia Lawson, someone had scrawled: Jemima Snow, Berkeley Square, Saturday 12:00. Jemima Snow was a designer, a doyenne of the British fashion industry. I copied it down into my notebook. On the sideboard were two identical mirrored framed photographs of Cat and Lydia, arms round each other, with a gleaming Empire State Building in the background. A Post-it note stuck on one of the frames said: Send to Lydia, 42 Sloane Gardens.

  Cat hung up the phone and saw me looking at the picture frames. ‘A memento from New York Fashion Week. I had a copy made for Lydia.’ She rubbed her eyes. I wasn’t sure how long I had left.

  ‘How did Natalia seem at Leo Brand’s party?’

  Cat seemed to choose her words carefully. ‘A little out of sorts.’

  ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘Drunk, if I’m totally honest. I told her to pull herself together. Nathan Scott was taking photographs of the event. I didn’t want him snapping Natalia making a scene.’

  ‘Did she pull herself together?’

  ‘I have no idea. My bloody mobile battery died. I had to go to the business centre to make a call. When I got back to the party Natalia had already left. I assumed she’d taken my advice and gone to bed. I went up to my room around 11.30 p.m. once the atmosphere ramped up a notch.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘I’m not much of a drinker. And I don’t normally put myself up in expensive hotels, but I flew straight in from New York Fashion Week and was dead on my feet.’

  ‘You must have been annoyed at Natalia’s behaviour, after all the chances you’d given her?’

  Cat sighed. ‘I was more than annoyed. I was going to give her a piece of my mind today. Except, well . . .’ Her chin wobbled and she looked away.

  ‘How did you meet Natalia?’

  Cat smoothed her hair down and leaned back in her chair. ‘I take full credit for her. I go to Eastern Europe twice a year to scout for new faces. Last time I went off the beaten track to Ivanovo, a bone-chilling four-hour drive from Moscow.’ She sipped her water, leaving a red smudge on the glass. ‘I was on my way to a casting, in a taxi with a grizzly old driver who wore a fur hat, despite having the heat on full blast. We were stuck in a traffic jam and I looked out of the window and saw her. She was at the bus stop, sitting neatly with her hands in her lap, as though she was in the front row of a school photograph.’ Cat tapped a fingernail against her glass. ‘It’s hard to define beauty. I’ve been doing this for a long time and I still couldn’t explain it to you. But sometimes you get a feeling in the pit of your stomach. A flutter. Like you were destined to find that girl, that morning, on that street.’

  Cat smiled her first genuine smile. ‘Natalia was daydreaming and didn’t notice me approach. Then she looked at me with those eyes and I was sold. She was vulnerable. She’d had a tough life.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It was as if she was running from something, or someone. Growing up poor in Ivanovo with its brutal winters, I mean, she was tougher than she looked but she struggled over here. You see it with girls who are scouted in poor areas. Some take to their new lives just fine, but others . . .’ Cat stared into her glass.

  I gave her a moment, then leaned forward in my chair. ‘Do you know why Natalia stopped tweeting? Her account was still active but she never posted anything after 16 August.’

  Cat sighed. ‘No, and it was something I spoke to her about repeatedly. Our models are contractually obliged to use social media as much as possible. Brands look at models’ Twitter followers before their portfolios nowadays. But Natalia was reluctant. I wondered if she was self-conscious about her English.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why she ran out on me yesterday?’

  Cat shook her head. ‘No, and I don’t know why she was in such a state last night. I’ve been going over it since the police called. I hadn’t seen her for a week or so.’ She checked the leather-bound diary on the desk in front of her. ‘She flew to New York on 5 February for fittings, then she came back on the 9th because her schedule was free. I touched base with her a couple of times but she seemed fine. I wish she had come to me with whatever was bothering her.’ Cat wiped her tearless eye with a red fingernail. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s my job to take care of these girls.’

  I shifted in my seat. My time was almost up.

  ‘Do you know if Natalia signed up to a dating website that matches Eastern European women with British men?’

  Cat looked surprised. ‘You mean like those weird mail-order brides? I have no idea. God, I hope not.’

  ‘One last thing. Do you have a number for Natalia’s flatmate, Eva Kaminski?’

  Cat arched an eyebrow. ‘She’s not one of my girls, but it’s a company-wide policy not to give out our clients’ contact details. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think you’ve had quite enough of my time.’

  I pushed my business card across the desk. ‘Could you give Eva my number? Please. I just want to talk. And if you think of anything else, I’d really appreciate your call.’

  Cat studied my card. ‘And none of this is going in the paper?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want it to. I meant what I said. You can trust me. I want to find out who killed Natalia and that’s all. I’m not in the business of sensationalising stories. I leave that to the gutter press.’

  The revolving door spat me out into the bracing cold. The air pressed down like a wet rug, and the sound of a nearby drill chomping through wet tarmac nearly split my head in two. An amber light glowed in the distance and I put a weary arm up to hail the cab.

  ‘Bywater Street, please.’ I sank into the leather seat and closed my eyes, while all around me the city protested noisily in the fading light.

  8

  The taxi pulled up outside a little enclave of pastel Victorian houses and I hurried up the steps to number 7. Home. I paused in the hallway listening to the faint ticking of the grandfather clock, inhaling the woody scent of oak floorboards warmed by radiators and the ghosts of suppers past. I kicked off my shoes and padded through to the kitchen. I switched on the TV, then turned it off again as my mind drifted. Marble-white neck. Piebald skin. Streaks of blood, lighter around the edges. Mangled flesh and Rose Blossom. I gulped down a glass of water, then sprinted to the bathroom. I only just made it. Hot, yellow bile poured out of me. I sank to the floor, squashed between the toilet and
the wall, feeling sorry for myself.

  I heard the front door open.

  ‘Soph?’ Poppy’s voice, husky with a slight lisp.

  ‘In here.’ I had just finished rinsing my mouth out when my housemate’s head poked round the door. The wet weather had blown her chestnut bob into straggly waves. Her face, angular with a strong nose, was offset by a pretty laughing mouth, as if she’d heard the punchline a second before everyone else.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Rough day?’

  ‘Mmm.’ I wiped my hands on the towel.

  Poppy helped me into the kitchen, where I hoisted myself up onto the counter and watched her make tea. She was tall and big-boned but graceful.

  ‘Last night I dreamed you moved to Albuquerque.’ She pulled two mugs out of the cupboard, chuckling. ‘You stuck your head round my bedroom door, all casual, and said the Albuquerque Times had offered you a job.’

  I smiled in spite of myself. ‘And you just let me go?’

  ‘I told you to say hi to Walter White and went back to sleep. I need to stop watching Breaking Bad. Honestly, the other day someone asked me what I enjoyed cooking and my first thought was crystal meth. Here . . .’ She pushed a mug of tea across the counter, watching me. ‘You looked better in my dream. You weren’t quite so . . . pukey and grey.’

  ‘Albuquerque doesn’t sound so bad right now.’

  Poppy looked at me with wary eyes. ‘You didn’t come home last night.’

  I took a sip. My throat was raw from vomiting and the hot tea burned. ‘I swear to God. If our neighbour had the volume up any louder we could ditch our TV licence and use hers.’