Saving Sophie: A compulsively twisty psychological thriller that will keep you gripped to the very last page. Sam Carrington
‘You lost, Sophie? You look to distance in daze.’ Irina’s once thick East European accent was diluting by the day to Sophie’s ears. ‘No Amy?’ She spread her hands, pushed her mouth down at the corners.
Sophie shook her head. ‘It’s not looking good for her turning up now, is it?’ She turned her attention to Irina. Half of her wanted to tell her about Saturday, get her thoughts. The other half didn’t want to go into it with her; it was Amy she needed to speak with.
‘She ill?’
‘Possibly. She did send a Facebook message though, said she’d be in.’ Sophie fidgeted with her fingers, Irina wincing at the sound of cracking knuckles.
‘Come now. Tell Irina all about it. Something not right with you today.’ Her dark eyes looked into Sophie’s, searching. Ten years Sophie’s senior, Irina had good instincts when it came to deciphering Sophie’s feelings.
Sophie smiled and put her hand on Irina’s forearm. ‘Thanks, but I can’t. If I start talking about it now, I’ll just cry and then I’m bound to get a customer immediately.’
‘Ha. Have you seen it?’ Irina swept her arm in front of her. ‘Place dead today.’ She accentuated the word ‘dead’. Sophie shuddered, closing her eyes tight.
‘What the matter?’
‘Really, Irina, it’s been a dreadful weekend.’ Her voice caught, her eyes blurred. She blinked rapidly.
‘Oh no, sorry, Sophie. What happened?’
‘A friend was … my friend …’ Sophie wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.
Irina pulled out a tissue from the sleeve of her dress, handed it to Sophie. ‘It clean.’
‘She was killed, Irina. Murdered.’
Irina’s hand flew to her mouth, then to her chest. ‘No way. How? Where?’
‘Here. Coleton. She was found …’ Sophie swallowed hard. ‘In the wasteland, you know, just off the roundabout before Shafters.’
‘No. Way,’ Irina repeated, her face blanched. ‘Which friend?’
‘It … it was Erin.’ A small sob burst from her, setting off the inevitable chain reaction. Irina moved in, enveloping Sophie in a tight hug, containing her shuddering body within her wiry arms.
A breezy, casual voice interrupted the embrace. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have come in.’
Sophie’s head snapped up, she pulled away from Irina. ‘Amy.’ Her voice cracked, her face crumpling again. Seeing her friend now, the first time since she’d believed her to be dead, resulted in the response she’d expected when she’d first been told about the discovery of the body. Delayed reaction was a bitch, she concluded.
A trickle of customers made their way towards them. Sophie hurried to the customer changing cubicles, checked her face in the full-length mirror, then returned to the counter with a wide, fake smile. The potential customers thankfully walked on by Sophie’s department, heading for Irina’s.
‘I’ll check back on you as soon as I can.’ She rubbed Sophie’s forearm, then rushed back to her concession, leaving Amy standing facing Sophie.
‘I’m so glad you’re okay,’ Sophie placed the palm of her hand on her chest, ‘I thought … everyone thought it was you, Amy.’
‘I know, I know.’ Amy made no move to reach out to Sophie, no hug, no trademark air kiss. ‘I had no idea of all the drama, you know how it is.’ She smiled. ‘I bumped into Jonathan after you left and one thing led to another.’
‘Jonathan from the dating site? I haven’t even met this guy yet.’ Sophie searched Amy’s eyes.
‘Yes, him. And you will, I’m sure.’ She gave a coy smile. ‘Anyway, best get to my counter before Boss Man lays into me. I’ll catch you later, at lunch.’ Before Sophie could continue, Amy swanned off. She noted her friend’s appearance was less than the usual perfect today, so, despite the perceived lack of interest or concern, it had obviously affected her. Erin and Amy weren’t – hadn’t been – the closest of friends, certainly not like Sophie and Amy, and there had been tension between the two, but surely she was feeling just as gutted as her about this.
Erin. Murdered. Sophie still couldn’t get her head around that. Being here felt surreal, Erin being dead just not credible. And now Amy was distant, behaving oddly. Nothing made any sense any more. Nothing added up.
Erin Malone had been on Lindsay’s mind since the post-mortem. She would be now until the case was successfully closed, the murderer safely locked up. Even then she’d remain a permanent echo, her face one of a number that would be lodged within her long-term memory. Having studied the photographs her mother had provided, Lindsay could see that Erin had been pretty in life. But now, in death, the mask of fear had transformed her features, the array of post-mortem photos depicting a different Erin. Lindsay was drawn repeatedly to the girl’s bloodshot eyes. They held the image of her killer, the last thing she’d seen in this life.
Lindsay skipped breakfast, always did, she needed only coffee to kickstart her day – a large cafetiere of the stuff. She drained the last of it from her mug and slouched back, sinking into her oversized comfy armchair. The one item of her dad’s she’d managed to save from that woman he’d married during his last year of life. The cow had taken every other thing he owned: possessions, money, his house. The lot. Money-grabbing old bag.
She leant forward, re-spreading the photos on the coffee table. There really wasn’t much to go on. The post-mortem confirmed the cause of death as asphyxiation: the bloodshot eyes; the split skin at the corners of the mouth where an item, as yet unknown, had been forced inside; the purplish colour to her skin. Because of the weather conditions and the crime scene itself – Erin’s body stripped naked and left in the marshy land – the discovery of latent prints or DNA had been doubtful. To make matters worse, the pathologist had found traces of bleach. The killer had been careful, organised. Despite Lindsay being glad there was no sign of a sexual attack, this too meant there was no DNA evidence.
The only silver lining had been the fibres taken from under Erin’s fingernails. There was an outside chance they could be from material she was wrapped in to transport her body from the murder scene to the dumping ground, or from the boot of a car or the killer’s clothes. All three would be a bonus, give them something helpful to go on. Lindsay prayed the fibres weren’t merely from Erin’s own clothes, which hadn’t been recovered. There had been no skin – it seemed she hadn’t put up a fight against her abductor. Maybe she’d been drugged, or rendered unconscious. The toxicology report might give them a fuller picture when it came back.
Lindsay was due to make a public appeal later. She had confidence someone would come forward with information. Plus, there was the group of teenagers that were out with Erin on Saturday night. They must know something of significance, either from the night itself, or in relation to Erin’s background – they needed to be reinterviewed.
Currently, these two avenues were their best hope. And with the killer still at large, she needed to act quickly.
Karen sipped the coffee, her hands wrapped around the mug, the warmth comforting her. Anxiety attack number one of the day had subsided,