Saving Sophie: A compulsively twisty psychological thriller that will keep you gripped to the very last page. Sam Carrington
CHAPTER TEN
The picture was of her.
Her, wearing the clothes she’d worn last night. And it was no selfie. Sophie threw the phone on her bed, as if it had sent an electric shock through her fingertips. She stared at it, then shook her head a few times, screwing up her eyes, trying to remember. But there was nothing. Who had taken this, and where? What were they intending to do with it, and what ones were to follow?
Standing, feet planted, paralysed in the centre of her messy room, Sophie clenched and unclenched her fists, then clicked her knuckles: pulling down one finger at a time with the thumb of each hand until they cracked.
What should she do? Forcing herself to move forwards, she reached to pick up the phone. Her hands trembled. The picture was still visible. She had to face this, figure it out. Zooming in, she navigated the background in an attempt to see if anything was familiar. It seemed she was in a chair of some sort, legs splayed, slouched back. She guessed from the angle of her body that her head was thrown back; her hair was out of sight. Sophie turned the phone sideways to see it from a different perspective. Apart from the black dress and the blurry dark image on the ankle, which she’d assumed to be her snake tattoo, this photo could be of anyone.
A warm sensation flushed through her. Perhaps it wasn’t her. Any amount of girls had tattoos these days, you couldn’t even see if it was a snake or not. And black dresses weren’t exactly rare. This was someone’s idea of a sick joke. Probably one of the boys taking the piss; could’ve even been Photoshopped. With new-found optimism that it was a prank, Sophie sat down on her rumpled bed and searched the original email for clues as to which of her so-called friends she could thank for frightening her half to death.
It didn’t take long to realise she couldn’t identify the sender. The email address wasn’t a standard one. It looked ridiculously made up, certainly not one she recognised. It’d soon become obvious which of the boys had done it, though, they were incapable of keeping their mouths shut; they must be itching to send a text, Facebook message or tweet so everyone knew about their clever stunt. Oh, how funny they thought they were. Immature arseholes. It wasn’t funny at all, given the fact that Amy still hadn’t rocked up. It was getting worrying now; five thirty and still no sign. Even Amy would’ve slept off a hangover by now.
Sophie reluctantly accessed her Facebook page. Streams of status updates, but none from Amy; none from her friends saying ‘Amy’s back’. For Christ’s sake, Amy, where the hell are you? Sophie got up, her legs leaden with fatigue, and ventured slowly downstairs. Perhaps her mother knew something by now.
‘Have you heard?’ Her mum’s head snapped up the second she entered the room.
Sophie’s mouth dried in an instant. ‘No, what?’ Her voice cracked. Something bad has happened.
‘I meant, have you heard anything from Amy yet?’
‘Crikey, Mum.’ Sophie’s hand pressed into her chest as she let out a sharp hiss of air. ‘I thought you meant …’
‘Oh, no. Sorry. I spoke to Rachel just now, and she said Erin had been staying at her dad’s a lot at weekends – you didn’t tell me about Erin’s dad moving in with that woman by the way – how come?’
‘Mum. Get to the point.’ Sophie transferred her weight on to one leg and crossed her arms.
‘Right, well, I’m assuming they’re probably together – Erin and Amy – because Rachel said she hadn’t heard from Erin.’
‘Actually, that does make sense. Dan said everyone got to the club except Erin and Amy. Good. That will be it then.’ But saying the words didn’t reassure her. There seemed no logical reason why Amy would bother to walk to Erin’s dad’s when her own house was nearer to town. She wasn’t even convinced they would go home together. They weren’t the best of friends – Amy, being older, had come on to the scene later, after school, and had kind of replaced Erin; becoming Sophie’s new best friend. That had never sat well with Erin. But for now, it was a theory which Sophie was willing to believe.
‘That’s what I’m hoping, Sophie, yes. Although it doesn’t let you off the hook.’
No. She guessed as much. Her mother would be at her every day now, trying to get to the bottom of why she had no memory of the night, why she had ended up wandering the streets alone, what the taxi driver had done to her. It was going to be a nightmare. But, as long as they were all safe – her girls – she could take whatever hassle was headed her way. It could’ve been worse.
Bailey’s deep growl at the window diverted their attention. His ear-grating bark filled the room. Sophie followed her mum to see what had upset him. For the second time in as many nights, there was a police car parked outside the house.
Now what?
The brisk wind had whipped debris up, swirled it around and scattered the remains over a wide area. Even without the inclusion of the body, the scene looked as though a frenzied attack had taken place. DI Lindsay Wade surveyed the marshy land from behind the crime scene tape. The rash abandonment of burger boxes, paper, plastic bottles, leftover food; people’s rubbish, discarded without a care. An ideal place to dump a body, and first appearances suggested the young woman, too, had been discarded without a second thought. She’d been left for someone else to clear up like the remnants of a meal enjoyed, but ultimately not worthy to be taken home – not even worthy of being disposed of with consideration.
When Lindsay had left for work nine hours ago, a murder wasn’t on her list of possible cases. In a professional capacity it could be a good opportunity to show the DCI what she was capable of. And on a personal level it would mean she could divert all her time and effort into something other than her miserable home life. She stood still, hands in trouser pockets, biting the inside of her cheek. She wanted to take in the wider area before donning the white paper suit and going in. SOCO were busying themselves with securing the scene, protecting it and the evidence which lay there. Evidence that had the power to tell the story, and lead them to her killer.
The reports from those first on the scene, though, and the initial statement from the man who’d found her when his dog had strayed from the path, made it clear that this was the secondary crime scene. Lindsay knew the primary scene probably held the best clues – they needed to find it soon. With the vastness of this wasteland, which ran alongside the industrial park, and given the weather conditions, she had little confidence of the evidence here yielding much. As it stood, all hopes lay with the body itself.
The day was ending, the cloudy sky darkening rapidly.
There was at least hope of identifying the victim quickly. The description fit the missing person reported moments before she’d left for the scene. A family was soon to receive the worst news possible. When Lindsay joined the police service ten years ago she’d considered herself tough; not easily shaken – but she’d come to find that relaying news of a death was the hardest part of her job. Her stomach twisted.
She was going to hand this girl’s family a life sentence.
They sat, stiff, pillar-like in the lounge. Her mum wrung her hands together. Her dad stared straight ahead, face