Chapter Three
Sam’s desk is clean and clear, which means someone has been told to ready it for her return.
New log-ins have been written neatly on a Post-it adhered to the bottom of her monitor and when she opens the top drawer she finds a packet of chocolate Hobnobs and another note, saying Welcome back, Samantha.
The use of her full name suggests that whoever Harry asked to write it is new to the floor.
Her trainee, perhaps. There’s a brand-new work phone for her, which she turns on and finds fully charged and ready to use.
Sam sits back in her chair and takes in her surroundings.
This room was the center of Past Sam’s world—her raison d’être, the place she felt most alive.
Now, Present Sam notices the cheap carpet, the battered binders that have overflowed from shelves, on to the floor.
A room so loud that she can barely hear herself think.
Not everyone here is police, many of them are civilian indexers who type away all day long, their fingers flying at an unholy speed for barely a living wage.
“So young,” Sam whispers quietly to herself. “So lovely.”
“Why, thank you.”
A voice from behind makes Sam turn in her chair.
She finds herself confronted by a flawless, smiling face.
He puts her in mind of those cookie-cutter-perfect young men that used to be splashed across the cover of Smash Hits magazine and swooned over.
From his stylish boat shoes to his boy-band curtains and everything in between, he is polished and groomed to model standards.
He grins at his own joke as Sam rises gracelessly to her feet.
“My new TDC, I presume?” She’s pleased to register the surprise in his blue eyes when her long bones bring her up to his level. She straightens to her full six-foot height.
“Yes, indeed,” he beams and offers a hand, which Sam ignores.
“Adam Taylor, your Trainee Detective Constable, reporting for duty. I’m new on this floor,” he says, eyeing their surroundings like a child at a fairground.
“I’ve never been in the Holmes Room before.
Wow, this place is incredible. I’ve just come over from the Community Safety Unit.
This is my second placement as part of the new entry program. I’ve heard a lot about—”
“Ma’am,” she interrupts.
“Pardon?” Taylor asks, in his perfect RP, his smile beginning to falter.
“You need to say ma’am,” Sam says. “Reporting for duty, ma’am. Or better yet, a simple Yes, ma’am. I’ve no need for your verbosity, Taylor. Nor your personal history. Nor your bad jokes.”
A crimson flush creeps up the young man’s smooth throat. Sam’s never enjoyed pulling rank or chastising people before, but something about his ill-timed quip and too-easy smile has sent heat through her.
“In fact,” she continues, stepping deliberately into his personal space, “I’ve no need of anything from you right now, Taylor, save your tea-making skills—which I hope are up to standard? No sugar. A little milk. Most importantly, a clean cup, washed by your own, beautifully manicured hands.”
Taylor’s jaw slackens and he stares unbelievingly at Sam, who stares right back. After a moment, he straightens, closes his mouth and sucks in a breath.
“Yes. Of course. Tea. Yes,” he stammers.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam corrects again.
“Yes, ma’am,” Taylor mumbles.
The young man starts toward the kitchenette, and Sam notices some of the other staff turning away to conceal their smiles.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Sam thinks, before raising her voice and adding, “TDC Taylor?” The young man turns.
“While the tea’s brewing, you can take yourself down to the lower basement and borrow some footwear that conforms to police uniform code SL354.
Unless Christian Louboutin has started reinforcing the toes in his loafers? ”
Taylor’s face now perfectly matches the soles of his ￡750 shoes.
A few officers near by chuckle, without looking away from their monitors, knowing full well that there is no code SL354, and no lower basement in the building, either.
Taylor nods and hurries away. When the young man is out of range, Sam slumps exhausted into her chair.
Where did that even come from? she wonders.
A wave of guilt washes over her. I’ve got to be better than that.
She promises herself she’ll start afresh as soon as he gets back.
Straightening in her chair, she opens the brown case file that Harry gave her and scans the documents.
Charlotte Mathers’ picture is clipped to the inside of the cover—a different one from the one on the whiteboard; a professional school photograph.
She forces herself to breathe as she takes in every detail.
Her finger traces the girl’s pale cheeks.
Charlotte’s smile reaches up to her green eyes in a way that Sam knows is missing from her own school photographs when she was this age.
Charlotte must have been truly happy at the moment the camera snapped this shot.
Charlotte wears a green uniform, beaded with gold, an understated 18-carat Rolex on her wrist. Her curly red hair reminds Sam of Merida from the Disney movie Brave. Sam’s vision blurs as tears rim her eyes. She wipes at them before they have a chance to spill on to her cheeks, or on to Charlotte’s.
She flips to the file’s summary page. Murdered by strangulation.
No evidence of sexual assault. Time of death between 10 p.m. and midnight on Thursday.
Just hours before Sam’s meeting with Dr. Thomson, less than ten minutes away from Holland Park.
The child’s body was posed, as if sleeping, against the trunk of an oak tree, beneath a carved love heart containing her initials and those of an unknown person: CM + DB.
Sam does not open the envelope marked “Crime Scene Photos.” There’s no way she can handle that today.
Instead, she opens a fresh notebook and writes “Who is Denver Brady?” at the top of the page.
Then she reaches for How to Get Away with Murder.
Then she reaches for How to Get Away with Murder and turns it over in her hands, as if considering it in a bookstore.
Denver, or whoever he hired to design the cover, has done a decent job.
A textured red, the color not of fresh, but of slightly dried blood.
The center section on the front torn away, giving a tempting glimpse of the pages beneath.
The title, prominent in a classic serif font with a single splattered droplet over the i.
It’s definitely the kind of book she’d have bought for herself, before her world fell apart.
She takes a deep breath, opens to page one and begins to read …
My name is Denver Brady, and I am a serial killer.
By late afternoon, Sam is only three chapters in. She remembers a time when she could fly through a book the size of this one in a single sitting. Now, though, she’s moving at a snail’s pace, unable to concentrate and having to read most sentences twice. It’s grueling.
Denver’s grimly detailed description of his murder of a boy has left Sam with a tight feeling in her chest that she knows will build into something debilitating if she doesn’t manage it.
She marvels at the effect the words of others can have; even through pages, Denver has made her feel sick.
It’s the way he sexualizes Jono’s murder, coupled with his compelling voice and vivid description.
One line in particular circles in Sam’s mind: Denver’s eerie comment about the buoyancy of fresh water, which echoes what her mother used to say to her as a little girl.
There’s something about hearing her lovely mum’s words from the mouth of a murderer that leaves Sam reeling.
She glances down at the list in her notebook.
Who is Denver Brady?
Grew up in a “village” with a market square and a library.
Lived (lives?) near a quarry with a shale floor. Could mean a limestone, sandstone, clay or shale quarry.
Had a cousin called Bobby. Could be Robert or Robin.
Friends: Jono/Gordie—could be John or Jonathan/Gordon or George.
Thinks Mary Ann Cotton is innocent and is angry about that—why?
Sam needs to take a break from Denver for a while, but the last thing she wants is to stop pushing forward with her investigation.
She decides she’ll bring herself up to speed with the provisional interviews the homicide team will have conducted.
That way, she’s making progress for Charlotte, while still looking out for herself.
Besides, being au fait with the details of Charlotte’s life and murder will help her spot connections if and when she comes across them in Denver’s book.
Sam powers up her computer terminal, navigates to Charlotte’s digital case folder and finds the interview videos.
She clicks on the first file and puts on a headset so she can listen.
The girl being interviewed identifies herself as Jessica Patel.
Even though Sam can only see the backs of their heads, she doesn’t think she knows the officers conducting the interview: a blond-haired Detective Constable—perhaps the officer Sam encountered in Holland Park? —and a male officer.
“For the purposes of today, Jessica,” the blond officer says, “you can call me Chloe. You don’t need to say DC Spears, okay?” Jessica nods, her hands twisting inside one another on the steel table.
“How old are you, Jessica?” DC Spears asks.
“Thirteen years, ten months, two weeks and six days,” she says.
“I’m in Year 9 at school. So is Charlotte, but she’s older than me.
” Jessica looks back at the woman sitting close behind her, presumably her mother.
To Jessica’s left is an older man wearing a turban, who must be the family’s solicitor.