Chapter Three #3
Sam places her knife and fork together and dabs her mouth with her napkin.
So, Denver could be a serial killer who murdered Charlotte; he could be a real killer who did not kill Charlotte but inspired a copycat; or he could have made the whole thing up and simply be a distraction.
Any of the three options are equally possible at this stage.
The pub is getting busy and loud, but Sam still has no desire to return to her lonely home in Clapham, so she orders herself a mocktail.
Sam’s never been a drinker—she’s always considered the drunk detective too much of a cliché.
The one time she allowed herself to let her hair down was when she and her ex-colleague commiserated over a grisly cold case they couldn’t get reopened.
The night that Phil Lowry accidentally bought a whole bottle for her, instead of a single glass. She should have seen it coming.
Sam takes a slow sip of her virgin drink, savoring the fruitiness, and pulls Charlotte’s file from her bag.
The file should never leave the office, strictly speaking, and she takes care that no one else is close enough to see as she pushes the envelope marked “Crime Scene Photos” aside and begins to read the front-page summary.
Charlotte Mathers was walking home when she was killed.
Charlotte went to her friend Jessica Patel’s house every Thursday after netball practice and Nigel Mathers usually collected his daughter at 8 p.m. sharp.
On the night in question, Nigel had fallen asleep and failed to arrive, even after numerous missed calls from his daughter.
When her dad didn’t show, Charlotte had told her friend she would simply walk the thirty-minute route home.
Jessica said Charlotte was completely herself that evening, and confirmed that Nigel had failed to collect Charlotte a couple of times before and this always worried her, so she’d been eager to get home.
Jessica’s older brother, Jamil, backed up his sister’s statement, saying that Charlotte left their house on foot at around 9 p.m.
“So no one knew Charlotte would be in Holland Park that night,” Sam says quietly to herself.
She loads up Google Maps and traces the route from Jessica Patel’s house to Palace Gardens, where the Mathers live.
Charlotte would have saved maybe fifteen minutes by cutting through the park.
She remembers walking down the shady passageway alongside Holland Park after her session with Dr. Thomson; Charlotte must have been so scared, venturing into the park alone.
The girl no doubt consoled herself that it was just after sunset and there were still people around.
Sam swallows hard and takes another sip to wash away the lump in her throat.
Nigel reported Charlotte missing at 4:35 a.m. on Friday morning when he woke up and discovered his daughter was not in her bed.
He called the Patels’ home at 4:28 a.m. and immediately dialed 999 once they told him his daughter had walked home the night before.
Charlotte’s body was found in the early hours of Friday morning by a dog walker.
It’s always a dog walker, Sam thinks. She inhales deeply and rubs her eyes.
Charlotte was just fourteen. A hot anger rises in her stomach and she gulps a large mouthful of her drink to cool it.
Sam’s fourteenth year had been the worst of her life, but Charlotte looked happy in her photo.
She deserved so much more. She was just walking home.
“I’ll get you, you bastard,” Sam murmurs, running the back of her hand across her top lip.
Next, she reads the initial forensics report. It’s not very long because there’s little to go on. Two sets of footprints were found at the scene. One was Charlotte’s size-seven school shoes and the other was a man’s boot, size twelve.
“Poor kid.” Sam finishes the last of her drink.
She rolls over the details of the case again as she walks back along Craven Passage.
Every few steps, she casts a glance over her shoulder.
A murderer is roaming the streets of this city and she analyzes the face of every man she passes, looking for traces of evil, any indication that he could kill.
The tightness in her chest lingers, but she feels a renewed determination to bring another predator down—to stop this man before he can strike again.
I can do this, she tells herself. I will find him.
A scruffy little dog is tied to a drainpipe on the corner and Sam watches its skinny frame shivering pitifully as she waits to cross the road.
It looks up at her imploringly from under wiry eyebrows.
You don’t want to come with me, pal, she thinks, I can barely look after myself.
The dog whines and strains toward her, stretching its raggedy rope.
“Sorry, little one,” Sam says as she turns her back on the mutt and walks away, assuaging her guilt by resolving to call the RSPCA the second she gets home and charges her phone.
She yearns for a cup of tea and an hour of vintage Only Fools and Horses—her version of self-care.
But tonight she has a date with a wall of washing machines at the laundrette on Clapham High Street.
She decides she’ll take How to Get Away with Murder along and try to make progress with it as she watches her undies splash around in lather.
She’ll add to her notes and use page markers, as she’d seen her trainee doing earlier.
The thought of him brings guilt with it, so she pushes his image out of her mind and picks up her pace.
Sam’s almost to the tube when she hears the sound of footsteps behind her.