Chapter Seven
The dog shakes uncontrollably in the lift, and the moment the doors open, he drags Sam out on to the fourth floor.
It’s largely empty, save for a few tired-looking officers at desks, who Sam suspects have been here all night.
They don’t bat an eyelid as she fills the kettle and lifts the dog on to the sofa.
“Aw, who’s this?” Chloe Spears comes over and pats him on the head.
“This is little … erm…” Sam stutters. “The cleaners are in at home, and we have an appointment at the vet’s in an hour, so I just thought…
” Sam shrugs, takes a seat next to the little dog and checks her work emails as she waits for her tea to cool.
There’s one from HR, inviting her to “Well-being Wednesday.” She rolls her eyes and archives it.
Her heart skips a little when she sees a message from Claire, the linguist she’d worked with on a case years ago and who has agreed to help.
Subject: Initial Thoughts
Hi Sam,
I’ve done an initial read of How to Get Away with Murder and you’ll have my report by end of next week. I wanted to send you my preliminary thoughts and let you know straight away that I believe we can tentatively conclude that Denver grew up in northeast England. This is because:
1. In his chapter about Jono, Denver claims he was wearing a black cats T-shirt. Most readers would take this to mean a top featuring black cats. However, the Black Cats is a nickname for Sunderland AFC.
2. Denver’s uncle says “nowt as queer as folk,” which is common parlance in the North East. Other northern phrases such as “dinner nanny” are also used.
3. When describing making a cup of tea, Denver uses the word “mast” instead of “brew.” This is an odd lexical variant I’ve not encountered before. I suspect it could be a mishearing of “mash” (Yorkshire) that has grown in isolated usage within a tiny pocket of a northern county over generations.
4. I’m noticing a strange use of title case, too. For example: Big River and Still of the Night. I can’t explain this yet, but I’m bringing it to your attention in case these words crop up elsewhere in your investigation.
More from me soon,
Claire
Sam quickly forwards Claire’s email to Taylor and Tina, then sits, chewing her lip and thinking.
Northumbria Police is the largest branch in the North East, both in terms of the population they serve and geographical area they cover—some two-thousand-plus square miles, including the city of Sunderland.
Sam opens her “Who is Denver Brady?” list and reads down it.
Then she opens a browser and types “Where was Mary Ann Cotton from?” She scans the page and sees that Britain’s most prolific female serial killer of all time worked as a nurse in Sunderland, although she lived in small villages all over Tyne and Wear and was born in County Durham.
Could it be that Denver was so upset by the suggestion that Mary was innocent because she’s the only serial killer from his hometown?
Sam checks the database. The victim searches have turned up nothing so far, and while she hasn’t given up hope entirely, it wouldn’t normally take this long.
She decides to try things the old-fashioned way and types a quick message to Taylor telling him to call Durham, Cleveland and Northumbria and enlist their help identifying any potential real-life Denver victims.
She glances at her watch and gives the little dog a gentle stroke to wake him up—it’s time for the vet’s.
He’s modeling a perfect downward-dog stretch, almost ready to move, when Chloe suddenly hops out of her chair and grabs the remote for the communal television, turning the volume as loud as it will go.
Sam freezes in place: the press conference is beginning.
On screen, Nigel Mathers cries deep, racking sobs.
“God, my heart just breaks for him,” Chloe groans. “You know his wife was killed in a hit-and-run when Charlotte was a baby? And now she’s gone, too.”
Sam steps toward the TV. Nigel looks even worse than he did on Monday, if that’s possible.
Sandwiched between Harry and Tina, his skin is ashen and his eyes hazed.
As he appeals for witnesses to his daughter’s murder, a map appears on the screen showing Charlotte’s route the night she was killed.
Actors appear, a reconstruction of Charlotte’s final movements.
There’s a pretty, ginger-headed girl wearing a green school uniform and walking down a footpath toward Holland Park, Nigel speaking all the while—the most heartbreaking voice-over Sam has ever heard.
“I just want it to unhappen,” he says, “but I … I know that can’t be, so finding him …
the monster who did this to my baby … my baby girl …
is all I can do for her. Please. Just please, if you know anything at all.
I have money. There will be an award … reward, I mean, reward. The police know about you, Denver—”
“Please,” Tina’s voice cuts Nigel off mid-sentence, “if you were in or around Holland Park at the time, call the Metropolitan Police.”
The reconstruction finishes and the camera zooms in on Tina giving out the number of the helpline for witnesses to call.
Sam imagines she can hear the phones ringing on the civilian desks already.
As Tina repeats the telephone number, Nigel’s voice can still be heard but it’s unclear what else he’s trying to say.
There’s a commotion off-camera and suddenly the angle shifts back to Nigel, who appears to be pushing Harry out of his chair and trying to pull something from inside his own jacket.
Does Nigel have a weapon? Alarm flashes through Sam as her godfather grabs at the tablecloth and sound equipment in an effort to maintain his balance.
Then Harry falls backwards, and a camera man steps into shot, trying to help him.
The camera pans wildly. Sometimes a flash of Tina, then Nigel, then a room full of startled journalists. Finally, it stabilizes. Nigel stands, shouting and waving something. It’s not a gun but he points it like one—at Edris, who says, “Please keep calm, Mr. Mathers,” in her slow, considered way.
Harry is signaling to someone to end the broadcast but the camera keeps rolling. Nigel leans forward to speak into Tina’s microphone but she quickly unplugs it.
Nigel’s mouth moves, but his words are too quiet for Sam to catch.
He turns and points the item in his hand at the gathered journalists, who are now on their feet, their questions flying through their own microphones.
Harry manages to wrestle the item from Nigel’s hand.
A book. Of course it’s a book, Sam thinks, feeling her stomach drop.
“Mr. Mathers, do you think your daughter is the victim of a serial killer?” a journalist calls out.
“Mr. Mathers, can you confirm that you’re accusing the Metropolitan Police of covering up an active serial killer investigation?”
“DI Edris, DCI Blakelaw, how do you respond to these allegations?”
Uniformed officers flood into the room from the side door but hover at the edge of the stage, looking to Harry.
Before he is escorted away, Nigel Mathers makes a dive for Harry, snatches the book back and tosses it to the nearest journalist. The camera follows Nigel’s grief-stricken face as he’s maneuvered off the stage and out of the room, yelling all the while.
Nigel’s words are inaudible to television viewers like Sam, but not to the room full of journalists who, she has no doubt, will print them on the front pages of the evening newspapers.
“Shit!” Sam mutters.
“Ma’am? Are you OK?” Taylor appears at her side.
Sam is surprised to find her trainee’s sudden presence reassuring, and her hand is steady as she points to the TV.
Taylor watches, his brows knitted tightly.
On the screen, the journalists are in a frenzy.
Tina Edris is frozen in her seat, her hands in a surrender position, desperately trying to calm the room with her quiet voice.
To the side of her, Harry is fumbling to plug his microphone back in.
“DCI Blakelaw,” calls a journalist, “Craig Walton for the Sun. Is there any foundation in Nigel Mathers’ accusations?”
“I know who you are, Craig,” snaps Harry. “Let’s not create unnecessary alarm here. Mr. Mathers is under enormous stress. Please have some compassion for the family.”
“DCI Blakelaw,” another journalist says, “for the record, is there an active serial killer in the UK right now? Today?”
“We have no reason to believe at present that the murder of Charlotte Mathers is connected to any other crimes. While this is something we never rule out, it is an ongoing investigation and I can’t comment further,” Harry says. The journalist tries again, not satisfied.
“So there might be a serial killer?” he calls.
“This is an ongoing—” Harry begins but more voices join the call.
“Is there a serial killer?”
“The public have a right to know!”
“What is the Met hiding?”
“Who is Denver Brady?”
“What measures are you taking to protect the public from this killer?”
“For heaven’s sake!” Harry spits, his face puce. “There is no serial killer. Be reasonable!”
“Oh, God,” Sam says, her hands clapping to her cheeks.
Why would Harry say that? How many times had he told her that you never say anything so unequivocal to the press?
Especially when it’s not true. Sam can’t believe he’s done something so stupid, with all his experience of handling the media, all of his years of service.
“DI Edris, can you confirm that no part of your investigation is exploring the possibility of a serial killer?” a second journalist asks. Tina Edris leans forward to speak into the microphone but Harry clasps his hand over the top of it.
“As I said, this is an ongoing investigation,” Harry says, uncovering the microphone so his own voice carries.
“We are here today to appeal for help from the public. We need witnesses who saw Charlotte that night, or any time in the days before, to come forward now. We are also appealing to anyone who thinks they know the killer. If you think you know the man who killed this young woman, please—”
“Child!” cries a journalist, but the word barely makes it through the hubbub.
“What about the book?” calls a journalist from the back of the room.
“Tell us about the book!” the journalists cry. Harry stands, followed by Tina, and they leave the stage. The television cuts back to a news anchor in the studio who looks stunned as she begins to tell the public what has occurred at the press conference.
“How did that happen?” Taylor asks, aghast.
“The Boss is in the shit now,” Chloe declares.
“Deep shit,” adds Sam, running her hands through her hair.
“The press is going to hit us like a hurricane in Kansas. I have a feeling you’ll all spend the rest of today answering phone calls and emails instead of hunting for Charlotte’s killer.
And the last thing we needed was all eyes on Denver before we even know if he’s actually for real or not. ”
“Do you want some good news, ma’am?” Taylor asks. Sam’s eyes snap to meet his, which are glinting. He’s grinning. Something’s happened.
“What, Taylor?” she asks, finding herself returning his smile. “You’ve enrolled in tea-making classes and henceforth your brews will be passable?” He gives a genuine, heartfelt laugh. It’s a pleasant sound that Sam realizes she’s not heard before.
“Even better than that,” Taylor responds gamely. “I found the place that printed Denver’s book. It’s a firm called Swinton’s Printers, based in Brighton of all places.”
“Taylor, that’s brilliant work,” she beams.
“I’ve been in touch with Sussex Police and they’ve been to the home of Rob Swinton, the owner. A bit of a one-man band, I think. Anyway, his neighbor claims that Rob left the country over a week ago. No idea where he’s gone and they don’t know yet whether it’s just a holiday or if he’s on the run.”
“Well done, Taylor,” Sam smiles, though she can’t help but feel disappointed that they can’t drive out and question this Rob Swinton immediately. “This could be a real breakthrough.”