Chapter Nine
The second Taylor opens the door to the headquarters of Northumbria Police and Sam enters, a man of indiscernible age steps forward and introduces himself as DI Neil Duggan.
He looks windswept, despite being indoors, and his shirt is hanging out on one side.
His accent is broad, and somewhat soothing, although she has to concentrate to understand him fully.
Sam apologizes for their lateness, explaining that the train was delayed.
“Aye, the trains are chaos,” Duggan says as they sign in and follow him through the building. “Beeching’s Axe swung hard in the North,” he adds, but Taylor only shrugs when Sam sends him a questioning glance. She decides not to seek clarification.
They sit in a small but clean and modern meeting room and Duggan brings them each a frothy coffee from a machine in the corridor.
“We’ve only five minutes,” Duggan says, slurping his own drink.
“Then Tweedy will be here and he waits for no man, or woman, so I’ll have to catch you afterward.
I canna tell you how Betty has haunted me.
I spent hours on the application to reopen the case.
I spent days on the forms. Went down to London and did the presentation to the board.
All in my own time and at my own expense, too.
The DCI isn’t very … er … supportive of going over old ground.
Especially given that Betty is Durham’s case, and I transferred here a decade back.
All DCIs care about these days is improving on last year’s statistics.
” Duggan shakes his head but then smiles, his entire face lifting.
“I can’t believe I’ve done it—got Betty’s case reopened. You’re finally here.”
Taylor clears his throat awkwardly and Sam takes a sip of her coffee before asking, “To reopen Betty’s case?”
“Aye.” Duggan’s brow wrinkles. “You lot are from the cold-case review team, aren’t you? The new team of…” He lets his words die as Sam shakes her head. “Well, what then?”
“We’re part of the Charlotte Mathers investigation,” Sam says. “A child who was—”
“Aye, I watch the news.” He leans forward: “But, how’s that…? So, is Betty’s case reopened or not?”
“DI Duggan,” Sam says, “I’m sorry, but we’re investigating a possible connection to Charlotte’s murder.
A book by a man named Denver Brady, How to Get Away with Murder, describes Betty’s murder and has another murder in it that is incredibly similar to Charlotte’s.
A copy of that book was also found among Charlotte’s possessions at the crime scene. ”
Duggan just stares, unblinking. Sam shifts in her seat and Taylor clicks his pen.
“I did send over all of the…” Taylor begins, but Sam shakes her head sadly. It won’t comfort the man to know that the full outline of their visit was in the late-night email he’d clearly not read in full.
“So, Betty’s case.” Duggan folds forward, rubbing his hands through his hair, making it stick up even more than it was. “You’re kind of looking at it because it’s in that serial killer book that was on the telly. But you’re not really investigating—”
A sharp rap on the door and the entry of a young woman in civilian attire ends the conversation.
They’re bustled down corridors toward another meeting room, where they’re told the pathologist is waiting for them.
Duggan mumbles something and disappears.
Sam’s head begins to throb and she swallows two ibuprofen.
She glances at Taylor, who looks ghostly pale.
“Taylor,” she whispers, as they follow the young woman down some stairs, “you can sit this one out if you want to. It might not be good for you to hear the grim—”
He shakes his head and she sees the determination in the set of his jaw. She understands it. Every police officer does. The need to see the case through, in spite of the personal toll.
Dr. Tweedy is everything the name suggests and is even wearing a green tweed jacket. If Sam wasn’t feeling drained already, she might smile at that. They each introduce themselves and she slurps her coffee, which tastes good but is doing very little to combat her exhaustion.
“I’ve read the chapter of How to Get Away with Murder that you emailed me, TDC Taylor,” Tweedy launches straight in.
“I need to tell you both up front that I am hugely concerned about this situation. Especially given what I saw on the news. That’s the only reason I agreed to such a last-minute meeting.
I will be writing to the Commissioner to voice my alarm. ”
“Why is that?” Sam asks, rubbing her brow.
“Haven’t you read my pathology report on Elizabeth Brown, DI Hansen?” Tweedy demands. “I emailed that first thing this morning. Ample time, considering the three hours you’ve just spent on a train.”
Sam feels her cheeks burn. Taylor tenses and leans forward, and she knows he’s about to take the blame and apologize.
“We’ve given your report a cursory review, Dr. Tweedy,” Sam jumps in, “but we’d prefer to hear it directly from you.”
“Very well,” Tweedy replies, clearly unconvinced. “In the case of Betty Brown, there was no forensic evidence linking the scene to a third party. Some fibers, but without clothing to compare them to, they were meaningless as they came from widely available items.”
“That’s very similar to Charlotte’s case,” Sam begins. “Our pathologist has found nothing useful that—”
“I’ll talk you through the facts of my case,” Tweedy interrupts, “and then I’m sure the reason that I’m so concerned will become obvious.
Betty Brown. Aged eighty-four years. Cause of death was blunt-force trauma to the skull.
The exact date and time of death are unclear but we believe Mrs. Brown was killed between 24 and 26 November 2007, in her own home.
As described in How to Get Away with Murder, the central heating in the home was turned up and the body wasn’t discovered for weeks, by which time decomposition was advanced and only an approximate time of death could be given.
The murder weapon was a heavy object of forget-me-not blue, unglazed ceramic, consistent with—”
“Betty’s Wedgwood clock. Just like in the book,” Taylor mutters.
“Yes. But that is where the accuracy ends, officers, and this is the reason I am so concerned.”
“How so?” Sam asks.
“According to Denver Brady’s book, Mrs. Brown was surprised when he removed a Bundy-esque papier-maché arm cast, then he immediately killed the victim by beating her skull with the aforementioned weapon—but that’s not what happened.”
“So what did happen?”
“Detectives, when you actually read the documentation that I’ve already sent to you, you’ll see that the accounts are contradictory on one important point. It is this single point that means I have never forgotten Betty Brown, nor has DI Duggan, and nor will you once you understand what went on.”
“That being…?” Sam presses, barely concealing her frustration. She pinches the top of her nose, focusing hard.
“Brady claims the victim died quickly, and was surprised by her attacker. He further claims that he removed Mrs. Brown’s rings postmortem and may have accidentally broken the phalanges—the fingers. The reality was, sadly for Mrs. Brown, rather different.”
“Spit it out,” Sam hisses, her head now throbbing too much for her to care about manners.
“Betty was tortured,” Dr. Tweedy says baldly.
“Tortured?” Taylor gasps, his pale face turning green about the edges. Sam looks quickly around the room for a bin, in case he vomits, then passes him a cup of water. “Tortured,” Taylor whispers again, his hands gripping his thighs under the table.
“Tortured,” Tweedy repeats. “Badly.”
Taylor leans forward, his hand brushing against Sam’s. She doesn’t pull away, but leaves the back of her hand resting against the side of his.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years as a pathologist. An old lady.
Tied to a chair and…” There’s a roaring in her ears and Sam feels Taylor’s hand pressing hard against hers.
He’s shaking. Their eyes meet and they interlace their fingers, holding tight as Tweedy goes on.
“Tortured. For at least an hour. Probably longer. All ten of Betty’s fingers were broken while she was alive—I could tell that from the hemorrhaging.
Each finger was bent back until it snapped.
She had strong bones for her age—mild osteoarthritis, but the fingers wouldn’t have broken easily.
Tearing to the vocal cords suggest that Betty screamed for—”
“Stop,” Sam says, as Taylor folds forward. She keeps a firm hold of his hand as he takes long, deep breaths.
The implication of what Tweedy has just said becomes clear to Sam as they sit in silence: Denver Brady is a liar. He lied about breaking Betty’s fingers accidentally. He lied about how many he broke. So, what else is he lying about?
“You’ll need to speak to DI Duggan,” Dr. Tweedy carries on, “but I believe he found family photographs of Betty that showed that she only ever wore two rings: a wedding band and an impressive star sapphire ring that had come down through her husband’s family. In which case, why would…”
“… Denver break all her fingers?” Taylor finishes, turning to Sam. Sweat coats his upper lip, and a strand of his sculpted hair has come loose and dangles over his face.
“For pleasure, Taylor. He broke her fingers because he enjoyed it,” she says, her voice a sad whisper. Taylor’s eyes widen. “I’m so sorry,” she says.
“A pathologist cannot speak as to motive. And I’m afraid you may be missing the bigger point here, Detectives,” Tweedy says.
Sam rolls her eyes. “And that is…?”
“How did Denver Brady know that any of Betty’s fingers were definitely broken?” Tweedy sits back in his chair. “That information was not revealed to the family or the press.”
“How could Denver know?” Taylor wonders aloud to himself, wiping his face with his free hand.