Chapter Ten #2
“The little … scallywags.” The woman scowls and Sam smiles. “By the way, that bank in Cardiff came back. I’ve forwarded you the email. And, er, DC Chen asked me to tell you that was cloned within hours of him taking down the original site. It’s live and selling again. Sorry.”
“Oh God, no.” Sam pulls up the website on her phone. There’s a huge SOLD OUT label across the button to add the physical book to the basket, and the ebook has tripled in price. Denver has even added “As Seen On TV” and a screenshot of the press conference. His audacity takes Sam’s breath away.
“Chen said it’s now being hosted abroad and it’ll take him at least a week—”
“Ugh,” Sam groans, resting her forehead in her hands. When she looks up again, the woman has decided to deploy that quintessentially British strategy universally implemented during times of crisis: she’s put the kettle on for more tea.
Sam smiles her thanks, then opens her email.
There are more new messages than she can count, and she scans down until she spots the one she’s looking for.
As the Cardiff bank statement loads, she twirls the little netball in her hand and sips the tea.
It’s not good—far too much milk, and the cup is chipped beyond salvation. She takes another sip anyway.
As soon as the document comes into view, she knows it’s another mule account, this time owned by a Mrs. Gladys Bryn.
It receives the money each Monday from Drew Mackay’s Scottish student account and empties every Tuesday into a third.
Sam winces when she sees how the revenue from the website has shot up to five figures since the press conference. She takes a long drink.
“Oh no,” she moans to no one, as she spots that the money going out of Gladys Bryn’s account is being sent to a “KY” international bank.
A quick internet search confirms her suspicion—it’s an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.
A dead end, unless they can identify the UK bank account receiving the sums back from offshore, which would be like finding a needle in an ocean-sized haystack.
Sam rubs her forehead and emails South Wales Police, asking them to visit Gladys Bryn.
It’s slim, but there’s a chance the woman could know something useful.
Sighing, Sam pulls the book that’s causing this whole nightmare from her bag, trying to find the place she left off.
Just as she picks up from the sentence she last read, she sees Tina Edris marching straight for her.
Sam tenses and rises to her feet. She looks around for Taylor, but he’s left the room, probably to interview another Denver wannabe.
Tina barely comes up to Sam’s neck, but she’s formidable and she’s not happy.
The upshot of her long rant is that she’s deduced that Sam has not yet looked at the crime scene photographs nor finished reading the book at the center of their now-joint case, and is demanding that Sam marches upstairs to HR and tells them she can’t handle being SIO.
So much of Sam knows that Tina is right—wasn’t she just thinking the same?—but, hearing it from someone else, her old defiance stirs. “I think Harry really believes I can do this,” she replies, with much more conviction than she feels.
Tina stares at her. “I’m sorry, Detective Inspector Hansen, but DCI Blakelaw has only made you joint SIO because he needs plenty of heads in line to roll before his own. He’s lining us up like Henry the Eighth did with his wives. I bet this isn’t the first time he’s—”
Before Sam has time to process her thoughts, anger spews from her mouth. “You’re lucky I only joined you as SIO and didn’t replace you, Tina. You’ve made no progress for Charlotte. No suspects. Maybe your head should roll!” she hisses.
Tina’s nostrils flare. “Seeing and saying the truth requires courage, which is what I—at least—have,” she growls. “This DCI isn’t on our side, or Charlotte’s. He’s only out for himself, whether you’re brave enough to face it or not.” She turns on her heel and storms away.
Sam curses under her breath, moving to stand by the window.
She watches as the brown water of the Thames churns, the London Eye turns and the red double-decker buses shuttle tourists around the city.
On the pavement below, the journalists swarm as Tina Edris rushes past and into a waiting car—Sam knows they’ll stop at nothing to get a quote or a photo.
She scans the faces in the crowd, wondering if the killer could be among them.
Watching. Waiting. Getting some sick thrill from the chaos he’s caused.
Just biding his time until the urge takes him once again.
Sam shudders and steps away, pulling out her phone and texting Tina to apologize for her harsh words.
What Tina said about Harry has struck a nerve, hard.
Could she be right about him? Could he really care more about himself than Tina, Sam and Charlotte combined?
She doesn’t want to believe it, but she’s never been one to bury her head in the sand.
Is it possible that she doesn’t have the courage to face reality?
Harry’s all the family she has left and she’s needed to believe in him.
Has that blinded her to who he truly is?
She walks to her desk and flops into her seat, holding her head in her hands.
Her phone pings and she hopes it might be Tina, but it’s a message from the shelter saying that they can take the dog off her hands next Wednesday.
Sam smacks her phone down on the desk. A second later it pings again, this time with an email from Glasgow Police.
They have spoken to Drew Mackay, the owner of the first account that the website revenue lands in.
He’s admitted to money-muling to pay off his student debt.
A man had approached him at a local food bank, and he’d not thought twice.
Glasgow Police won’t be taking further action.
There’s also an email from Neil Duggan with the subject “Jono?”:
DI Hansen,
Good to meet you the other day. Sorry for running out like I did. Needs must.
I’m reading How to Get Away with Murder and the first murder, Jono (in the quarry), jogged a memory.
Betty kept a scrapbook and in it there were lots of newspaper clippings. I’ve attached a photograph of the one I’m referring to, but basically it’s about a young lad (Jonathan “Jono” Glenholme) who drowned in Stanhope quarry in the early nineties. Tragic.
The story loosely matches Denver’s but the strange thing is this: the boy who drowned was a local swimming champion who used the quarry for practice, as the council closed his nearest pool (typical story in the North, I’m afraid.) Jono’s death was definitely an accident. No one else was involved.
Seems odd that Betty has this newspaper article and Denver’s story is quite similar?
Anyhow, I’m still hoping that we can get justice for the old girl.
Keep in touch.
Duggan
DI Neil Duggan
Northumbria Police
Sam’s first feeling is irritation that neither she nor Taylor had found the article themselves during the course of their research into the named killings in Denver’s book.
But, she reasons, they’re focusing on crimes rather than accidents.
Sam clicks on the attachment and finds a blurry photograph of a newspaper clipping.
Duggan’s thumb is partly covering the main photograph but Sam can make out a smiling young boy with pale skin and chubby cheeks.
“Milky, doughy creature,” Sam recalls Denver writing.
Very interesting, she thinks. Could Denver simply have been inspired by this story and morphed it into something sick?
They already know Denver lies, so it’s perfectly possible Jono is just a disturbed fantasy.
Sam immediately dials Duggan’s number. They need to discuss this idea more fully. Maybe there’s something here and—
“Sam,” Harry’s voice cuts into her thoughts, and she cancels her call at once. “Detective Sam Hansen, SIO in the case we’ve just been discussing. Let me introduce Cecil Taylor. He’s kindly stopped by to offer his support. Mr. Taylor is MP for Runnymede and Weybridge, that’s over in—”
“Surrey,” Sam finishes for him.
“Please, call me Cecil.”
She stands and reaches out her hand to the tall, finely dressed man with fiercely blue eyes and a familiar jawline.
“Have we met before?” Sam asks, but before Cecil has time to answer there’s a loud smashing of ceramic from immediately behind him.
Everyone turns to see Trainee DC Adam Taylor drop to his knees and begin to pick up pieces of mug, the tea-soaked carpet steaming around him.
Taylor’s cheeks are bright red and when he speaks, he doesn’t look up.
“What are you doing here?” Taylor asks, his voice deep and quietly angry.
“Ah, some things never change,” Cecil says to Harry, ignoring Taylor. “Adam’s always been a bit of a klutz. I hope he’s not too much of a nuisance for you, old chap?”
“Not at all, not at all.” Harry wobbles his head.
She realizes then that Cecil is Adam Taylor’s “rich daddy MP” that Harry mentioned on her first day back at work.
Sam looks down at Taylor, who is still fishing pieces of the former mugs from under desks.
The back of Taylor’s neck is bright pink and Sam immediately feels protective of the young TDC, who took such care of her when she was at her most vulnerable.
“Actually,” Sam says, making her voice loud and clear, “Trainee Detective Constable Taylor is an excellent member of my team and is playing an invaluable role in solving a child homicide and potential serial-killer case.”
“If he was so invaluable, sweetheart,” Cecil scoffs, “he wouldn’t be earning less money than my man Barney who I pay to remove dog turds from my lawn.”
Sam just about manages to keep her cool. “Yes, police officers are significantly underpaid. I’m so pleased MPs recognize that, as you’re the ones with the power to change it.”
Cecil reddens, pointing at Taylor. “That boy has a first-class law degree from Royal College. His grandfather was Deputy Prime Minister. Adam is from excellent stock and should have followed the family line. We’re politicians, change-makers, ambassadors. Not street bobbies.”
“Sam’s father was an excellent detective,” Harry says, clearly trying to break the tension and missing the mark entirely. “A good friend of mine. Sam followed in her father’s footsteps and now she has the highest solve rate on the fourth floor. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Thankfully, sir,” Sam says, holding Cecil’s eye, “in some cases, the apple falls miles from the tree. Let’s go, Taylor.
We have a murderer to find.” Sam spins on her heel, turning her back on the MP and striding away from him and Harry without a backwards glance.
Behind her, she hears Harry begin to waffle an apology and then the DCI drops his voice to a whisper.
Sam doesn’t care what her godfather is saying about her; she’s proud of herself for standing up for Taylor only minutes after failing to support another colleague.
Watching Harry toadying to that asshole makes her see him in a distinctly unflattering light.
Perhaps Tina was right, and Harry is motivated purely by self-interest—and maybe this isn’t the first time he’s put himself first when he should have looked out for her.
She remembers, all those months ago, his warm hand on her shoulder and his whispered words of advice: Making a formal complaint could damage your career, Sam.
Let me deal with this quietly. I only want what’s best for you.
She pushes the thought away. She needs to focus on what’s happening here and now—Charlotte is the most important person, not her, not Tina and certainly not Harry.
She shouldn’t be SIO, but she is, and she’ll give it everything she has left to give.
“That was brilliant,” Taylor hisses, matching Sam’s stride, his hands full of broken crockery. “No one ever stands up to him like—”
“Nothing’s harder than standing up to your own father, Taylor.”
“Thank you, Sam,” Taylor says, a little breathless.
Taylor deposits the broken mugs in the bin and refills the kettle, before taking new mugs from the cupboard and dropping a teabag into each. Sam looks over to Harry and Cecil, now seated in the DCI’s office, chatting amicably. Both men look like they haven’t a care in the world. Oh, to have a—
“Ma’am,” says Taylor, interrupting her dark thoughts. “I was hoping we could, er, talk about what happened after we got back from Newcastle on Friday?” He steps from foot to foot, examining his shoes.
Sam runs her hand through her hair. “I hope you don’t mind, but I can’t talk about that right now,” she says.
“I’m truly sorry, and really appreciate you getting me home safely.
It was so unprofessional of me, but I can assure you, I have never done anything like that before and never will again. Please can we leave it?”
“No, of course, I know that,” he begins. “It’s just—”
Suddenly the space between them is filled with a song that Sam recognizes. Is that “Anti-Hero”? She can’t help but laugh. Taylor blushes and pulls out his phone, sliding to answer. After a series of mm-hmms, his face grows white. He starts to pace the room.
“There’s another real Denver victim,” Taylor says a moment later, his jaw twitching.
“Melanie Davison. Apparently, someone else went to prison for her murder. That was his lawyer on the phone. The chap Denver claims to have framed for killing Melanie wants to meet us. I think we should interview him as a priority.”
Sam racks her brains. She can’t remember a Melanie, but it’s entirely possible she hasn’t managed to get to that chapter yet.
“It was the most compelling murder, for me,” Taylor says. “Reads just like a real whodunnit.”