Chapter Twelve
Sam watches the man on her bus. He’s reading.
The book is curled painfully back on itself so she can’t see the cover, but she knows what it is from the size, shape, even the font.
She’s re-read the Betty Brown chapter so many times that she can even guess what sentence the man’s eyes are on.
He has a coffee in his free hand, and she wonders if it’s a macchiato.
He takes a sip and licks his lips. Smiles at something on the page, then casts a guilty glance around.
It’s not about Denver-bloody-Brady, she wants to yell.
To scream. What about Charlotte? Everyone needs to remember her name, not her killer’s and not Denver’s.
She sighs, knowing that her day will be filled with more searching for the man behind the book, and while Sam believes that Denver is a killer, she doesn’t believe that he is the killer.
Charlotte’s killer is the man she wants and Sam is convinced he’s a copycat.
How to Get Away with Murder—Timeline
The bus jerks to a halt at her stop. Outside New Scotland Yard, the street is entirely blocked.
There are uniformed traffic cops trying to get the road cleared, but the number of press vans, journalists and protestors is insurmountable.
Thankfully, there’s a back entrance that officers can use, and as she walks toward it she hears journalists broadcasting live in various languages.
Sam walks a little faster, eager to pass by the news crews unnoticed and even more eager to solve the case they’re all talking about.
She doesn’t speak any foreign languages, but she doesn’t need to.
A phrase that needs no translation is spoken time and again:
Denver Brady tueur en série.
Denver Brady asesino en serie.
Denver Brady Serienmorder.
You don’t need a language degree to work that out: the UK has a serial killer on the loose and his name is Denver Brady. Not a single reporter mentions Charlotte’s name.
When Sam steps on to the fourth floor, Taylor immediately waves her over, a cup of tea in his hand.
“Thanks, Adam,” she says and he blinks.
“Er, you’re welcome,” he replies, then adds, “… ma’am.” She smiles at him, enjoying her confidence that he’s one of the good guys, when only a few weeks ago she hadn’t believed they existed. Progress.
“Detective Chief Inspector Blakelaw would like us all to assemble in the briefing room,” Tina Edris says as she walks briskly past and clicks the kettle on.
“The DCI has brought in an offender profiler.” It’s the first time she’s seen Tina since she said those awful things she deeply regrets.
Sam tries to meet Tina’s eye but the other woman only has eyes for the task at hand.
“We can’t make it, ma’am,” Taylor responds. “I know you’ll be sad to miss it, what with how effective you believe profilers to be…”
“We need a damn good reason to miss it,” she says, looking at him hopefully, noting the glint in his eye.
“Sean is in the interview room downstairs, ma’am,” Taylor says to both Sam and Tina.
“The guy who jumped off the bridge?” Sam clarifies, and Taylor nods. “But he died in 2006.” She pulls the timeline from her bag, waves it at Taylor.
“Not like you to be wrong,” Tina says sarcastically, blowing on her herbal tea. Fair, Sam thinks. Tina is still cross with her, and she deserves it.
“But, Denver—”
“Lied to us,” Taylor says. “Again.”
Sean Lister doesn’t smell good—and not because he’s dead. He’s very much alive but still reeks as though he’s just washed up out of the river. He wears a Harrington jacket and a flat cap, and carries a plastic folder under his arm.
As they take their seats in the empty interview room, Sean removes his cap and reveals a truly dreadful mod haircut. Taylor starts the digital recorder and makes the introductions.
“I want to do this quick,” Sean says in a Geordie–cockney hybrid.
“I’m not dead and, more importantly, I’m definitely not gay.
I’ve brought a statement from my girlfriend Lucy saying I’m as straight as they come.
I am the Sean from How to Get Away with Murder, and I’m alive and straight.
” He says all this a little breathlessly, pushing his folder across the small steel desk.
“Does the name Charlotte Mathers ring any bells?” Sam asks.
“No,” Sean says.
Sam takes the folder and begins leafing through it.
It’s all color-coded, precisely labeled and arranged chronologically.
This took a lot of work, she thinks, feeling her old instincts kicking in.
She’d grown up watching Judge Judy, whose motto was If something doesn’t make sense, it isn’t true.
Sean’s level of effort, and his timing, isn’t making sense to Sam and that makes her very wary.
“Describe for me, in detail, how you know that you’re the Sean in How to Get Away with Murder?” Taylor asks.
“My name for starters. Plus, everything about my life. My music production course. My ex was a nurse called Jemma who got herself pregnant. My dad and uncle torched that Brokeback Mountain billboard. All of that’s true,” Sean says.
“Except the gay shit. I’m not gay. Read the statement from my girl—”
“Why are you here, Mr. Lister?” Sam says, gesturing to the folder. “You’ve put a lot of work into this and you don’t strike me as the altruistic type. You’re not here to help. What’s really going—”
“To set the record straight,” Sean says, folding his arms. “And to tell you lot who Denver Brady really is. I’m here to solve your case.” He puffs out his chest.
“You know who Denver is?” Sam raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Let’s have it, then.”
“I knew him. Jemma was in student digs with his mate. Up in Wallsend. Sometimes Denver came and visited. He was well weird. Weird music. Weird books. Wouldn’t shut up about Ted Bundy—called him Teddy like they were pals.
Real bee in his bonnet about Mary Ann Cotton letting him and the North East down.
Had a proper crush on Jemma. Once I caught him sniffing her coat what was hanging up.
” Sean Lister falls silent, sitting up straighter as if he’s just won a court case.
“So, what’s Denver’s real name?” Taylor asks, and despite her skepticism, Sam finds herself leaning forward, holding her breath.
“Well, I can’t remember his name,” Sean says. Sam rolls her eyes and slumps back in the chair. “We’re going back twenty years or more. He was just a lad that visited sometimes. But it’s him. He’s definitely Denver.”
“Right,” Sam sighs. “Can you at least describe his appearance?”
“Aye…” Sean thinks, then offers, “Good few inches shorter than me. Pale as milk. Sandy hair. Scrawny.” Taylor catches Sam’s eye and she knows what he’s trying to convey: Richie Scott described Denver as tall and dark-haired. Someone—other than Denver—is lying.
“But you don’t remember his name?” she asks. “Not even a first name. Think, Mr. Lister.”
“I have. I can’t remember. But I never forget a face. I’ll ID him no problem and testify against him too, when you catch him. The little weed put me in his book to get back at me for … well…”
“Bullying him?” Sam suggests.
Sean shrugs. “I wasn’t a bully. It was different times back then. I might have put it about that he was gay. I put a few bits on Facebook.”
“You called Denver homophobic names?” Sam asks.
“But that’s just more proof, innit?” Sean argues. “Proof that it’s revenge against me. That I’m a victim.”
“Can you remember the name of the student he visited?” Taylor probes.
“No,” Sean says.
“Does the name Betty Brown mean anything to you?” Sam tries.
“Brown rings a bell…” Sean rubs his chin. “I think the lad Jem lived with was called Brown. Or maybe Smith. Or could it have been Jones? But maybe I’m just remembering Brown from Denver’s book. I skimmed the chapters after mine to be—”
“Does Jemma remember?” Taylor asks, and she hears the undertone of frustration in his voice.
“We aren’t in touch. I don’t want her to know where I am, right? That’s confidential.” Sean shoves his chin out to emphasize his point.
“So she didn’t have the baby?”
“She had it, aye.”
Then it falls into place. Sean’s evasiveness and odd word choices; the way he described Jemma as “getting herself pregnant” and just now referred to his child as an “it.” This man ran away, as many unwilling fathers have before and many will again.
Sean didn’t want to be a dad. The baby wasn’t in his belly, so he had choices.
He chose freedom. He’s not a victim, just another absent father.
“What’s Jemma’s surname?” Sam asks.
“Hammond,” Sean says, then adds, “Why do you need to know that?”
Sam ignores the question and pulls from Sean’s folder a driving license and a utility bill with his current address on. Sam photographs the documents using her phone.
“So you believe me?” Sean asks. “You believe that I’m one of Denver’s victims?
” Sam fishes through the rest of the paperwork.
It certainly looks like Sean was a twenty-four-year-old music student at around the right time, although he didn’t complete the course.
There’s a photograph of a man posing next to a burned-up billboard, Jake Gyllenhaal’s face charred and flapping in the wind.
Some song lyrics and various letters and bills.
The details are exact matches for those Denver supplies in his book.
“We’ll speak to Jemma to see if she remembers the name of the man you think might be Denver,” Taylor says.
“Right, but my details stay confidential,” Sean demands.
“What university did Denver’s friend attend?” Taylor presses, pen poised.
He thought a moment. “Newcastle,” he says. “Or maybe Northumbria.”
“Let’s wrap this up,” Sam says. “Taylor, get on to those unis for a list of students that fit our time frame. I’ll have DI Duggan speak with Jemma personally. He’s keen to help.”
“Wait. I need a receipt,” Sean says. “For my visit. Something to prove that I came here today and you agree I’m a victim.”