Chapter Twelve #2
“This is New Scotland Yard, not Primark,” Sam scoffs. “We don’t do receipts.”
“Well then, I need you to sign something to say that I am the Sean from How to Get Away with Murder.” He takes his folder back from Sam and extracts a few sheets of typed paper from it, placing them on the desk.
She glances at the top sheet—an incredibly basic form stating exactly what Sean has just described.
At the very bottom she spots the name of a company—a plc she’s never heard of, but her mind connects the dots.
“You’re trying to sell your story,” Sam declares, her understanding dawning. “And the newspaper, or media group—whoever is interested—won’t publish without some kind of proof.”
“Look, this story is worth more money than—”
“Get out,” Sam snaps.
“I’ll split it with you,” Sean begs.
“Cut this homophobic loser loose, Taylor.” Sam stands to leave the room then turns back, loathing suffusing her face. “We have a dead child and at least one killer on the loose. A killer who could strike again any moment. And your only concern is—”
Sean slams his fists on the table. “It’s just a signature!”
“Pay your child support, you spineless fraction of a man!” she spits.
“You fuckin’—”
“See him out, Taylor,” Sam says dismissively, pulling her phone from her pocket and noticing several missed calls from Dr. Thomson and DI Neil Duggan.
“Listen to me, you cunt!” Lister yells, jumping to his feet and grabbing at her over the table. “Denver has the world thinking I’m a faggot—”
Before Sam knows what’s happening, there’s a crunchy pop and Lister is clutching his nose as blood immediately starts to run between his fingers.
She gasps, then turns to Taylor, who’s nursing his right fist. Shit, she thinks, watching her trainee turn pale.
Sean begins to whimper and mumble about police brutality.
Sam grabs some tissues from the box on the table and hands them to Sean.
They all stand frozen for a second, looking at one another.
Sean tips his head back and holds the top of his nose.
Taylor flops forward in his chair, head in hands.
“What have I done,” he moans. “I—”
“Stay here,” she barks at Taylor, then points toward Sean. “And clean him up.”
Sam quickly turns off the digital recorder, then leaves the interview room, closing the door behind her before entering the adjacent room, the one where she’d hidden to watch Tina and Harry interview the Mathers men.
Sitting at the desk, Sam logs on to the server and navigates to the recording of the interview they’ve just done with Sean Lister.
She hesitates for a second, then deletes it.
A pop-up warns her that the recording has not yet been uploaded to cloud storage.
She swears under her breath, then hits “Permanently delete.” Next, just to be sure, she reaches for the jug of water on the desk.
The backup to the server runs every night, so if she destroys this drive, it’ll mean at least twelve hours’ worth of missing evidence.
Entire cases could fall apart. The whole building shares interview rooms, so this server contains recordings from all kinds of investigations.
Sam looks up and through the one-way mirror.
Taylor is wiping blood from Sean’s jacket, his hands shaking.
This will end his career before it’s even really begun.
She braces herself and pours all the water over the drive.
The machine flickers, hisses, then all its lights turn off.
Sam strides back to the closed interview room door. She takes a few deep breaths, wipes sweat from her upper lip and enters. Sean Lister has reseated himself and has twisted tissues sticking out of each nostril. Taylor is pacing back and forth, his hands in his hair.
“Mr. Lister,” Sam tries, but her voice doesn’t work.
She swallows, clears her throat and tries again.
“Mr. Lister. As, er, a result of your use of homophobic words and your behavior…” She pauses, thinks for a second, straightens and begins once more.
“Mr. Sean Lister, I am arresting you under Section 4 of the Public Order Act 1986. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense—”
“Wait, what?!”
“… if you do not mention when questioned—”
“He hit me!”
“… something which you later rely on—”
“Don’t you dare!” Sean seethes.
“It is a Public Order Offense to—”
“But he hit me!”
“And Officer Smith here will be disciplined for his actions and likely fired. But you will be charged for—”
“All right! Stop!” Sean yells. “Let’s work something out.”
Sam sighs dramatically and sits down. Taylor is frozen to the spot. She leans forward and holds Sean Lister’s eyes.
“OK, Mr. Lister,” she says calmly, “I can drop the charges against you. I would simply ask that, in return, you consider saying nothing about what my colleague, PC Smith here, has just accidentally done.”
Sean’s nodding before Sam has even finished her sentence.
She gives him more tissues and he carefully removes the ones sticking out of his nose, dabbing to see if the bleeding has stopped.
She escorts him to the custody suite’s fire exit to leave unnoticed, then makes her way back to the interview room.
Taylor has sat down at the desk and is sobbing like a child.
Silently, she places her hand on his shoulder and feels the damp of his shirt.
“I screwed up,” Taylor whispers. She barely hears him over the pounding of her own pulse in her ears.
“It’s OK.” She tries to smile, tries to sound calm. “That homophobic loser would tip anyone over the edge. I understand why—”
“It wasn’t the homophobia that did it,” Taylor says, but Sam isn’t listening as she pulls him gently upright, so that they’re standing squarely, facing each other.
She drops her voice low. “Look, Taylor, I doubt Sean Lister will come back. I’ve deleted the interview recording and destroyed the hard drive, but—”
“Wait, ma’am,” Taylor objects. “We need to report this.”
“No, Taylor,” she soothes. “You fucked up, but you’re a good person. A good officer. Now, we just need a backup story in case that prick does shout his mouth off or tries to press charges against you.”
“Backup story?”
“Yes, we’re going to say that he punched me and you were forced to restrain him, and accidentally burst his nose in the process.”
“Punched you?”
“Yes. So, I need you to … I need a bruise…” Taylor’s face whitens as he understands her meaning, and he shakes his head.
Sam nods, gently pulling his right arm out of his hair and closing her hand over his to make it form a fist. “I need you to hit me, just hard enough. Right here…” She points to her cheekbone. “I bruise like a peach.”
“No. I will not.”
“Taylor, your career is on the line here, you have to—”
“Absolutely not,” Taylor snaps. “I’ll take my chances.”
“We need a plausible story, Adam. I’ll go back upstairs and we’ll have countless witnesses to Sean’s assault on me. I just need a bruise,” Sam says. “It looks better if it’s me that got hurt. We can play the old chivalry card—God knows it’s good for nothing else.”
“No!” Taylor barks. “This has already gone too far. I’ve hit a man and you’ve tampered with evidence and destroyed police property. We should just go to the DCI and confess.”
“You do that and we’ll both be fired,” Sam retorts.
“Maybe that’s exactly what we deserve,” Taylor hisses, and he storms out, slamming the door.
Sam groans and looks around the empty room.
She kneels down next to the steel table and wraps her hands around its leg.
She takes a deep breath, moves her head back and then thrusts her face hard toward the cold metal.
The pain makes her ears roar. Somehow she’s caught the high eyebrow bone and her eyes flood with tears. The skin is already throbbing.
It’ll be a perfect bruise by tomorrow.
Sam quickly ends the call with DI Duggan and emerges from the lift as dramatically as she can, crying and folding herself on to the fourth-floor sofa.
Chloe Spears and another woman jog over and together they administer a cold compress to Sam’s eye as she explains how the interview with Sean Lister went very wrong.
“He smacked me right on the eye,” Sam whimpers to Chloe. “Bastard. Taylor had a right job restraining him.”
“Want me to write up the report for you? Can you see OK?” Chloe asks.
“I’ll manage the report,” Sam says—though, of course, she won’t.
Several people come over to ask if she’s OK, and once she has enough witnesses to her injuries, she makes her way back to her desk and pops two paracetamol.
Taylor is sitting at his desk, holding his head in his hands and watching her out of the corner of his eye. Chloe hovers in the background.
Sam refuses to let Sean Lister waste another second of time they could be spending working on Charlotte’s case. She pours herself a cup of water, downs it and speaks with as much authority as she can muster.
“DC Spears…” She waves Chloe closer. “I assume you’ve been told you’re joining our team?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Spears confirms. “And congratulations on being made joint SIO. Also, your sister called for you, ma’am. She said it’s urgent.”
“SIO?” Taylor spins in his chair, sounding hurt. “You didn’t tell me.” Sam shrugs and smiles at him, wincing as the expression reaches her throbbing bruise. “Ma’am, there’s something I need to—”
“Look, I have a theory I want to run by you both,” Sam cuts in. Can you come with me, please?” As she stands, the throbbing over her eye increases and she adjusts the cool-pack she’s holding there.
The tiny meeting room in the corner opposite Harry’s office is vacant and they sit toe-to-toe. Spears’s perfume is light and floral, and reminds Sam of her mother, which she finds soothing. She sits back in her seat and waits until everyone is comfortable and paying attention.