Chapter Twelve #4
Good question, Sam thinks, but more important to her is the question How does Charlotte fit in?
Denver’s stories are unraveling one by one, and it’s becoming impossible to keep up with his truths and lies.
Denver has potentially lied about Daisy the barista and yet he knows details about Betty’s murder that only the perpetrator and police should know.
Still, she reminds herself, there is no clear link to Charlotte.
Nothing at all that a copycat couldn’t have lifted from How to Get Away with Murder.
Sam replies to Duggan, telling him they now believe Denver may be Betty’s nephew, and to send all information he’s gathered on the nephew’s whereabouts.
She searches the name Marguerite Moreau and a photo of a smiling woman with a Roman nose and long, straight eyelashes fills her screen.
Sam traces her fingers over the woman’s dragonfly necklace, her blood bubbling.
Betty’s nephew chose to twist and retell Marguerite’s tragic story for his own gain.
Even death didn’t stop her being used and abused by awful men.
“We’re here, ma’am.”
She looks about them as Taylor slowly drives past the tower blocks that contain their target location, then loops around and does the same again.
They see nothing suspicious, no one hanging around.
No vehicle is registered at the address, so they have no idea if the person they’re looking for is likely to be home or not.
They leave the car in a parking space and Taylor’s eyes linger on the Mercedes as he pushes the button to lock the doors and activate the alarm.
“We’ll walk around the building, see what we can see,” Sam says.
“And if he’s in there?”
“I’ll make an arrest,” she says. “Andrei Albescu has a string of petty convictions on his record and the CCTV Sussex Police sent over is clear: Albescu bought two cans of petrol from the garage next to Swinton’s only a couple of hours before someone set the printer’s ablaze.
Albescu might not be Denver, but he might be able to tell us something useful. ”
“According to Google,” Taylor adds a little apprehensively, “Albescu is a popular surname in Romania. He’ll likely have an Eastern European accent, just like Richie Scott suggested. And the guy in the CCTV footage looks pretty tall…”
Sam loosens the top button of her shirt and takes a deep breath.
“I still think Denver is Betty’s nephew. This Albescu is perhaps hired help,” she says. “Is your body cam on?”
Taylor nods. They look at each other, share a tight-lipped smile and walk toward the lobby of the nearest building.
Predictably, the lift doesn’t work and Sam and Taylor begin the arduous climb to the tenth floor.
They each cover their noses: Taylor with his silk handkerchief, Sam with her sleeve.
There are yellow stains in the corners of the landings and the stairs are littered with debris—needles, condoms, babies’ pacifiers.
The long corridor of the tenth floor is filled with garbage bags and the occasional faded plastic toy.
Where once there had been CCTV cameras, now there is only melted plastic or dangling wires.
Outside flat number 1064, they pause. There’s a storage box with a broken lid, from which the rusted frame of a doll’s pram sticks out. Sam presses her ear to the door. She hears a woman’s voice, singing or perhaps pacifying a child. Sam nods to Taylor, then raises her fist and bangs on the door.
For a minute, it doesn’t open, but they hear movement inside. A woman talks in a language that isn’t English. A baby cries. Eventually, the door is edged ajar on a chain.
“Mrs. Nadja Albescu?” Sam begins, “I’m DI Sam Hansen. Is Andrei at home?” The woman shakes her head. “May we come in, please?” Sam asks. Nadja’s eyes flick to the bruise over her eye.
“Come,” Nadja says, calmly opening the door.
Sam glances at Taylor, wondering if he’s picked up on what she’s noticed: usually, police officers aren’t just admitted by an unexpecting homeowner without a few questions being asked first. Nadja hasn’t even inquired as to why they are there.
Sam doesn’t know what to make of it, but it’s definitely odd.
They follow her down a dingy hallway toward a dark lounge.
There are two rooms off the corridor and Sam checks each in turn.
Empty, save for mattresses and the odd piece of old furniture.
The lounge is swelteringly hot, but then the windows are all shut.
Two toddlers sit in front of a television that’s showing PAW Patrol without any sound.
A baby wails in another room. Nadja stands silently as Sam calmly checks the kitchen and a large storage cupboard for anyone else in the home.
“Can you tell me where Andrei is, Mrs. Albescu?” Sam asks, once she’s confident he isn’t here.
“Andrei, he is work. I bring you drink?”
“Yes, thank you,” says Sam. She isn’t thirsty but one of the first things you learn on the job is to always accept a drink offered by a potential witness.
It buys time in their home, and makes the meeting feel more relaxed; a friend popping round for a cuppa.
As Nadja turns to leave the room, Sam notices her swollen abdomen under her dress.
They hear her cooing, and the baby in the other room stops crying.
Then there’s the sound of cups and cupboard doors from the adjacent kitchen.
Sam squeezes past Taylor to take a seat on the haggard sofa between two children.
Taylor quietly updates their backup team: suspect not present.
“Hello, you two,” Sam says softly to the children. “What are you watching?”
“Chase! Look!” says the older child, pointing at a dog on the screen.
Sam supposes the child is around three years old.
Both little ones wear vests and nappies; the place is too hot for anything more.
The vests are well worn and graying, but clean.
Sam feels a bead of sweat slip down the back of her collar.
Nadja reenters, a baby balanced on one hip, and hands Sam a chipped mug. She takes a sip. Lukewarm water.
“Thank you, Nadja,” Sam says. The woman nods and lowers herself awkwardly into an ancient armchair in the corner.
“You said your husband’s at work, Mrs. Albescu. Who does Andrei work for?” Taylor asks.
Nadja shrugs. “My husband had good job as bricklayer. Then he got fired and now he just have sometimes job.”
“Your children are beautiful, Nadja,” Sam says, honestly. “How many do you have?”
“Three … for now.” Nadja smiles down at her stomach.
“A real handful,” Sam says.
Nadja strokes her abdomen and smiles at the children, who babble their own words to the canine characters on the screen.
“TV broke. No sound,” Nadja says. “But my babies smart. They make their own sound.”
“We’re keen to speak to your husband today, Mrs. Albescu. What time will he be home?” Taylor asks.
Nadja shrugs.
“Can you call him please, Nadja?” Sam presses.
“No phone,” Nadja says.
“Does the name Charlotte Mathers mean anything to you, Nadja? Or Jack Mathers? Nigel Mathers?” Sam asks. The woman shakes her head to each. “How about Denver Brady?” Another shake.
Sam decides to try a different tack. “When are you due?”
“Next month,” Nadja says, then rubs her forehead. “Brian start nursery this year”—Nadja points to the larger child—“so I have more space for baby. All baby is blessing from God, but this one is not plan.”
“I can see that you are working very hard,” Sam says, in a tone she hoped would sound kind but instead came out as condescending.
She sips her water and peers around the room again.
She can tell that every effort has been made to make the place pleasant.
There’s a Frozen blanket spread out like a playmat for the children, concealing the thin brown carpet beneath.
The sofa and armchair are clearly second, third or fourth hand, but the leather has been wiped down and is soft to the touch.
There’s an apple sliced in a bowl for the toddlers. An overwhelming sadness swallows Sam.
“He’s called Brian?” Taylor says, staring at the child.
“I choose good English names for my babies. That Brian. Her Edith. Baby Charles, like King. In my family, we think a name says a lot.”
“Do you have a photograph of Andrei?” Sam asks.
Nadja nods and points to the only picture frame on the wall.
It’s small, around A5 size, and very old.
In it, Nadja wears a wedding dress, the man next to her a suit.
Taylor examines it, then passes it to Sam.
The man is definitely the same person Sam just saw in the CCTV footage.
He has dark hair, brown eyes and deeply tanned skin.
“He’s tall,” Taylor notes, discreetly.
“Does Andrei have a computer, Nadja?” Sam asks.
“He used to have computer. Spent long time on it. Made some friends on it, I think. But then we sell when he lost job.” Taylor tries, unsuccessfully, to find out who the machine went to.
“Nadja, we’ll get out of your hair now, but I need Andrei to call me today.
” Sam hands the woman her business card.
Nadja takes it, nodding, and Sam notices that Nadja’s eyes are filled with tears.
Instinctively whispering, even though there’s little point in such a small room, she adds: “Nadja, if there’s anything you want me to know, now is the time.
I promise to try to help you.” Nadja grasps Sam’s hand, a tear trickling down her cheek.
“You can trust me, Nadja,” Sam says. “Woman to woman, I promise to…”
Nadja releases Sam’s hand and walks over to her purse, on the floor beside the sofa.
She rifles through it and pulls out a small, oblong card similar to the one that Sam handed over only a moment before, but this one is tattered and worn.
There’s a symbol of some sort on it and Sam feels a tug at her memories, but nothing clicks. She reaches out to take it—