Chapter Twelve #5
“Enforcement Officer!” a loud voice suddenly booms behind them.
Everyone jumps. A man has entered the room and stands behind Taylor, who spins to face him, drawing his baton.
“Police!” Taylor shouts. “Freeze! Identify yourself!” The man holds up his hands in surrender. He’s smartly dressed, with a neatly trimmed black beard and a clipboard.
“Officer,” he says, in a deep baritone. Sam feels Nadja standing behind her, as if for protection. “The door was open. I have the right to enter these premises. I’m here under the Repossession of Property clause in—”
Sam releases a held breath. “He’s just a bailiff, Taylor. Stand down.”
“Please, sir, step outside,” says Taylor, straightening his six-foot-two frame. “This is a police matter. I respectfully request that you come back another time.” The man’s mouth moves, as if he’s considering objecting, but then he nods and leaves.
Taylor and Sam turn back to Nadja, who’s picked up her daughter, straddling both her baby and her little girl across her bump. Sam looks at her but Nadja is already shaking her head.
“I like you leave now,” Nadja says.
“I—” Sam tries.
“Please,” Nadja begs, and Taylor nods toward the hallway, indicating that they should go.
“Andrei must call me today,” Sam insists. “It’ll be so much better if he finds me, rather than the other way around.”
Outside, the bailiff is knocking again, this time three doors down. Sam tells their backup team that they won’t be needed, and she and Taylor walk silently back to the car. Once inside, Taylor exhales loudly and rubs his face. Sam is reminded just how new this still is for him.
“My God,” he says, “I felt so uncomfortable in there. What a life. It was so hot.” Taylor starts the car but instead of turning on the indicator to signal his maneuver, he sets off the windscreen wipers.
Sam tells him to turn off the ignition; it’s clear he needs a minute.
She suspects there’s something deeper troubling him, too, as his reaction to Nadja’s sad situation seems disproportionate.
“Is there something else bothering you, Taylor?” she asks, and he looks at her, reddening a little. He shakes his head, looking at her again in a way that makes Sam feel like she should already know what’s bothering him, but doesn’t.
“Sam…” The way he says her name makes her stomach lurch.
“We can sit here for as long as you need,” she assures him, then connects her phone to the car’s Bluetooth and selects the playlist This is Taylor Swift. A few songs later, he still seems tense, his fingers playing with car keys. “Taylor,” Sam says, more firmly now. “What’s going on?”
He sighs. “There’s something you need to know. It’s about the day we went to Newcastle.”
Sam is suddenly tingling with concern. What had she done? What had she said? She pushes her mind back, but she can’t get beyond the Dog and Parrot pub and then waking up on her sofa, under a blanket and still in her work clothes.
Suddenly there’s a sharp rapping on Sam’s window, and Sam and Taylor both jump. The car has steamed up and they can barely make out the figure outside. There’s an uncomfortable delay as Taylor fumbles to start the car so Sam can wind the window down.
“Well, that’s bloody frustrating,” Harry says. “We need this Romanian bringing in pronto. I’ve issued a Force-wide alert. We’ll engage the press, too.”
“Harry…?” Sam says, bewildered. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t think I’d miss the arrest, did you? I was waiting in the backup vehicle.”
He was waiting to escort Andrei Albescu into New Scotland Yard in handcuffs, Sam thinks, in front of all the cameras. To claim the credit.
“You get anything useful from the wife?” he asks. “Maybe we should bring her in for questioning?”
“Sir,” Sam begins, “Nadja didn’t seem surprised to see us.
Something more is going on here. I’m sure she was trying to tell me something before we got interrupted.
Plus, there’s no way someone living like that has cash to spend on printing How to Get Away with Murder.
I accept Albescu is our arsonist but something doesn’t feel right to me.
I think we leave Nadja where she is—she’s not going anywhere, and we might get more from her next time if we keep her on side.
I’m convinced Andrei Albescu isn’t Denver Brady.
In fact, we had a promising breakthrough just before—”
“Nonsense,” Harry scoffs. “It was the Romanian who burned the printers down, and I reckon that now we have a warrant and can do some proper digging, the evidence will mount. He’s our man. Follow the facts, Sam, not”—Harry waves his hand around in the air—“intuition.”
Sam sits back in her seat, feeling like her godfather’s words have just slapped her in the face. He’d always told her to trust her instincts, follow her intuition. Why, when it doesn’t suit his agenda, is he so—
“With all due respect, sir,” Taylor speaks up, “DI Hansen has a superb theory about Betty’s nephew, who is likely responsible for her murder and is most probably Denver Brady.”
“Young man,” Harry spits, “we follow evidence. Means, motive, opportunity. The arson led us here. A solid lead. One that would hold up in a courtroom. Bring in the Romanian and do it quickly so we can rule him in or out of Charlotte’s murder.
” Harry turns and walks away, climbing into a waiting black van.
Sam runs her thumb over the soothingly surface of Charlotte’s netball keyring as they watch the other vehicle drive away. Taylor starts the car, but doesn’t put it in gear, sitting still instead, gripping the steering wheel.
“I have a really bad feeling that we’re doing exactly what Denver Brady and Charlotte’s killer want us to do, assuming I’m right and Charlotte’s is a copycat,” Sam says.
“We’re following the breadcrumbs they’ve left us, but they’re leading us away from the killers, not toward them.
In the meantime, they’re both still out there, free to kill again. ”