Chapter Fifteen
When she arrives back at her desk the next morning, her brain still reeling from Andrei’s “confession,” what she sees makes her wonder if she’s finally lost it.
Sitting in her chair, sipping tea from their least-chipped mug and nibbling on a Hobnob, is a young nun.
Sam knows she’s a nun because she’s dressed in full nun gear, complete with white headdress and black veil over the top.
To make the scene even more bizarre, officers are standing around the nun and seem to be laughing at a joke she’s just made.
As Sam approaches, the group disperses and the nun looks over at her before standing and dusting the crumbs from her chest.
“Ma’am,” Chloe says, smiling, “we have a visitor.”
“I see that.”
The nun stands. “Detective Hansen, I presume?” She takes Sam’s hand, grasping it in both of hers, and smiling warmly up at her.
“Yes. How can I help you…”
“Sister. Sister Mary Louise,” the nun says, her accent lightly northern.
“There’s been some confusion, you see, because I’ve been calling for a week or more now but the lovely Grace and Hannah, on your civilian team, thought I was your sister.
I’m not—just in case you weren’t sure!” The nun tilts her head back and laughs heartily at her own joke, drawing a smile from Sam and a bewildered look from Taylor, who’s hovering over her shoulder.
“Oh,” the nun says, “and who might this handsome fella be?”
“Trainee Detective Constable Adam Taylor, ma’am,” he says, stepping forward and receiving an equally genuine hand-hug.
“Well, didn’t the Lord bless you both,” the nun says, admiringly.
“You’re the SIO in the Denver Brady case, I hear.
I’ve only just learned what it means—Senior Investigating Officer.
You’re so young to be called that, don’t you think, dear?
Senior. Anyway … Denver Brady. Evil himself.
” Sister Mary Louise makes the sign of the cross.
“Denver is why I’m here and why I’ve been telephoning.
” Her blue eyes glint and Sam’s certain there’s a hint of tears behind them.
“Please, Sister, let’s take a seat in—” Taylor starts.
“Oh, no fuss. No fuss.” She wipes her cheek.
“There’s a lovely young man in a black cab waiting outside for me, so I’ll be quick.
It’s about Sarah. Sarah Lawrence…” The nun swallows hard.
“She was my best friend. She’s in that dreadful How to Get Away with Murder book that’s in the news and my godson, he spotted it.
Knowing my own personal story, he brought the book to me and I read the chapter on Sarah myself.
That’s by the by. I’m here to tell you that this Denver chap is a liar. Plain and simple.”
“I hate to ask, Sister,” Sam says, “but how can you know—”
“‘The Lord detests lying lips, but He delights in people who are trustworthy.’ Proverbs Twelve.”
“Amen,” Taylor says, shrugging at Sam’s incredulous look.
“In the chapter about Sarah,” the nun goes on, “Denver describes a rounders scene. Sarah loved rounders. Just like he says, she had red hair, as orange as the sunset. We wore brown uniforms, ugly things they were, with yellow trim, and dreadful boater hats in the summer. The convent playing field backed on to another field, with a few trees at the end by our school, including a giant oak. Beyond that, the grounds of the local grammar school and sixth-form college. The lads would come over of a lunchtime and linger by the convent walls.”
“So he’s telling the partial truth?” Sam asks, then turns to Taylor. “Like he did with Betty, Melanie and the other victims.”
“But Denver didn’t kill Sarah. She was in trouble, you see.
The kind of trouble a convent girl from a strict Catholic family can’t afford to be in.
She hanged herself from the big oak. It was my fault.
She came to me for help and…” Taylor hands the nun a tissue and she takes his hand, as if sharing his strength.
“It was me who carved the love heart on the trunk of the oak tree, and just her initials inside it.”
“Is it possible, Sister,” Sam asks gently, still trying to piece the story together, “that Sarah’s death could have been made to look like suicide when—”
“Sarah wasn’t murdered,” the nun says. “I know Sarah killed herself because she left me a note. In her own hand, saying things that only she would say.”
“I don’t suppose you kept that note, Sister?” Sam asks.
“I did.” She gestures to a small wooden box with a carved crucifix sitting on the edge of Taylor’s desk.
“I brought a few photographs, other things you might need.” Tears slide down her face, which is pale and youthful.
A small sob seeps from her lips and Sam steps forward, bending down and embracing the woman in a way that Past Sam would never have done.
The nun slides her arms around Sam and heaves silently for a few moments.
“That explains why we found nothing in the database,” Taylor says quietly, once Sister Mary Louise has composed herself. “Because without a crime involved, we’d have no record. I ran internet searches too, though, and still found nothing, which is odd.”
“Och, well you wouldn’t,” the nun says. “The family and the church kept it all quiet. There wasn’t even an obituary in the local paper.”
“Oh my God—ness. Goodness. Oh my goodness,” Sam stutters, suddenly grasping what the nun has told them, without her having to spell it out.
“Yes, you’ve got my meaning now, haven’t you?” she says.
Taylor looks from Sam to Sister Mary Louise. “I’m not following.”
“I am.” Sam swallows. “We need a list of all students of that grammar school from 1995 to 1998. I bet Betty’s nephew is on it. It’s a strong piece of circumstantial evidence connecting him to Sarah and How to Get Away with Murder.”
“Oh, you are a clever girl,” the nun says.
“Ma’am, could you explain in—”
“Taylor, how could Denver know about Sarah’s death and the Sister’s carving on the oak tree unless he was there and saw it for himself?”
The Sister shakes her head, misery etched on her face. “I’ve inspired a serial killer’s creativity, by all the saints!”
“That’s so risky,” Taylor scoffs. “Surely Denver wouldn’t be that stupid?”
“Certainly risky for us,” the nun says. “Denver has been to our little village.”
“Which is where, Sister?”
“Wolsington, a tiny place near Easington Colliery,” she says.
Sam gasps. “That’s where Betty Brown lived,” she exclaims. “Everything leads us back to Betty. With or without the physical evidence, we need to bring the nephew in.”
“Betty Brown, did you say?” The nun’s face tightens. “As in, B.B.? Well, that makes no sense at all…”
“What is it, Sister?” Sam asks, and the nun hesitates then begins to rifle through the box on Taylor’s desk.
“It’s these,” Sister Mary Louise says, pulling out a plastic bag containing a wad of paper. “When I cleared out Sarah’s room in the convent, I found them and well … I hung on to them. But they weren’t written by a Betty, that’s for sure. It wasn’t a Betty who got Sarah in trouble.”
Sam feels the blood leave her face and her skin tingles all over as she takes the item from the nun. Through an aged freezer bag, Sam can just about make out a few words written on the outside of an envelope in a delicate script, surrounded by love hearts: LETTERS FROM B.B.
“Denver’s letters to Sarah,” Sam whispers, barely breathing. “You kept them.”
“I’ve never read them,” Sister Mary Louise rushes to clarify. “They weren’t mine to read. I just wanted to keep them safe.”
Sam blinks. “You’re saying you’ve never taken the letters out of the envelope?”
“Upon my soul, I have not,” the nun promises.
Taylor beams. “That means…”
“The only fingerprints on these will be Sarah’s and B.B.’s.” Sam grins. “Taylor, pull up Betty’s file and find the nephew’s name—I think Duggan said it but my memory…” They wait as Taylor quickly navigates the multiple digital documents stored in HOLMES.
“Next of kin,” he reads. “Barry Brown.”
“B.B.,” says the nun.
“We need to find him,” Sam says. “Right now. Today. I am certain he is the man who wrote How to Get Away with Murder. When this comes back from forensics, we should finally have the evidence we need to prove he’s Denver Brady.”
Sam can taste Denver Fever in the London air.
The city has gone mad with it. How to Get Away with Murder has gone viral and, according to Chloe Spears, original copies are selling on eBay for over a thousand pounds a pop.
Sam does her best to block out the rhythmic chants of the protestors and the clipped voices of the reporters as she returns from a quick lunch.
There’s only one name on their lips, and it’s not Charlotte’s.
She does her best to take in the faces of the crowd, knowing that he could be there.
Watching the show. Revelling in the fear and chaos. Looking for his next victim.
“NO, NOT ALL MEN! YES, ALL WOMEN!” cries a voice through a megaphone.
Sam is grateful for the vacuum of the elevator and ascends to the fourth floor with her eyes closed and her breathing even.
Several floors below, Andrei Albescu is inside interview room two, liaising with his lawyer.
DCI Blakelaw has the entire team working to prepare files for the Crown Prosecution Service, and the fourth floor is so loud that Sam inserts her earphones and double-taps until Bob Dylan’s voice is all she can hear.
Through the glass, Sam sees Harry on the phone, no doubt speaking to the Commissioner, who is insisting on twice-daily updates.
It’s not Charlotte they’re talking about, Sam guesses, but Denver.