Chapter Seventeen
Inside the interview room, Andrei Albescu waits with a man in a crisp suit and a woman who sits in the corner, a notepad and Romanian dictionary on her lap. Sam and the translator exchange a polite nod and Andrei’s lawyer stands to introduce himself.
“Julius Windsor,” he says, shaking Sam’s hand, “of Windsor, Forbes and Knight. King’s Counsel.
” The pale, jowly man hands Sam a business card and smiles at her with watery blue eyes.
She doesn’t return his smile. She thinks for a second that Toni would growl at this man, as he occasionally does when they’re out walking.
“DI Hansen,” Sam says to the room.
“We’ve met before, Detective,” the lawyer says. “A couple of years ago. Back when you were investigating cold cases—”
“I don’t remember,” Sam cuts him off. “Shall we get down to it?”
The man straightens and wipes his sweaty top lip with his tie, which makes Sam’s insides roll.
Taylor arrives just in time to conduct the formalities, and as he does so Sam takes in Andrei Albescu’s demeanor.
He looks remarkably calm, his hands clasped loosely on the table, his eyes neutral.
He’s wearing fresh gray clothes and he’s showered.
Her eyes drift to the lawyer’s garish tie, which is baby pink with birds on it. Are they flamingos?
“It’s clear to me, Detective,” the lawyer smiles, “that you have no evidence against my client. Nothing. A misguided sentence or two, without representation and without a translator. You and I both know—”
“Andrei,”—Sam leans forward, ignoring the lawyer entirely, “I no longer need to question you regarding Charlotte Mathers. Do you understand?” He nods.
“All that I need you to do is explain to me why you burned down Swinton’s Printers and why money from a website called is ending up in your account.
I know there’ll be a reasonable explanation.
I know you aren’t a killer. But I need you to tell me the truth, so that I can get you home to your family.
” Sam sits back, her mouth a little dry.
Andrei looks to his lawyer, who shakes his head.
“No comment.”
Sam’s stomach drops. “Did you agree to allow someone to use your bank account, Andrei?”
“No comment.”
“Did someone offer you money to burn down—”
“No comment.”
“Andrei, think of Nadja.” Sam leans forward. “Please. Tell us the truth about the arson and the money from the sale of that book and I will personally speak to the CPS about—”
“No comment.”
Sam takes a deep, calming breath. “Do you know a man named Barry Brown?”
“No.”
“How about Betty Brown?”
“Betty from book. I wrote How to Get Away with Murder.”
“But did you kill Betty?”
“No.”
“Did anyone ask you to confess to writing How to Get Away with—”
Everyone in the room jumps at a sharp knock on the door.
Harry’s head pops around it and says, “The search team have found something.” Sam doesn’t like the urgent excitement in his voice, but stops the recording, excuses herself and steps out into the corridor to find DC Chen waiting for her.
The grin on Harry’s face makes her skin prickle.
“Jack Mathers and Denver Brady,” he says, beaming.
“That’s how we’ll be remembered. Two in one week.
” At Sam’s uncomprehending expression, he gestures to Chen, who hands Sam several evidence bags, and she turns her attention to the larger one first. At first glance it appears to be a ream of paper, but a closer look shows the sheets are covered in lines of typed text, with handwriting and crossings-out along the margins.
“From the Albescu property. We found these in a storage box, wrapped in bin bags. It appears to be a manuscript, ma’am—an early draft of a book,” Chen says.
“We also have this laptop, which is running the dark web and contains only a handful of files, each named the same thing, with a simple numbering suffix.”
Sam swallows.
“Multiple drafts, ma’am,” Chen goes on. “How to Get Away with Murder Version One, Two, Three and so on. And that’s just on the desktop. When I get done with this laptop, we’ll have—”
She turns her attention to the smaller bag. Something small and blue, a hint of red and silver. She shudders.
“Earrings and a ring with a sapphire gemstone, Sam,” says Harry, rubbing his hands together. “The proverbial nails in the Romanian’s coffin. This is it, Sam. This will make you.”
Sam struggles to breathe.
“Excuse me…” The lawyer is sticking his head around the door behind them, which he has opened just enough to do so. “We haven’t got all day and my client—”
“A moment, please,” Harry replies, dismissing the man, but the lawyer doesn’t close the door.
Instead, his eyes linger on the laptop and the bin bags.
His mouth forms a tight line, then he reenters the room where Andrei waits.
“Get the jewelry to the lab and do your magic with the laptop, Chen. This isn’t a done deal, by any stretch, but I think you’ve got him, Sam. I’ll call the CPS myself.”
“Sir.” Chen nods, then he turns to Sam, adding, “Congratulations, ma’am,” before striding away.
“Andrei Albescu is not Denver Brady,” Sam cries, an itchy heat rising up her neck. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I know in my gut that the man did not write How to Get Away with Murder and he certainly did not murder Betty Brown and Melanie Davison or—”
“Sam…” Harry holds his hands up, palms open. “We have the money trail, the CCTV from the petrol station and now, it seems, a lot more besides. We follow the evidence, not baseless theories.”
“He’s not Denver.” Sam stares him hard in the face. “I am certain. I have witnesses who—”
“Look, why don’t you take some time—”
“Harry!” Sam hisses, feeling a little spittle fly from her mouth. “It’s not him.”
“Is this really a hill you’re willing to die on, Sam?” Harry whispers.
“I promise you, Harry, on my mother’s soul,” she pleads. “That man is not Denver.”
“Sam, your parents would be so proud. You have caught a serial killer. Paparazzi from around the world are camped out on our doorstep and I can walk out there and say your name. Their name—Hansen. Can you grasp what that would mean? What would your father—”
“He is not Denver Brady!” Sam yells.
“God, Sam,” Harry hisses, glancing up and down the corridor. “Haven’t I always done what’s best for you? I’m telling you to take this win. For both our sakes. I want this for you. And you will not take this opportunity from me.”
Harry turns and walks away, leaving Sam alone in the corridor.
She shivers, runs her hands down her face and flattens herself against the wall, letting it hold her up.
It would be so easy for her to go upstairs and call the CPS, outline the evidence and charge Andrei with murder.
She’d stand next to Harry, smile and nod as he told the world’s press that she’s found Denver Brady, then work to build a case against Andrei for the murder of Betty Brown and Melanie Davison, potentially freeing Richie Scott in the process.
Sam would be the jewel in the Met’s crown.
All she has to do is go along with Harry’s suggestion.
It’s not like she hasn’t done it before.
A deep heat begins to stir in her stomach, then it rises to her chest and burns out through her face and neck.
She stands up straight, smooths her jacket, rolls back her shoulders and marches after Harry.
When the lift opens on to the fourth floor, she strides across the space and directly into Harry’s office, not giving a shit that he’s already on the phone.
“Yes. Quickly, please. Thanks.” Harry places the phone in the receiver and sits down, letting the momentum carry him backward in his chair. He laces his fingers, closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths as if he is an exhausted parent about to handle a difficult child.
“DI Hansen,” he says, “kindly refrain from entering my office without—”
“Cut the bullshit, Harry. Do not pin Denver’s crimes on some poor immigrant who—”
“Andrei Albescu is already under review with Immigration as a result of his petty crimes. Not to mention the arson charges we can bring against him today. Now this. Once we put the evidence to him, he’ll probably—”
Sam turns and slams the office door. It’s a visceral need to move. She wants to hit something. Anything. All the anger from the last year is boiling up and finally spilling over.
“Harry. Don’t do this. Albescu is an innocent man. He’s being framed or … or something. I just need some time to find the real—”
“Think about it, Sam,” Harry pleads. “This will be the making of your career.”
“It’s wrong,” Sam announces, folding her arms. “Just like transferring Lowry instead of reporting him was wrong. I will not go along with you this time, Harry. I will not watch an innocent man charged with murder. I will not see him branded a serial killer while a real predator is released from jail and another remains free.”
Harry sighs. “Can’t you see that it’s in your best—”
“Do not talk to me about my best interests,” Sam barks. “I refuse to allow this to happen. I’ll speak to the Police and Crime Commissioner. I’ll speak to some old journalist friends. I’ll sing it from the rooftops like Maria fucking von Trapp if I have to.”
By the end of her rant, Sam is panting, and Harry sits patiently, waiting for her to contain herself.
They both know she knows how to cause trouble.
These days, people listen to whistleblowers, and Sam’s a credible one.
She can see the headlines now: WE HAVEN’T CAUGHT DENVER!
DETECTIVE CLAIMS. Harry would have to discredit her somehow and she’s been nothing but well-behaved since she returned to work.
He even made her SIO. I have a strong hand here, she thinks.
Why, then, is he looking at her as though he knows something she doesn’t?
“My dear girl…” He shakes his head. “I’ve done everything I can for you.”
There’s a knock at the door. A woman Sam vaguely recognizes enters the office. When she turns back, Harry has the saddest look on his face. It reminds her of the day Harry carried her father’s coffin up the aisle of the church.
“Last chance, Sam?” Harry pleads.
“Fuck you, Harry.”
Harry takes a deep breath. “Sam, this is Erica Mason from upstairs—HR. I’ve asked Erica to join us as I have some difficult news for you, Sam. I’m afraid we need to suspend you from duty, with immediate effect.”
Sam steps back, her throat suddenly dry. “You can’t suspend me without cause,” she tries to say, but the words come out in a rasp.
Erica gives her a calm smile. “I’m sorry, Detective,” she says, “but it’s come to our attention that you recently suffered a panic attack while on duty.
Subsequently, you went to a public house and rendered yourself incapacitated by way of alcohol.
All while on duty and supervising a trainee, who managed, under difficult circumstances, to bring you home. ”
Salt floods Sam’s mouth and her chest seizes. How could they know? Taylor wouldn’t have said anything. He brought her home and left her on the sofa under a blanket.
“Taylor called me,” Harry says.
“Why would Taylor—”
“Because he couldn’t get you out of the taxi!” Harry spits, anger flaring. “So, I came and got you on to your sofa while the boy cleaned up the dog shit from your kitchen floor. I told him I’d have his job if he didn’t keep shtum—”
“You made me joint SIO the next day!” she cries. “How could you? Knowing I’d had a—”
“What the DCI means,” Erica interjects, “is that he directed Trainee Detective Constable Taylor to leave the matter in the DCI’s hands.
The decision to make you joint SIO was never formalized and nor will it be, as we have also discovered that you’ve failed to attend your private counseling appointments.
If you remember, when you first took sick leave, it was agreed that private counseling would be an acceptable alternative to in-house therapy, but that it remained obligatory.
Our well-being officer has sent you numerous emails requesting updates and meetings, and you have ignored them.
All things considered, DCI Blakelaw has decided to involve HR—”
“Because he needs me out of the way for a while so he can convict the wrong man. Otherwise you’d have said nothing to H-fucking-R, would you, Harry?
” Sam’s words are venomous, but they lack real strength.
She’s already struggling to breathe properly and the room’s beginning to spin.
Through the glass, she sees Adam Taylor looking in at them.
His cheeks are red and she’s sure his eyes are glistening, but his regret can’t help her now.
Sam places a hand on Harry’s desk, trying to steady herself.
“Screw you, Harry,” Sam whispers, the tears spilling over and plopping on to her blouse.
Harry smiles at her calmly, then the phone rings. They both know it’ll be the prosecutor calling to discuss charging Andrei Albescu with the crimes of Denver Brady.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Harry says coolly, “I’ve come to believe that you need some additional sick leave. Please excuse me now.” With that he nods at Erica, who tries to place her arm around Sam’s shoulder, but can’t reach and settles for holding her elbow instead.
“Let me see you to a taxi, Detective Hansen,” she says, “and I’m afraid I’ll need your work phone and badge.”