Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, Sam wakes on the sofa under an empty pizza box, feeling more human. Her stomach is still full and she brews herself a cup of black tea and swallows a tablet, noticing that there’s only one left.
For the first time since her suspension three weeks ago, Sam showers.
Toni sits outside the bathroom as she washes her hair multiple times to penetrate the layers of grease that have accumulated.
Her pajamas are ripe and could probably stand up on their own; she pushes them into the washing basket and dons her Nordic jumper and sweatpants.
Then she feeds Toni and as he eats, she mops the kitchen lino once again with hot water and bleach.
His meal finished, Toni scratches at the door. Sam shakes her head. He barks.
“OK, boy,” she says, pulling out a denim jacket.
“Only a little walk, though, and while we’re at it we can call at the pharmacy for my Prozac.
” Sam grabs Toni’s new collar and his extendable lead.
He jumps up at the front door while she searches for her keys and phone before remembering that she’d had to hand in her work phone when she was told to leave.
She digs about in her kitchen drawer, the one with everything from sticky tape to tampons in it, and finds her personal mobile, which she hasn’t used since being back at work.
Mercifully, the screen comes to life when she plugs it in.
The battery symbol flashes and she leaves it to charge, fitting Toni’s collar and clipping on his lead.
It’s bright outside, and Sam supposes it’s about midday.
There’s a blue sky and not much traffic.
Perhaps it’s the weekend, Sam thinks. Making her way down Matrimony Place, past St. Paul’s Church, she passes a queue of brunchers lined up outside Bubbles and Beans.
The pharmacy that Dr. Thomson sends her prescription to is only a five-minute walk along the high street, but Sam is sweating by the time she arrives.
Now that she’s managed to leave the house for the first time in weeks, Sam decides that she wants to make the moment last. So does Toni.
He struts and sniffs, looking back at Sam and waiting for her if he gets too far ahead.
She notices that his hip bones are no longer visible and there’s a spring in his swaying step.
A little smile creeps over her face, feeling strange but pleasant.
They head north toward Battersea Park. She’s always loved to stroll around the Rosery Gardens, the Ladies’ Pond and the rest of the lake there, and she wonders if that might boost her mood.
There are some street food vendors by the water and Sam buys Toni a doggy ice cream, which he licks once and growls at, so she gives him half her hot dog instead.
Taking a different route home, down an unfamiliar high street, most of the shops Sam passes are the usual franchises: Costa, Subway, Currys.
Toni gives a little yelp as Sam jerks to a halt outside an electrical shop.
The window is filled with huge televisions.
The latest curved flat-screen dominates the display.
On the screen, a smart presenter sits behind a news desk, talking to MP Cecil Taylor.
But it’s not the man’s face, an older version of Adam’s, that’s caught Sam’s attention.
It’s the words scrolling across the bottom: CONVICTION OVERTURNED: MET POLICE APOLOGIZE.
Taylor senior and the presenter disappear and a new presenter begins to talk from outside an old building that Sam knows is the city courthouse.
There are no subtitles, so Sam enters the store and heads directly to the nearest TV, grabbing the remote that’s attached to it by an anti-theft chain and upping the volume.
As if sensing Sam’s prickling armpits, Toni lets out a low whine and licks her shoe.
Sam’s pulse is racing. A throbbing strikes up in her temples.
Behind the presenter, Sam sees a familiar figure, his arms raised in the air as if he’s just scored for Bristol City.
She can just make out the Union Jack tattoo.
Bile rises in Sam’s throat as he steps on to the podium and the camera closes in on his grinning face as he reads from a piece of paper.
“Excuse me, miss,” says a voice behind her, “no dogs in the store.”
“Today,” Richie Scott says, “justice has been done. Justice for me and justice for my beautiful Mel. I always said I was innocent and now everyone knows what Denver Brady, now identified as Andrei Albescu, has done to her. Not what I done. I loved my Mel.”
“Excuse me,” the voice says again. “I’m sorry but there are no dogs allowed in here.”
“I want to thank you lot, the public, for your support. I want to thank my mates what stuck by me and I want to thank my lawyer here, for getting me out.” Richie gestures to the man by his side who is standing back from the crowd, only his torso momentarily visible as the camera quickly skips out and then back to Richie’s grinning face. Sam gasps.
“What will your first act as a free man be, Mr. Scott?” calls out one journalist.
“I’m off to the pub.” Scott grins. “First round’s on me, boys!” Another cheer rises from the crowd.
“How do you respond to women’s rights groups who feel that you still belong in prison, Mr. Scott?” asks a different voice.
“I done my time for that, and I’m sorry for it. Mel could really push my buttons, but I’m sorry I rose to it. I don’t accept violence against women.”
“What do you say to the Met Police, who wrongfully arrested an innocent man?” asks another journalist.
“Everyone makes mistakes.” Scott shrugs. “Police are just humans. But not catching Denver Brady sooner. Not even knowing a serial killer was—”
“Security. We’ve a woman with a dog in the TV section. She’s refusing to leave.”
Sam’s feet find motion and she walks from the store and back the way she’s come.
Her mind begins to whirr and clunk like an old car that’s stood still for too long but is made of strong stuff.
For weeks she’s struggled with so many pieces of the Denver Brady case.
Like a jigsaw that she couldn’t quite finish.
But in that moment, looking at Richie Scott without his prison jumpsuit and out in the open, it all comes together.
Sam knows who killed Betty.
Sam knows who killed Melanie.
Sam knows it all. Because she recognizes that dreadful tie.
Sam rushes home. Ignoring the bunch of flowers on her doorstep, she fumbles her way inside and grabs her mobile, navigating immediately to her work email and finding herself logged out.
Her password doesn’t work. She logs on to her personal email and drafts a message to Neil Duggan.
She’s not 100 percent sure of his email address, so she sends several, with varying combinations of forename and surname and initials.
Within ten minutes, she’s had half a dozen bounce-backs and one reply.
Hansen,
Pleased to hear from you. I’ve been calling but been stonewalled Met end. What’s going on down there?
I found Betty’s nephew. Barry Brown is a lawyer in London—see attached.
We need to talk. My (personal) mobile is 07700 900458.
Neil
DI Neil Duggan
Northumbria Police
Sam slumps on to the sofa, panting, and clicks on the attached PDFs, reading them quickly. Then she smiles a great, wide smile. There’s a certificate of name-change.
“I knew it,” she says to the dog. “I’ve found the real Denver Brady and his name is not Andrei Albescu.”