Chapter Twenty-Three
Harry looks older than ever when they meet for dinner the following week, but he’s full of the joys of spring.
As he examines the menu, Sam takes him in—this man, who had been her only family, her only rock for so many years.
He’s smart, in a suit, his almost entirely gray hair slicked back.
Sam runs her hands through her own hair, which is soft, styled and freshly highlighted.
After their brief encounter in the Women’s room, she’d arranged to meet Lindsay at a hairdresser’s today, so they could chat without Richie becoming suspicious.
They’d sat together in a quiet corner of the salon, tinfoil in their hair, and Lindsay had sobbed as Sam told her the truth about Richie Scott.
Lindsay had confessed that he’d become more “hands on” not long into their relationship.
Just the night before, Lindsay confided, he poured his drink over her head and then pretended it was a joke.
As they were talking, Lindsay was constantly texting, fearful of not replying quickly enough to Richie.
Even though he was tracking her location, he still asked for a photograph of his girlfriend in the hairdresser’s holding up his chosen number of fingers, and then a photograph of the hairdresser so he could be sure it wasn’t another man.
“… Earth to Sam,” Harry says. “Pete’s arrived.”
Dr. Pete Thomson takes a seat at the table and greets her warmly, and she’s relieved he doesn’t seem uncomfortable about socializing with a former patient.
Sam sips her water as Pete and Harry catch up.
As the men chat, she takes in Harry’s familiar face, the bushy eyebrows that have more gray than black in them now.
For all his flaws, Harry is probably the person she knows best in this world, since her dad died.
In many ways, she owes Harry more than anyone, her father included.
Without him, she’d never have joined the police.
She’d never wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps—she’d seen what the job can do to someone—but Harry had been determined that the police force was the right path for Sam.
The night she’d wept on Harry’s shoulder, as her father’s body lay cooling in the basement at Acklam Terrace, he’d told her that she was made of the right stuff.
So, Sam had joined the police, determined to catch the bad guys.
She’d just never expected Harry to be one of them.
“We’ll take the Chateau Montrose,” Harry says to the waiter.
“Very good, sir,” the man says and walks away.
Sam hates red wine. It’s something she’s always wanted to like, but she just can’t.
She smiles anyway. Maybe this time it’ll taste better.
She looks to Dr. Thomson, who says nothing about the choice of wine.
If anything, the doctor looks as surprised to be here as he sounded on the phone when she called last week to invite him.
“Well, this is nice,” he says. “You both look so well. Especially you, Samantha. The change in you is impressive. Love the new hair by—”
“Don’t call her Samantha, she hates it,” Harry says, tearing open his bread roll.
Pete turns to her, astounded. “Oh, really? In all our time working together, you never said!”
She shrugs. “It’s just Sam.”
“Like her old man,” Harry adds. “DI Sam Hansen, mark two.”
Pete smiles. “Sam it is, then.”
The waiter returns and performs the tasting ceremony to perfection.
Harry sniffs and swirls, then nods. The waiter fills Sam’s glass first, then Dr. Thomson’s and finally Harry’s, before placing the bottle in the center of the table.
They raise their glasses in unison, holding eye contact as they chink.
A waitress arrives to take their food order and Sam opts for pasta, as does Pete.
Harry orders a blue fillet steak and a side of chips.
Sam momentarily worries about his cholesterol, but Pete interrupts the thought with a question about her move out of London.
“My packing is well underway,” she answers. “I’m hoping for a transfer to Newcastle, or perhaps Cumbria. If not, I might just travel for a while. I’ve a few odds and ends still to tie up.”
“I can’t fathom it, myself,” Harry says, “quitting London for the grim North. There’s nothing in Newcastle but Greggs and pubs.”
“Sounds fine to me,” says Pete, and he winks at Sam.
“It’s the arse-end of nowhere,” Harry continues, dipping his bread in the shared ramekin of fluffy yellow butter.
Sam sips her wine and tries not to wince at its taste.
She knows she’ll never finish a whole glass, so she pours herself more water from the carafe.
“She should just come back to the Met. You’d sign her off again, wouldn’t you, Pete? She can try another phased return.”
Sam can’t speak, too afraid of what she’ll say. Mercifully, Pete doesn’t mention that she’s no longer his patient and tactfully switches the subject.
“When’s your last day, Harry?”
“End of the month, officially, but the new DCI has already taken over. He’s moved into my office and put dreadful art on the walls. I went in today to say my final cheerios and eat cheap cake.”
“How’s Tina doing?” Sam asks.
“Who?” Harry wonders. “Oh, her. Fine, fine. I never doubted her. Better than your trainee. What’s-his-name hasn’t stopped moping about the place since you decided to take some time off.”
“Taylor,” Sam mutters. “His name is Adam Taylor.”
“I’m sick of him,” Harry says, “wandering about like a lost puppy. First, asking when you’d be back. Then how were you doing. Just yesterday he had the nerve to ask me to pass a message to you.”
“What message?” Sam asks, her skin tingling.
“How should I know?” Harry scoffs. “Told him I’m retired and I’m not taking up a new role as a postman.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually retired,” says Pete quickly, possibly noticing Sam’s white knuckles clenched around her butter knife. “I was so surprised to hear—”
“Used to have compulsory retirement, you know,” Harry says through a mouthful of bread, “the Met did. Fifty-five. Ridiculous, isn’t it?
Retiring us at fifty-five. But I’m a fair bit older than that now and I just thought, I’ll go out on a high.
It’s a good time and, well, let’s just say I have a friend who thinks I might do well in politics.
He’s made a few introductions. There’s always the local council and even …
well, we need some damn good MPs if we’re going to sort it all out.
Hmm. Say no more for now.” Harry taps his nose and Sam takes a deep breath.
“You’d make a great MP.” She forces a smile. “You’ll move out of London, I suppose?”
“Yes, I let my little flat go, so I’m back home in Broadstairs with the wife. Thank God for the golf club.”
“How is Beryl?” Sam asks.
“Good days and bad. She’s more forgetful than ever. Mind you, she can still remember what I did wrong yesterday, last week, even last year. I’ve even started walking to keep out of the way. Me, walking. Like those fuddy-duddy old men in beige coats. It’ll be a flat cap next, you watch.”
“Where do you walk?” Pete asks, clearly keen to change the subject.
“Along the tops at Botany Bay,” Harry says.
“Toni loves that beach,” Sam says. “We might join you one time. Before we head to the arse-end of nowhere.”
“Yes. Well. I’m not much for dogs, but … I thought you were getting rid of it, anyway?”
“Steak, sir?”
The waiter brings the food and Sam’s pasta is exquisite, but she could eat it twice.
The gourmet portion sizes aren’t enough now that she’s jogging again.
The three of them make small talk through dinner and all order dessert—with a round of brandy for the men, at Harry’s insistence.
Sam’s surprised to discover that Pete is married and is in the process of adopting a six-year-old boy.
Pete asks about the Charlotte Mathers murder trial—apparently, his husband is a true-crime buff and is following it all keenly.
She admits to Pete that she’s no longer centrally involved in the case preparation for trial, but she believes that the evidence is limited.
A conviction is possible, she tells him, but without a confession the prosecutor might struggle. It depends on the jury on the day.
“I always liked the uncle for it,” Harry says through a mouthful of steak.
Sam takes a deep breath, but says nothing.
Pete asks about Andrei Albescu. Of course, Pete calls him Denver, his real name as lost to him as his freedom.
In truth, she’s done her best to push thoughts of Andrei in a twelve-by-five-foot cell out of her mind.
The media have made that difficult, though.
There have been linguists and profilers on every TV show since it happened, analyzing How to Get Away with Murder.
Claire, the linguist who helped Sam, has been offered fifty thousand pounds to feature in the latest docuseries.
If only they all knew, she thinks. She gives Pete a measured response about Andrei, hoping to turn the conversation away from that topic—one that’s highly likely to keep her awake tonight, just as it has every night for weeks.
Sam’s eyes grow heavy as the meal draws to a close. The packing and the planning are really sapping her mental energy. She’s relieved when the waiter finally puts the padded black book containing the bill next to Harry and produces a card machine from his belt. Harry takes out a gold credit card.
“Let’s just split it evenly, eh? Far simpler,” Harry says, and taps the machine after the waiter has keyed in the amount.
Pete catches Sam’s eye, but neither of them says anything. They each produce their own debit cards and pay their portion of the bill. The waiter brings their coats and tells Harry that his driver is waiting.
“Casino, old boy?” Harry turns to Pete.
“I’m guessing you’ll also say no, Sam?” Harry says after Pete declines, forcing his arms into his coat. “Your old man and me, we had some nights, I can tell you.”
Sam smiles as best she can as she shakes her head.
Harry kisses Sam on both cheeks before turning for the door, and she and Pete watch him leave.
She thinks he looks aged, a little unsteady on his feet.
No longer the tall, lean man with pitch-black hair that used to spend hours in their living room, talking about antique shotguns with her father and pretending not to notice her mother’s bruised arms.
“It’s great to see you both getting on so well again,” Pete says, once Harry’s left the restaurant. “It’s a shame you lost that relationship when you needed it most. I don’t think Harry ever understood how much damage he did when he promoted that officer who—”
“Harry’s always been like a father to me,” Sam says, cutting Pete off and tapping on her phone screen. “He’s not perfect, but I love him dearly. Where are you headed, Doc?”
“Same direction as you, I think. Share an Uber?”
“Great idea.”
“I’ll get it,” Pete says. “At least I enjoyed the overpriced wine. Fancy splitting the bill—what a bugger he is sometimes, eh?”
Sam just smiles.
“One last drink before I order the taxi?” Pete asks.
“No thanks, Doc. Hangovers last a lot longer now I’ve turned forty.” Sam slides her arms into her jacket sleeves. “Plus, Toni’s waiting at home and we have a lot to get done before we move.”
“Of course,” Dr. Thomson says. “No rest for the wicked.”
“Exactly,” Sam says.