Chapter Twenty-Four
Toni watches as Sam tapes down the final box and writes “LOUNGE” on it in marker pen.
Renting a place without seeing it in real life is risky, but Neil Duggan has assured her that the flat she’s chosen is in a good area, “in the posh part of toon,” and it’s near Northumbria Police HQ, the Quayside, and the green and pleasant Exhibition Park, perfect for dog-walking.
Sam still finds the cost of rent Up North too good to be true and struggles to believe that she can rent a three-bedroom apartment with a small garden, located “in the posh part,” for less money per month than a studio in London.
As she finishes up, she skims through the messages from Lindsay on her phone.
The messages are essays, but she goes back to the beginning and takes the time to read each word carefully before replying.
Sam knows the dangers of skim-reading and missing important words or phrases that hint at a meaning entirely different from the surface level.
Sam’s reminded of the journalist she met in Windsor’s office reception and what he’d told her about skim-reading Denver’s how-to guide, and of how he’d failed to grasp the facts.
She had taken her time, never skimming a single word of the book, not that she’d ever felt the urge to.
Rather than subjecting the reader to chunks of description and filler text, the book had simply credited them with the intelligence to assume that time had passed and things had happened, and that they’d be saved from mundanity and offered only the bits they needed. The best bits.
Sam slides her phone into her back pocket and decides to take one last look around the terraced house that’s been her home since her late teens, and check that everything’s ready.
She runs upstairs and trips at the top step, sending herself flying across the landing.
As she lands, she laughs, amazed at how hopeful she’s feeling now, compared to this time last year.
She jumps up and works her way through the upstairs rooms. Everything is in place.
The empty rooms look so much bigger now, with all their contents in labeled boxes against the wall.
There are marks on the carpets where furniture has stood for two decades, leaving a completely different shade in the now-exposed pile that once hid beneath.
She does the same downstairs, Toni trotting wonkily behind her.
He’d cocked his leg against one of the boxes when Sam had begun packing, so she’s trying to keep an eye on him.
Finished in the main house, she pulls back the lino in the corner of the kitchen to reveal the cellar door.
Lots of old London houses have a basement, her dad had explained the first time he brought her down there: a cavernous space designed to protect the main house from ground water and often used for shelter during the Blitz.
Cellars then became man caves—places where husbands worked for hours on model train sets or, in her father’s case, polished his antique pistol collection.
Now, according to the estate agent, they function as wine cellars or games rooms.
The old stairs are solid English oak, and she walks down them without making a creak.
Using the light on her phone, she examines the now empty room.
Only her dad’s desk is still there in the corner, with a huge lamp next to it, strewn with cobwebs.
She doesn’t need to close her eyes—she can see him there still.
Slumped over his desk, antique pistol in one hand, a pot of polish open in front of him.
Brains splattered up the wall. No note. That’s odd, the police had said.
Sam jumps as her phone pings, and Toni whines from above.
She takes one last look at the old desk and turns, walking back up the basement stairs.
The message, as she expects, is from Lindsay, and Sam fills the kettle and sets it to boil as she begins reading.
Lindsay tells her that she’d like to meet up again at the café in Bath.
It’ll be their fourth meet-up since the day Sam spoke candidly to her in the hairdresser’s.
It’s a long drive for each hurried cuppa and conversation, but Sam agrees to it immediately and sets a day and time.
Lindsay’s been doing really well; her arm is healing and the women have become like friends.
Sam suspects that she’s getting ready to leave Richie, and wants to be there to see her to safety.
She knows it takes victims of domestic abuse an average of five years and around half a dozen attempts before they finally leave for good.
Lindsay would be a bit of a miracle if she got out this soon, but she’s living with a murderer so perhaps she’s more motivated.
“And I can’t wait longer than one more month,” she says to Toni, who scratches at the door, asking to go to the beach, “because we’ll be moving away.”
The kettle boils and she warms the teapot, adds two teabags, then lets the water hit them with a hiss—the strike, it’s called.
Sam fires off a few more messages and checks the news for anything new on Andrei Albescu or Jack Mathers.
DENVER brADY SENTENCED TO LIFE, she reads, and takes a deep breath.
She knew the day was coming: Andrei pled guilty and thus skipped a jury trial and went straight to sentencing, so it was only a matter of time.
She suspects a deal was offered: a life sentence, rather than a whole life sentence, meaning he’ll serve twenty-five years.
For burning down a building and making a few bad choices.
Sam swallows. She desperately wishes she could help the man, but it’s impossible.
All she can do now is ensure those responsible are brought to account.
Sam pours her tea from the pot when the timer sounds and adds milk.
She carries the cup to the lounge, where she and Toni sit together on the sofa.
Sam polishes her police baton and sips her tea.
On the TV, Del Boy tries to sell an oversized camel-hair coat to his mate.
Sam chuckles. She knows the words to this episode; it’s one of her favorites.
Once the baton is polished, she places it on the shelf in the entry hall.
It’s supposed to live on the leather belt that police officers wear around their waist, and Sam promises herself she’ll put it away soon.
After she’s finished her tea, she clips on Toni’s lead, grabs a coat and unlocks the front door. Outside, Toni runs toward the car, tugging her along.
“No, boy, we’re not going to the beach today,” Sam says, and the little scruff falls into step beside her. Toni loved their strolls along the clifftops, but Sam’s already closed that chapter.
Instead, she turns toward the high street.
After purchasing a small bunch of daffodils, she hops on the next bus and they disembark near Holland Park.
She walks the full length and breadth of it today, in no hurry to reach her destination.
When Toni starts to shiver, she turns toward the cluster of oak trees.
The teddies and flowers are fewer, but still fresh, lying against the tree where Charlotte Mathers was murdered by her uncle.
There’s a warm breeze, but Sam is cold under the oak’s shade and can’t take her eyes off the scratched trunk where Jack Mathers carved his niece’s and Denver’s initials to throw the police off his scent. Now there’s a plaque instead:
Charlotte, sleep well, my angel. Dad xxx.
Sam lays her daffodils against the tree and closes her eyes.
“Hello, Detective Hansen,” says a small voice from behind, and Sam turns, wiping her eyes. Jessica and Mrs. Patel stand together, each holding a bunch of fresh flowers. The woman nods a greeting, then walks away from her daughter to place the flowers against the trunk.
Jessica smiles up at Sam. “Thank you for catching him,” she says. “This increases your solve rate to ninety-nine percent.”
Sam smiles, saying nothing. Toni approaches tentatively and the girl bends to stroke his head, giving Sam a second to think. She reaches into her jeans pocket and holds out her clasped hand. “I think this belongs with you.”
Jessica steps closer and takes Charlotte’s netball keyring, running her thumb over its now well-worn surface. The C in the middle of the ball is barely visible, and the chain is twisted from so much handling.
Jessica holds the keyring to her chest. “I’m one hundred percent certain that I’ll remember you always, Detective Samantha Hansen.”
“Just Sam is fine,” she says, blinking away tears.
Without warning, the girl throws her arms around Sam’s waist, then just as quickly detaches herself and walks away. Sam watches as Jessica goes over to the great oak tree, lays down her flowers and, beside them, places Charlotte’s little netball.