Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
DAN
According to one of the statements given during interview at the time – an interview that was conducted by a Detective Amanda Pritchard at Leeds Central Police Station – Erin claimed that Ari Hussain was her friend’s fiancé – and that friend’s name was – you guessed it – Samantha Valentine.
My stomach somersaults as I read.
… Santos claims that Samantha told her she was being abused by her fiancé, Ari Hussain, for many months… (Erin) has confessed to fatally stabbing Mr Radulovic, believing that her own life and the life of her friend, Samantha, were in immediate danger…
‘Good God…’ I whisper underneath my breath. ‘This is almost a duplicate script of our crime, Davis.’
‘What?’
She comes in closer, starts reading over my shoulder.
‘Tilly Ward’s statement, and this Erin Santos’s – it’s practically identical, Lucy. Both women say they were protecting someone called Samantha Valentine, and both say they believed that she was being abused by her partner before they ended up killing him in self-defence…’
My mind is glitching like a faulty radio.
The same name, the same crime, practically.
It can’t be coincidence. These crimes happened six years apart, in two different cities, perpetrated by two different women who, at first glance at least, appear to be unconnected to each other.
An icy chill suddenly runs right through me.
What are we dealing with here? Is this Samantha Valentine some kind of a Svengali figure who befriends people and then coerces them into murder?
Is that her MO? If it is, then it makes her an extremely dangerous individual indeed.
‘It says here,’ Davis’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, ‘that Erin has a history of mental health issues and spent time on a psych ward at a place called Ashdown Hospital, a couple of years prior to her arrest…’
She hands the file back to me.
‘… No trace of anyone named Samantha Valentine officially in existence…’ I read the police report aloud. ‘She is not registered at the address of the crime, there are no witnesses… nothing to link Erin to anyone with that name, no photos, no social media…’
I glance up at Davis again.
‘Get a warrant for all the social media companies – request information on any active, inactive and deleted accounts for anyone named Samantha Valentine in the past decade.’ I nod at DS Baylis.
This could go way back, years even. Con artists, if that’s what we’re dealing with, in whatever form they may come, always leave a trail of victims in their path.
You don’t just wake up one morning and decide to diddle someone out of their life savings or coerce them into murder.
From what I know, most con artists start honing their skills from an early age.
‘Check for any connections between Erin Santos and Tilly Ward, anything that could possibly link them together. We need to rule that out straight off the bat.’ I nod at Mitchell. ‘And cross-reference any victims of coercion and con crimes where someone may have used a similar MO…’
I’ve not worked on many – strike that, any – cases before where someone is suspected of coercing another into killing for them.
It’s unusual to say the least. The only example that springs to mind is Charles Manson, the 60s cult leader who brainwashed his followers – usually very young, vulnerable women – into committing grizzly murders in an attempt to start a race war.
Though he was eventually imprisoned for first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit murder, he never actually dirtied his hands by killing anyone personally.
A coward no less, as well as a psychopath.
I turn to Baylis.
‘I want you and Harding on the CCTV footage we have of the person in the black puffer coat, the unwanted visitor at Milo Harrison’s address. I think it’s a woman, and I want to know who she is and why he didn’t want to see her. Oh, and do a search on the name Ari Hussain, find out if it’s legit.’
‘On it, boss.’
‘If Erin Santos calls again, put her straight through and see if we can get a trace this time, OK – straight through to me directly.’
Davis is still reading the file as I collapse down onto the swivel chair behind my desk. When I glance up I see that she’s staring at me.
‘What? What is it, Davis?’
She places the papers carefully down onto my desk, like a deck of cards. I don’t know if Davis has ever played poker before, but something tells me she’d be good at it.
‘They didn’t believe her, gov.’
‘Who didn’t believe her – what?’
‘Us, the police, they didn’t believe Erin’s account at the time, they didn’t buy her story about Samantha Valentine.’
I sit forwards sharply, a fresh new injection of adrenalin cutting through my exhaustion. ‘They thought it was all a ruse, gov, and that she made up a false witness as an alibi. It’s there, in her file.’ She nods to it.
‘So… what happened to her? Was she convicted of the murder?’ I’m really not liking the sound of this.
‘She was charged with it, but it says she took a plea and got manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility and was sentenced to…’ – she slowly trains her eyes back on mine – ‘… six years in Larksmere High Security Psychiatric Hospital.’
My thoughts must instantly register on my face because Davis raises her eyes.
‘Exactly, gov. No one in their “right mind” would ever want to go there.’ She shoots me an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, bad joke, boss.’
‘Was she though? In her right mind, I mean, when she was sent to Larksmere?’
I can only hope that Erin Santos wasn’t, because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. Being insane in a place like that would be hellish enough.
Larksmere Hospital’s formidable reputation precedes it.
As an institution that houses some of the UK’s most dangerous criminally insane individuals, it’s not exactly known for its five-star accommodation and refined clientele.
Why didn’t Yorkshire Police look into Erin’s story in more detail, I wonder?
Was she deemed an unreliable witness due to her past mental health issues?
Was she discriminated against and ended up there as a result?
This might explain her animosity towards the police.
Come on, Erin. Call me back, tell me what happened, tell me your story.
‘Gov.’
Parker is in front of me with a satisfied look on his face.
‘We’ve found an address for Erin Santos.’
Parker reminds me a little of my younger self in some ways, though perhaps I flatter myself.
He’s got a good head – and heart – on him.
On the morning the news got round the building about my son’s diagnosis, he bought me a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea from the canteen and left it on my desk.
He never took credit for it, but I knew it was he who’d left it there – he’d forgotten to put the ketchup in.
‘She’s living in charity housing in Leeds after being released from Larksmere, a little over six weeks ago. She’s effectively on licence for the next eighteen months.’
Davis throws me a sideways glance. Just six weeks ago.
My mind starts buzzing like a hornet’s nest. Erin Santos was released from the country’s most notorious mental hospital a little over a month ago and now we have an almost identical crime to the one she committed six years ago – under influence or not – with the same name, Samantha Valentine, at the heart of it. I turn to Parker.
‘Get in touch with Leeds Central and get them to send a car round to that address, now, tonight.’ I have no faith in my request bearing fruit however – something tells me that Erin Santos is already long gone.