‘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 isandwhy 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 Santoswasn’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 healthissues? Was shediscriminatedagainst 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.
EIGHTEEN
It was 2 a.m. by the time I crept into bed and spooned into my warm, sleeping wife underneath the soft, clean sheets. I nuzzled into her, hoping to savour the feeling a moment longer before I fell asleep – but it was too late.
My son’s cries woke me with a start sometime later. Fiona groaned awake as she pulled the duvet back, but I stopped her before she could throw a leg out.
‘I’ll go.’
I fed Jude his bottle of formula or ‘milky num-nums’ as his big sister, Pip, calls it, slumped on the sofa while looking through Erin Santos’s police files. It made for unsettling reading. Erin’s account of what had happened seven years ago was dismissed by investigating officers at the time as an ‘elaborate’ story, one she’d concocted to minimise her culpability. Police found no evidence to support Erin’s claims that anyone called Samantha Valentine existed. They could find no trace of her, though from what I can tell, their efforts weren’t exactly exhaustive. They concluded that Erin Santos was delusional and suffering from ‘adverse mental health issues’. And of course, I already know where she ended up.
