I notice the TV screen on the wall above her is switched on to the BBC news channel. Trust me to choose a charity shop where the staff have an interest in current affairs. Why isn’t she watching a music channel or something? Young hippie-chick here looks more like aLove Islandfan to me – but then I think it’s fairly safe to say that, given my past history, maybe I’m not the best judge of character.
I listen out for the news as I hurriedly strip off my old clothes and change into my new ‘office chic’ ensemble. I throw the thick black dress coat over the top before brushing my hair and adding a dash of red lipstick. It’s as I’m standing back a little from the mirror, observing my transformation, that I hear my name mentioned.
‘… Erin Santos… early forties with long dark hair and green eyes… she was last seen on CCTV at Leeds Central station, where she boarded a train to London King’s Cross…’ I surreptitiouslypull back the curtain a touch, peer through it at the TV screen that hippie-chick is now, of course, avidly blinking up at. ‘… A former inmate at Larksmere High Security Psychiatric Hospital, police have advised the public not to approach Santos and if they do see her, to call them at the first opportunity.’ That dreadful photo of me flashes up on the screen again.
‘…Police have advised the public not to approach Santos.’
My face glows with anger. Sometimes I’m amazed that I still have any anger left in me. You’d think, after all these years of injustice, that particular reservoir might’ve run dry, and yet it is the gift that keeps on giving. The police really are a bunch of muppets. They got this all so wrong from the very beginning, and seem hell-bent on continuing with the same narrative even now, all these years later. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything less, really. I plan to call Dan Riley again once I’ve hired a car and put him straight. Maybe he can do the same for me about this forensic evidence they’ve supposedly found at this crime scene I was never at. It’s currently being suggested on social media that my DNA was discovered inside Milo Harrison’s apartment. Only, I know thatcan’tbe right. It’s probably just fake news. Still, I’m incensed they can report such lies so seemingly legitimately without evidence, or recourse. Doesanyonecare about the truth anymore?
I tear back the curtain, the metal rings singing with the momentum.Screw them all!What does it matter anyway, what people are saying about me? When therealtruth is finally revealed in all its shocking glory, then I’ll be a media sensation for all the right reasons, and heads will roll. I’m almost sad that I won’t be around to witness it when it happens.
‘Wow!’ Hippie-chick remarks, wide-eyed, as I step from the changing room. ‘Look at you! You look… awesome!’
I was right.No onetells the truth anymore. Anyway, at least it appears she hasn’t recognised me from my photo that’s still on the screen above us.
I flash her a fake smile. I doubt she can tell the difference. Samantha Valentine may be a cunning chameleon, able to adapt and mimic sincerity like the professional emotional fraudster she is, but six years in that hospital from hell has taught me nothing if not how to portray my emotions – real and, especially, otherwise – convincingly. Besides, I learned from the master.
In hindsight, one of the things Samantha inadvertently taught me is how to hide in plain sight, like the misplaced set of keys you’ve spent hours searching for only to find they were right under your nose all along.
Now though, I reckon I can give her a run for her money. When I find Samantha – and I will find her – she won’t know what’s hit her. Subservient little Erin, her well-trained puppet, her faithful and adoring follower,her friend,is no longer the person she was so effortlessly able to deceive and destroy without care or conscience. I’m different now.I’ve changed.
‘Thanks,’ I say, turning back to smile at hippie-chick as I strut out of the shop in my new ensemble, ‘hun.’
THIRTY-THREE
DAN
The incident room at Operation Verde the next morning is buzzing with anticipation. Intel has come up with an address in King’s Cross – the Bull and Barrow, a notorious pub known for its links to criminal activity and the underworld. It’s been raided more times than a dieter’s fridge at midnight over the years and it’s believed that Erin may be staying in one of the ‘guest rooms’ there. I can only imagine what the inside of one of those looks like. Is there even a minus rating on Trustpilot?
What did Erin mean that time when she told me on the phone that she wasn’t runningfromsomething, but runningtosomething? I could be wrong – and Archer seems to delight in the idea that I might be – but I think she’s planning to exact some kind of revenge on Samantha Valentine for what she believes are the myriad injustices she’s suffered at her hand. Only if thatisthe case – and she’s both Erin SantosandSamantha Valentine simultaneously – then wouldn’t this mean that by default she’d be taking revenge onherself? It could be that the sassy Samantha side of her hates these men who have somehow wronged her in her eyes – I suspect Samantha probablywasstalking both her victims, and knew them in some form – but that Erin’s character is horrified and dismayed byher actions and furious at being made to take the rap for it –from herself. I have to say, this is one absurd case – and it keeps getting stranger still.
I glance at my phone on my desk. No contact from Erin. I doubt she’ll call again now, not if she’s seen the press conference. I wish I didn’t feel as crappy about it as I do, but as Archer had rammed it home to me, I have to look at the facts and go where the evidence takes me. My first priority is getting justice for Milo Harrison and his family, and ensuring public safety.Only, I just can’t stop thinking about Erin.
‘Don’t go all left field on me on this one, Dan,’ Archer had warned me before I’d left her office. ‘Don’t keep looking for ghosts. This witness, this colleague of Santos’s you spoke to in Leeds, she couldn’t give you a name or a positive ID. It’s all just hearsay. She’s probably been reading all the nonsense on social media. Goodness only knows how people come up with some of the bullshit that’s written, putting two and two together and making seven hundred and fifty-seven. It beggars belief. Too much time on their hands, if you ask me.’
Unusually, I don’t disagree with her. A story like this makes clickbait gold. It also brings to the surface all the self-styled bedroom sleuths, journalists, conspiracy theorists, and perhaps above all, the haters.
‘And you said yourself that Dr Wainwright confirmed that Erin was on day release on the same date Ward says she met Samantha Valentine. What’s the news on Ward, by the way? Are we keeping a close eye on her?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I assured her. ‘She’s hardly set foot out of her apartment since we bailed her, ma’am. Once or twice to go grocery shopping, by the looks of it. The rest of the time the blinds are shut, no movement whatsoever. Surveillance did see someone leaving the address this morning though, around 11 a.m.’
‘Do we know who it was?’
‘A woman, apparently, boss, a redhead.’
A redhead?My stomach had clenched when Parker had briefed me on this, earlier. ‘Send any images they have over to me now, Parker, ASAP.’I instructed him. Could it be the same redhead I’d seen at the press conference? The one wearing the perfume that I’m convinced is also the same as the extortionately overpriced bottle of Baccarat Rouge that we purchased in Leeds? Incidentally, it was still lingering inside my nostrils, or the memory of it anyway. If it is her, then it’s safe to say that the press must’ve somehow got wind of Tilly Ward’s identity, and that adds another layer of potential aggro. Until she’s charged, I’m mindful of keeping Tilly Ward’s name – and face – out of the public eye.
‘I don’t want her hounded, Parker. Keep an eye on her – and any press who might be sniffing around.’
‘Look, Dan.’ I was about to leave Archer’s office, only she hadn’t quite finished with me yet. At least her tone had softened slightly, sounded less irascible. ‘We’ve all fallen foul of a psychopath or two during our career at some time or another,’ she said, casting me a pitiful glance. ‘They’re notoriously clever, highly manipulative types – I don’t need to tell you that. They’ll have you twisted up in knots, thinking black is white, some of them – that’s what they do, that’s their MO. They try to mess with your head, gaslight you, play on your empathy, get inside your mind…’ She tapped the side of her temple with a finger. ‘So she had you on the hook, got you searching for someone who doesn’t exist, or does, but only in her messed-up mind. I’ve read the files, I’ve seen the statements Santos gave at the time, and admittedly, she sounds convincing enough. But it’s all a fantasy, Riley, a picture she painted at the time and one she’s repainting now. Even seasoned senior investigating officers like you can betaken in. As I say, it can happen to the best of us. Don’t beat yourself up over it.’
‘I wasn’t, ma’am,’ I replied flatly.
I made to pick up the gift bag containing the perfume from her desk, but she stopped me with a raised hand.
‘Actually, you can leave that here, with me, if you like, Riley.’
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ I flashed her a rueful smile as I snatched it from her desk. ‘Like you said, Christmas is a long way off.’
