Fortunately, most police officers aren’t too bright. I had my only run-in with the police after my second murder. I didn’t rate police intelligence levels even back then, and they’ve only deteriorated since.
I was studying for my A-levels at the local college at the time. The college was a fairly large, stand-alone sixth form, with a wide catchment area. My cousin, Bobby, had done well there and had gone off to university, so I was alone most of the time.
I opted to study psychology, a relatively new subject for the college, along with some other more mundane topics. Since Jono, my interest in murder and the minds of those who kill had only deepened. I was no longer seeking to understand Teddy and the others, but myself as well. At college I made some friends, but, not enjoying football, I mainly hung out with an academic crowd, who I found fairly dull. I could have takenup sport; my body was no longer so scrawny and I’d grown to a full six feet, but I had no interest in games.
As far as my small group of chums went, I was the best-looking by some way. At lunchtime, it was something of a tradition for the boys from our college to cross the fields and hang around the walls of the all-girls convent school. There were plenty of girls in our own college, but there was something that drew us to those convent walls each day, seeking a glimpse of the heavenly creatures inside.
That was how I met Sarah.
Chapter Four
Sam’s jeans and cobalt-blue shirt are still a touch damp as she wiggles into them the next morning. She’s a little later getting up than planned. In her dreams, DS Lowry was a snarling dog running his claws along her skin, up her leg and over her backside. She pushes her nightmares out of her head as she eats breakfast. At least she has freshly washed clothes to wear to work today.
A whimpering sounds from Sam’s lounge, and she opens the door to see a scruffy little creature curled up on her sofa.
“And what on earth am I going to do about you?” Sam asks it, offering up the rest of her toast, but the little creature tenses, trembling and burying its head deeper into the old blanket she’d put out for it last night. An unpleasant smell hits her and she looks accusingly at the little dog that had tugged free of its rope, followed her home and guilted her into letting it in. It’s skinny and dirty, with a wiry coat that might be brown or white, for all she can see through the muck. The fur is a little longer around the back legs where clods of dirt have matted up, danglingunpleasantly—and, apparently, aromatically. Its eyes are too big for its head, and carry a look of perpetual sadness.
Sam decides the little creature needs some space so she sips her cup of tea and pops her Prozac out of the blister pack. The tiny green pill leaps from her hand on to the carpet. She bends to retrieve it but soon thinks twice when she sees that it’s lodged itself in a fluffball up against the skirting board.I must clean this place up, she thinks, and her mind is instantly flooded with nasty thoughts about herself, her lack of motivation and general worthlessness as a human being. The dog gives a little whine, interrupting her inner scolding, and she takes a deep breath.
“Are you sure you don’t want to find a better stranger to follow home?” she asks the dog, whose head turns on an angle, as if unsure of her meaning. “My house looks like the kind of place Liam Neeson would rescue his daughter from,” she says. The dog remains silent.
Sam pops a fresh pill from the pack, washing it down with the last of her tea. Before she leaves, she warms a bowl of Weetabix for her uninvited guest and leaves the food and a bowl of water in the kitchen, next to her old “sick blanket” that her mother would pull out any time she was poorly.
As she waits for her frothy coffee at Bubbles and Beans, she calls a couple of animal shelters, but is amazed to discover that none of them have room. Eventually, a shelter in Battersea relents but asks if Sam can hold on to the dog for a week or two first.
“I know what they’re hoping for,” Sam says to no one once she’s ended the call. “And they can forget it.”
Sam’s never owned a dog before and, as the bus rocks its way toward New Scotland Yard, she mulls over what it might need for a week. Only a week. Two at most. Food. A lead and collar. Definitely some strong shampoo.
The bus is quieter today, but Sam still turns up Slipknot andParamore as loud as possible to keep the sound of the rest of the world from reaching her. She only managed one chapter ofHow to Get Away with Murderlast night. It was excruciating, reading over and over again as her eyelids sagged from the exhaustion of her first day back at work. Plus she lost a lot of time to caring for her unexpected guest. She reaches into her bag and, in a shaky scrawl, updates her list as the bus makes halting progress through the London rush hour.
Studied psychology A-level.
Went to sixth-form college near a walled, all-girls convent school.
Likes Val McDermid and Home Alone (but who doesn’t?).
Does not respect the police.
She disembarks at the correct stop today and heads to the front desk to collect her new security pass. In front of her, a young woman is arguing with the receptionist, who is insisting that no one is available to see her. Something about her voice is familiar to Sam and when the girl turns around she sees that it isn’t a young woman at all, but thirteen-year-old Jessica Patel.
“Jessica,” Sam says, automatically. The teenager looks her up and down, making Sam feel very wanting in the appearance department.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“DI Samantha Hansen. Sam.”
“Are you working on Charlotte’s case?” Jessica asks.
“Yes—well, kind of.”
“No one will give me an update,” Jessica complains. “I’ve been waiting for twenty-eight minutes.”
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Sam asks. “Do your parents know you’re—”
“I just want an update, please.” Desperation suffuses her voice.
“OK,” Sam says, stepping away from the reception desk and into the empty waiting area. “Sit down, Jessica.” Sam explains that police investigations need to be confidential. She describes how police withhold a lot of information from everyone, including friends and family of the victim, in order to ensure their prosecution is as strong as it can be when they make an arrest.
