“So you’re confident you’ll catch him?” Jessica asks. “How certain are you? Can you give me your answer as a percentage, please?”
Sam takes a slow breath. She recognizes this moment. In books and films, when Sam hears detectives promising to find the killer or the rapist or the missing child, she knows she’ll stay transfixed as the police character torments themselves with their failures and the victim holds the promise over them forever.
“We can never guarantee outcomes, Jessica,” Sam says, her voice gentle.
“Well, what’s your personal success rate?”
“I shouldn’t—”
“Do you know the percentage?”
“Ninety-four percent across all cases,” Sam says, “ninety-eight percent in all homicides. But Jessica, you need to understand that I’m—well, I’ve been ill. I can’t promise—”
“Over how many years?” Jessica asks.
“I’ve been in homicide for more than ten years.”
“I can’t calculate precisely, without the exact number of cases per year and variations year to year, but the probability that you will solve Charlotte’s murder is extremely high. The unknown variable is your recent illness. Is this your first case after illness, and how long have you been absent from the job? Do you have ongoing symptoms or weaknesses? These factors will significantly influence—”
“Jessica,” Sam interrupts, panicked by the barrage of personal questions. She takes a second to unwrap another mint from herpocket, not meeting the girl’s eye. They sit in tense silence for a moment, then Jessica sighs and stands to leave.
“Look, Jessica,” Sam says, “I will do my very best for Charlotte. I promise.”
The child hesitates. Nods. Then she takes something from her pocket and places a small, round object into Sam’s hand. It’s a miniature sports ball with the letter C in the middle, attached to a chain with a keyring at the end.
“Keep this with you, until you find Charlotte’s killer,” Jessica says.
“C for Charlotte?”
“No, for center,” Jessica says. “The position Charlotte played in netball. I gave this to her for her fourteenth birthday. Nigel found it in Charlotte’s room and…” The girl begins to cry then. First slow tears that spill down her cheeks, then bigger sobs, until she’s heaving against Sam and mumbling incoherently.
“Jessica!” A woman appears beside them, scowling slightly at Sam before sitting down and pulling Jessica into her arms.
“Mrs. Patel,” Sam says, “I’m Detective Hansen. Jessica came in hoping for an update—”
“As soon as I saw she was here, I left work and came straight away.” She holds Jessica tight against her chest: “Oh, sweetie…” Looking up at Sam, she continues, “It’s been so tough on her. On us all. We love Charlotte. Loved.”
“You saw she was here?” Sam asks.
“We all track our children, Detective,” the woman says. “As soon as I arrive at my desk, I check on everyone. Mainly because Jamil, my son, stays up all night on video games and then sleeps in, and I have to call the gardener to bang on our front door and wake him up.”
Mrs. Patel stands, pulling Jessica up gently and telling her she has a taxi waiting. Jessica takes a few deep breaths and then looks at Sam.
“Keep the keyring with you, please, Detective Hansen,” she says. “I want it to remind you of Charlotte for each of the one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes in the day.”
Sam sees the Patels out to their taxi before taking the stairs up to the fourth floor and making herself a cup of tea. She places the miniature netball in her pocket, feeling the pressure of it against her flesh as she moves. As she arrives at her desk, Sam looks out of the window and sees a large seagull cruise by. She lets her eyes follow the bird as it spirals down to the street level in search of food. It lands on the front steps of the building and pecks at a crisp packet. Several journalists linger close by, presumably hoping to discover the latest progress on Charlotte’s murder for the morning news. Sam watches as the journos suddenly jump up and run over to two men who are approaching New Scotland Yard.
The men are of similar height and build, one with black hair and the other sandy-brown. They’re walking awfully close together, and Sam realizes that one appears to be supporting the other, almost holding him up. The journalists ram microphones and camera lenses at them. Two smartly dressed figures descend the steps to meet the men, sending the seagull and reporters leaping backward. One is DCI Harry Blakelaw and the other, Sam assumes, is the SIO in Charlotte’s murder investigation; the woman’s name has slipped Sam’s mind. The two men, Sam deduces, must be Charlotte’s uncle and father. Jack and Nigel Mathers.
Forgetting all about her trainee, Adam Taylor, who is hovering near by, waiting for Sam’s instruction, she moves quickly to the lift. She jumps aboard and jabs at the button for the basement, where the custody suite and interview rooms are.
As she descends, Sam notices a glossy poster featuring a mnemonic to remind officers of new cognitive interview techniques.TED’s PIE, it says, with each pie-slice in the picture containing question openers.T = Tell me. E = Explain to me.And so on. The sight of oozing apple and sugared pastry makes Sam’s stomachrumble and she promises herself a trip to Greggs at lunchtime. She closes her eyes and casts her mind back to the days when she and Harry would interview suspects together, and the old-fashioned techniques they used. Her godfather taught her how to make the hard nuts crack by letting them think they’re in control, then slamming them with your strongest piece of evidence—something they don’t know you know. He taught her how to lull a softer suspect with small talk, drinks, tiny favors that endear and create a feeling of friendship. They’d even used the old good-cop, bad-cop from time to time. Together, they’d teased confessions from the worst kind of human beings. Harry knew all the tricks in the book. He once let a drug dealer bring his pet pug into the interview; the perp sang like a canary after that.The gear’s in me nan’s cupboard at the bottom of the kitty-kibble bag. Don’t tell her. She’d never forgive me for what happened with Cindy Clawford.For a week after that, Harry emailed her videos of pugs on skateboards and performing somersaults, making her smile every time.
Sam remembers that Harry prefers interview room number one, so that’s where she heads when she steps out of the lift. It’s the room that makes the suspect most uncomfortable, with its flickering light, small hard chairs and useless fan. Sam walks quickly to the observation room attached to the main room, swipes her pass and enters, leaving the light off and standing behind the door. Hiding, despite knowing no one can see her from the attached room.
A minute later, the lights in the interview room flicker to life and the lighter-haired Mr. Mathers takes a seat. Someone opens the door to the observation room to check that it’s empty. Sam holds her breath, flattening herself against the wall, and the door closes again. Sam stays where she is, frozen. After a moment, she steps forward and looks through the one-way mirror. Harry and the female SIO are seated with their back to her. Sam presses a button on her side of the mirror so she can listen in. The woman activates the recording system and reintroduces herself asDetective Inspector Tina Edris. The man being interviewed looks shattered. His green eyes are red-rimmed and his hands rest on the steel table as if he doesn’t have the strength to lift them.
“If you would please state your name for the recording,” Tina says gently.
