“Ever talk to her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” he pressed.
“Yeah,” I said, feigning what I considered typical teenage nonchalance.
“Where were you last Wednesday night?” he asked. I took my planner out of my bag, laid it flat on the table and flipped through it, finding the relevant week and letting the officers see it. I’d written in big letters in the Thursday slot:SKINNER ESSAY DUE.
“I had a psych essay due the next day, so I think I stayed back to type it up.”
“You think?” the detective pushed. I shrugged. Normal teenagers don’t know where they were yesterday, let alone last week.
I never heard any more about it. The hoo-ha around the murder continued for some months. Eventually, the case cooled and no one was apprehended. The police presence increased around the town and there were a lot of news conferences and posters in shop windows, but the police seemed to do very little actual investigating. I suppose they didn’t have a lot to go on. It did feel like a bit of a close shave, to be honest. The number of panda cars that suddenly cruised around our area was anxiety-inducing, so I decided there and then that I’d stop shitting where I lived and develop some proper victim-selection principles. I’ll share those with you shortly.
As for my second victim, I consoled myself with the knowledge that her soul would receive more prayers than anybody else that year, what with the nuns partially to blame. Then Princess Diana was killed and Sarah was trumped. I didn’t want my Sarah forgotten, so I went back to our special spot and carved our initials into the oak tree, surrounding them with a love heart. It took a long time and I went to no small amount of effort to ensure that I carved deep and neat.
Speaking of cutting deep, let me tell you another story.
Chapter Five
A stunning young officer has one buttock planted on the edge of Sam’s desk when she arrives back from lunch, a bag of kibble, some puppy pads and a few other pet items under her arm. The blonde tosses her glossy hair as she laughs at something Adam Taylor has said. The TDC springs to his feet when he sees Sam approaching and the officer’s eyes run up and down Sam’s body, taking in every shabby, slightly stodgy inch of her. Sam recognizes the woman as both the one from Holland Park and the one from the Jessica Patel interview recording she’d watched yesterday. Sam tries to remember her name, but fails.
“Ma’am,” Taylor starts, “I was just—”
“Get a room, Taylor,” Sam orders, and the young man’s face turns instantly puce.
“Ma’am, you’ve got the wrong end of the—”
“Not interested, Taylor,” Sam snaps, cutting him short, and unloads her purchases on to her desk. “Find a room.”
“The DI means a meeting room, Adam.” The young womansmirks, retrieving a dog collar that has landed on the floor near her feet.
Red-faced, Taylor slopes off and Sam sits, quickly checking her emails and the database search output. She notices several emails from HR: welcome-back messages and well-being check-in appointments. She ignores them, opening a browser and typing in “Howtogetawaywithmurder.com.”
She’s surprised to be met with a stylish website. The homepage features a simple image of Denver’s book and an “Add to Basket” button beneath. Customers can choose between the hard copy and the ebook, and both seem averagely priced. She clicks on “A Message from the Author.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome. I’m the author ofHow to Get Away with Murder. I hope you enjoy my first book, and if you do, please leave a killer review. May I humbly suggest the following hashtags: #howtogetawaywithmurder and #teamdenver
It means the world to me to read about what you’ve discovered among my pages. I appreciate every single one of you. If for some watery reason, you feel inclined to leave a negative review, pray that you know how to hide your IP address. Ellie1985, I see you. Hope you enjoy your son Archie’s football match tonight. Go Blackheath Cubs FC.
Just kidding. But seriously, serial killers have feelings, too. Kindness costs nothing.
Warm wishes,
Denver Brady, S.K.
Sam rolls her eyes and goes back to the homepage, where she adds a book to her basket and proceeds to checkout. As she suspects, the payment gateway is provided by a secure third-party plug-in, WorldSecurePay. Sam smiles as she copies the paymentURL and sends it to DC Chen, head of the technical inquiry team. A warrant may be needed, but they’ll be able to request the details of the bank account receiving the money from the sales made via Howtogetawaywithmurder.com.
Closing her email, Sam quickly navigates to the police database. There are no hits on any real-life Denver victims yet. She broadens a couple of the search criteria, but Taylor’s done a good job overall and she sets it running again. The database will identify any unsolved homicides where the victim’s name matches any of Denver’s victims: Sarah, Jono and so on. Taylor has set up multiple searches for a man named Basil, who appears to have been attacked but not murdered, unlike Denver’s other victims. It’s more likely that they’ll find the homicide victims first. There are only around six hundred murders per year in the UK compared with countries like America, where there are around twenty thousand. They only have forenames and approximate time frames to go on, but if the cases are there and their search terms precise, the database should flag them. Sam doesn’t dwell on the obvious caveat: Denver could have easily substituted a victim’s real name with a fake. But they have to start somewhere.
Gathering her copy ofHow to Get Away with Murderand Charlotte’s case file, Sam stands to follow Taylor to the briefing room, but realizes she’s being observed. The pretty young officer is lingering and clearly has something that she wants to say, but rank and etiquette seem to have tied her tongue. Sam stands and waits.
“Ma’am…” the young woman begins, “you have a little something…” She gestures with her fingers and Sam looks down at her shirt to where a glob of ketchup has landed on her boobs and slalomed farther down her chest. Once upon a time, before DS Phil Lowry violated her and sent her spiraling, Sam kept a clean, pressed shirt in her locker, along with makeup, deodorant, a hairbrush and a host of other items that normal women needed tosmell, look and function perfectly. Now the only thing in there is dust.
Sam shrugs off her embarrassment and says, “Thank you, Officer…?”
