Cursing, Sam slides off the collar and opens the under-stairs cupboard, grabs Past Sam’s Chanel neck scarf and ties it into a makeshift collar. She tries to clip the new extendable lead to the neck scarf but the bulk of the silk is too much for the clasp, so she runs upstairs to find something suitable.
“I couldn’t find a belt, so these will have to do,” she says, securing the foot of an old pair of tights to the neck scarf. “Very handsome. You’re better dressed than me,” she says, averting her gaze from her old leggings with the faded knees and a hole on theshin, and her comfy Skechers, whose fabric is barely clinging on at the toes.
The walk is slow, as her new companion stops regularly to sniff about. She doesn’t think he’s in too much pain from the wonky leg; he stills uses it normally, but he looks a little like he’s on the catwalk, swishing his hips. Somehow, after the bath, he looks more pathetic than ever. Still, his gentle pace suits Sam because she’s barely left the house for months, and her head is swimming with Denver and all the details of Charlotte’s case.
The evening is cool but calm and, without fully intending it, Sam lets her feet drift in the general direction of Charlotte Mathers’ home address on Palace Gardens, in one of London’s most affluent boroughs.
Sam peers around, gaping. The terrace of white houses where Charlotte lived is beautiful. Bulging hanging baskets strain with the weight of plush petunias and glossy ivy. Sleek cars fill every parking space. Polished marble entryways gleam before each door. Sam leans up against a fence that’s clearly been repainted a lot more recently than her own fingernails.
A smartly dressed couple emerges through one of the heavy, black-gloss doors. The woman wears an oatmeal wool coat and her hair bounces as she walks. The man offers her his free hand. In the other, he carries a full-sized umbrella with a hook handle, which he swings, tapping its top on the ground in harmony with his stride.
As they pass a colorful tower of flowering pots, Sam hears them greet a man who’s bent over, tending to some primroses. She watches him for a moment and then approaches.
“Excuse me,” she says, “are you the gardener here?”
“That’s right, among other things,” he says, standing slowly and rubbing his hands on the back of his trousers. He bends down to greet the dog, who hides behind Sam’s leg and makes an odd rattle that she takes for a growl.
“Always work in this area, do you?”
“I do, chuck. Why’d you ask?” The man, who must be around fifty, begins to look a little uncomfortable.
“My name is DI Hansen,” Sam says, showing her warrant card, “from the Metropolitan Police.”
Understanding dawns on his face. “This about that girl?”
“Charlotte Mathers, yes. She lived in number forty-five.” Sam points. “Did you know her?”
“Awful what happened. My wife is following it on the news. She won’t leave the house—reckons the killer will strike again.”
“Your wife’s not wrong to be concerned, I’m afraid,” she says, honestly. Past Sam would have towed the line and reassured the man that the risk was slim, but she can’t stomach that. The killer could strike again tomorrow, for all they knew.
“I saw the girl,” he says. “Wears a bright-green uniform. Her old man drives a Bentley. Lovely motor. That’s it, there.” He points to a gleaming black car that’s four times the size of Sam’s Ford Fiesta. “I’m Jim, by the way.” He grins and wipes his hand again before offering it to Sam.
“Nice to meet you, Jim,” she says, then adds, “Look, I’d really appreciate your observations on number forty-five. You might have some knowledge that could be valuable to us.”
“Well, not much I can say. I just do the baskets, a bit of gardening, litter when there is any.” He smiles with pride at the pristine area.
“Who have you seen coming and going there?”
“Well, the girl—I see her most days.” Jim scrunches his forehead in concentration. “That green uniform is hard to miss. The dad I don’t see much. The Bentley is usually gone early in the morning. Rumor is he’s a big banker and he’s loaded, but he cleans his own car; and the housekeeper—he’s cut her hours down, you know. So maybe things is a bit tighter than they look.”
“Any other changes you know about?” Sam asks, typing notes in her phone.
“Another bloke stays there—a brother.” Jim shrugs. “Friendly enough chap.”
“Friendly how?” Sam pushes.
“Chats, like. Comes outside to smoke. I reckon he’s not allowed to in that posh house. Mind you, if I owned a house like that, I wouldn’t let folk smoke in it neither. He never drops his butt, always uses the ciggy bin.” Jim points to a wall-mounted cigarette disposal unit at the end of the street.
“What does the uncle chat about, Jim?”
“Oh, this and that. Weather. Football—he’s a Gooner. He’s into his sports despite being a smoker—cycling, running, the usual.”
“Thanks, Jim. Do you mind if I take your number in case I need to chat to you again?”
They exchange details and Sam strolls along to stand directly outside number forty-five. Charlotte’s home. There’s a matching pair of bay trees in glossy ceramic pots flanking the door and Sam sees a woman inside, polishing a window.
As Sam begins her walk home, she emails her notes to Chloe Spears, copying in Tina, and attaches Jim’s contact details. She’s walked a few streets when she notices that the little dog is shivering. She glances at her watch and is shocked to see that they’ve been out of the house for two hours. He whines and sits down, his back legs trembling. Sam immediately curses her own stupidity. Of course a malnourished dog can’t walk for miles across London. As if sensing her self-loathing, he lies down on the pavement and rests his head on her old trainer.
