“For heaven’s sake!” Harry spits, his face puce. “There isnoserial killer. Be reasonable!”
“Oh, God,” Sam says, her hands clapping to her cheeks.Why would Harry say that?How many times had he told her that you never say anything so unequivocal to the press? Especially when it’s not true. Sam can’t believe he’s done something so stupid, with all his experience of handling the media, all of his years of service.
“DI Edris, can you confirm that no part of your investigation is exploring the possibility of a serial killer?” a second journalist asks. Tina Edris leans forward to speak into the microphone but Harry clasps his hand over the top of it.
“As I said, this is an ongoing investigation,” Harry says, uncovering the microphone so his own voice carries. “We are here today to appeal for help from the public. We need witnesses who saw Charlotte that night, or any time in the days before, to come forward now. We are also appealing to anyone who thinks they know the killer. If you think you know the man who killed this young woman, please—”
“Child!” cries a journalist, but the word barely makes it through the hubbub.
“What about the book?” calls a journalist from the back of the room.
“Tell us about the book!” the journalists cry. Harry stands, followed by Tina, and they leave the stage. The television cuts backto a news anchor in the studio who looks stunned as she begins to tell the public what has occurred at the press conference.
“How did that happen?” Taylor asks, aghast.
“The Boss is in the shit now,” Chloe declares.
“Deep shit,” adds Sam, running her hands through her hair. “The press is going to hit us like a hurricane in Kansas. I have a feeling you’ll all spend the rest of today answering phone calls and emails instead of hunting for Charlotte’s killer. And the last thing we needed was all eyes on Denver before we even know if he’s actually for real or not.”
“Do you want some good news, ma’am?” Taylor asks. Sam’s eyes snap to meet his, which are glinting. He’s grinning. Something’s happened.
“What, Taylor?” she asks, finding herself returning his smile. “You’ve enrolled in tea-making classes and henceforth your brews will be passable?” He gives a genuine, heartfelt laugh. It’s a pleasant sound that Sam realizes she’s not heard before.
“Even better than that,” Taylor responds gamely. “I found the place that printed Denver’s book.It’s a firm called Swinton’s Printers, based in Brighton of all places.”
“Taylor, that’s brilliant work,” she beams.
“I’ve been in touch with Sussex Police and they’ve been to the home of Rob Swinton, the owner. A bit of a one-man band, I think. Anyway, his neighbor claims that Rob left the country over a week ago. No idea where he’s gone and they don’t know yet whether it’s just a holiday or if he’s on the run.”
“Well done, Taylor,” Sam smiles, though she can’t help but feel disappointed that they can’t drive out and question this Rob Swinton immediately. “This could be a real breakthrough.”
A Gay Old Time
Sean was a24-year-old mature student. About to qualify in music production or some equally useless subject. He called as I was making a cup of tea. When my little Nokia rang, I thought twice about picking up, to be honest. No one likes their cup of tea to be interrupted, even serial killers. But the last thing you do when someone calls a suicide hotline is leave them hanging. (Get it? Leave them hanging? My genius is wasted on you.)
In anticipation of the calls coming in, I’d rung the Samaritans a couple of times feigning various states of peril. I used a voice alteration device, of course. I’d made sure I was au fait with the Samaritans’ use of language when dealing with these self-made mental-health-toting morons.
“This is the Samaritans, you’re not alone. What’s your name?” I said, and, I confess, a little vomit shot into my throat. Sean didn’t speak for quite a while. I could hear the wind and I kept talking as I knew a Samaritan would.
“Take your time. There’s no rush,” I cooed, easing myself into the role.Eventually, he told me his name and some dull facts about his life. He spoke with a thuggish accent so I tried to hurry it along.
“Where are you tonight, Sean?” I asked him.
“On the bridge… on the wrong side, like,” Sean said. The wrong side for him was the right side for me and, I confess, if I’d been of weaker character, I might have felt a little twitch in the pants when he said that. “It’s raining and I’m proper cold,” he whined.
“What’s made you go to the bridge tonight, Sean?” I asked.
“I can’t do it anymore. My lass Jemma is pregnant. She’s a nurse and she’s nice enough, but a bairn? I can’t raise a bairn!” he blubbed.
“Can’t you provide for your family?” I asked, pouring the boiled water atop the teabags in my teapot and fitting its cozy. I absolutely adore the hiss a teabag makes when the water hits. It’s called thestrike—did you know that? Wonderful. I set my little timer and left it to mast.
“I can’t provide for them,” he cried. “I want to be a sound engineer and tour with bands. I can’t do that with a bairn, can I?”
“No, definitely not, Sean. I’m sure you could find something else,” I encouraged. “Supermarkets are always hiring.”
I listened to him crying for a while.
“I told her to get rid of it,” he whispered. “Told her I’d leave her if she didn’t.”
