The implications make Sam’s skin prickle. If the victim Taylor has found matches one of Denver’s and he is a real murderer, it’s possible that Denver’s telling the truth inHow to Get Away with Murder. Of the three possibilities, this brings it down to two. Denver is a serial killer and he murdered Charlotte, or Denver is a killer but there’s a copycat who murdered Charlotte. Which would be worse? All she knows for certain is that it’s Charlotte’s killer that she is determined to see behind bars. Sam squeezes her eyes shut and breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth.
One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven.
Sam hates earlymornings. She walks the little dog quickly around the block, straining in the darkness to see if he is swaying less on his wonky leg, which might mean the painkillers the vet prescribed yesterday are working. He seems to be moving a little better. Once home, she fills the little scruff’s kibble and water bowls to the brim and puts down three puppy pads. She pauses to look around the kitchen. The cleaners took eight hours and cost a small fortune, but goodness, they were worth it. The surfaces are clean, the lino floor three shades lighter and the cooker is as close to sparkling as she’s ever seen it. She says goodbye, closes the front door and steps out into the beginnings of a gray sunrise.
Sam makes her way to Clapham North tube station and runs aboard just as the train doors are beeping shut. Inside, the carriage is busier than she thought it would be this early in the day.There’s a mingle of barely awake bodies, shuffling off to work while stuffing Costa croissants into their mouths. Sam inserts her headphones, presses play on an old Evanescence album and opensHow to Get Away with Murder. Her progress is still painfully slow and she has to reread the conversation between Sean and Denver several times. As the train jerks into the next stop, her cheeks are burning. The idea of Denver persuading someone at their most vulnerable to harm themselves makes her rage, and she slaps the button to open the train door.
King’s Cross is heaving: travelers yawning underneath the departure boards, families with sleepy little ones riding their luggage, red-eyed tourists filtering through in search of Platform 9¾. Sam stands and punches out an email with shaking fingers as she waits for Taylor to arrive, alerting the police forces in all major cities to the possibility that someone is sabotaging the suicide prevention material attached to bridges. Even if Denver himself isn’t behind any sabotage, there’s a chance that some other sicko could be inspired by him. She hears the swoosh of it leaving her outbox and hopes it might do some good to someone, somewhere, even though the police are so stretched she’s under no illusion as to where her request will fall in terms of priority.
“Ma’am.” She jumps as Taylor appears at her elbow, clammy-faced, two Pret cups in his hands. He looks like someone who’s been awake all night, and when he smiles in greeting she sees the weariness in his eyes.
He moves through the crowd effortlessly, people stepping aside for the smartly dressed young man. He shows their tickets to the attendant, who blushes up at him and has to scan the ticket three times.
The tea is cool by the time they find their place on the train, but Sam slides into her seat and immediately swallows big gulps of the overly milky liquid. Taylor takes the time to hang his silk-lined high-sheen blazer on the hook, then arranges his laptop,mobile phone and cardboard document folders neatly on the table between them.
Before lowering into his seat, Taylor does that strange thing some men do with their trousers, grabbing them at the knees and tugging them upward, which exposes his lemon-colored silk socks. Sam’s own father used to do this, but she’s never seen it done by a twentysomething-year-old before. His socks make her smile.
“… Does that sound acceptable, ma’am?” Taylor interrupts her thoughts. He leans forward and sends a waft of designer musk into her nostrils. She clears her throat and nods, hoping to cover her lack of concentration. “So, I’ll tell you about the printer first and perhaps we can discuss our victim once I’ve, er, finished typing up my notes?” Taylor asks.
“If that’s what you’d prefer,” she replies, noticing that Taylor is deferring his full explanation about why they’re heading to Newcastle and who Denver’s real-life victim is. Strange.
“There’s been a development,” he begins, wincing at his tea. “As you know,How to Get Away with Murderwas printed in Brighton by a small firm called Swinton’s Printers. Sussex Police emailed this morning and there was a fire at the printer’s last night. The whole place went up.”
Sam feels the blood drain from her face. “That cannot be a coincidence.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” he agrees. “Sussex Police are investigating and we should know more tomorrow. They managed to track down Rob Swinton, though. He’s in Benidorm on holiday, not on the run. I spoke to him yesterday and he remembers taking the order for the book. It was for a three-thousand-copy print run, and paid for in cash.”
“Does Swinton have any connection to the Mathers family?” Sam asks.
“No,” Taylor confirms. “Swinton had never heard of Charlotte.”
Sam nods, deflated. “I suppose this Rob Swinton had no qualmsabout printing a how-to guide for serial killers?” she asks, not trying to hide the venom in her voice.
“I think Swinton’s mainly prints leaflets,” Taylor answers levelly. “Swinton said he wasn’t hugely comfortable with the material, but the customer was friendly on the phone. Claimed to be a local man who’d written his first novel, and pushed an envelope of cash through the door, which Swinton had checked by his bank so—”
“Wait, Swinton actually spoke to Denver?” Sam interjects.
“Yes.” Taylor nods. “He claims that the line was crackly and the customer had an unusual-sounding voice. No accent that he could remember. I’m guessing Denver used a voice distorter and burner phone.”
“Does Swinton know where he delivered the books to? Surely, he can—”
“The books were collected. A white van showed up and took them.”
“And Swinton has no other details?” Sam rushes. “By law, he’s required to keep basic customer records.”
“Swinton kept company files on all customers and told me where to find them. This was before everything went up in flames. He had CCTV, too, but it was an old system and the server it was connected to is destroyed as well.”
“How convenient,” she snorts. “It’s like a bad soap storyline.”
“Is there a good soap storyline?” Taylor says, rubbing his already red-rimmed eyes.
Sam rolls her eyes. “It can’t be a coincidence the printers burned down the same night that Nigel Mathers went on TV and blamed Denver for killing his daughter. Arsonists use accelerants—petrol, usually. Petrol is very heavy, so they probably used a vehicle to transport it and parked somewhere fairly close to Swinton’s. If we’re lucky, they’ll have been dumb enough to buy the fuel at a near by service station. I want you to call Sussex and have them pull CCTV footage from all near by garages, plus traffic footagewithin a one-mile radius of Swinton’s for both the night of the fire and the day the books were collected.I’ll let Tina know.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Taylor immediately begins typing on his phone.
Sam is too hot but doesn’t have the energy to stand up and remove her trench coat so she pulls back the material as far as she can. The landmarks drift by outside the window—giant tower blocks, Alexandra Palace and Emirates Stadium—before giving way to miles of fields and countryside as they tear through England, county by county. It’s her first time leaving London in over a year. Last time had been with Phil Lowry, when they were investigating a connection between their case and one in Middlesbrough.
Sam’s mouth tastes salty and she squeezes her eyes tight shut, focusing on nothing but her breath and the way it roars in her ears.It’s just one day, she tells herself.It’ll be fine.She takes out her phone and drafts an email to Dr. Thomson as she should be seeing him today and obviously won’t make it. Perhaps he’ll be able to fit her in one lunchtime instead.
