A response from the Glaswegian bank causes a swoop of adrenaline, and Sam clicks on the PDF. Her stomach drops. The student bank account that receives the money from Howtogetawaywithmurder.com is owned by a Mr. Drew Mackay. The payments-in don’t amount to much, but she’d expected that: sales of the book are low, and as soon as the press conference disaster had happened, Sam had asked DC Chen to take the website down. What’s alarming Sam is that each week, the Glaswegian bank account automatically pays all monies into another account. She quickly googles the sort code. It’s an account in Cardiff, and a suspicion forms at the back of her mind.Shit. The swaying of the train and looking down at her phone is making her nauseous so she quickly responds and, with as much charm as she can muster, asks her colleague to submit another disclosure request to the Cardiff bank account. She emails the Glasgow East policedepartment, providing the details of the student account, and asks them to speak with Mr. Mackay. He needs to explain why money from Howtogetawaywithmurder.com is landing in his account. Sam suspects she knows the answer.
She slides her phone away and closes her eyes for a second. When she next opens them, Taylor is watching her and she sits up and smooths her hair. He blushes lightly and turns his gaze to the window. There’s a tense silence for a moment, and Taylor clicks and unclicks his pen. He looks strained; vulnerable somehow, in spite of his polished exterior.
“Have you heard the term ‘money mule’ before, Taylor?” She pops some chewing gum in her mouth.
“Yes, ma’am.” He drops his pen. “It’s someone who lets criminals use their bank account to move money around. Often the cash goes from account to account and then out of the country, then back in, so that the criminal eventually gets it into their own account without police being able to track it.”
“Exactly. It’s nasty,” Sam adds. “Often the mules are vulnerable and poor, paid only a few quid. Exploited, basically.”
Taylor looks out of the window, the sunrise dazzling on his pallid skin. It’s time for him to brief her on the victim, but he looks so strained that she decides to let him collect himself for a few more minutes. She orders them both a fresh tea using the train line’s infuriating app, then takesHow to Get Away with Murderfrom her bag and begins the next chapter. Glancing up at Taylor to make sure he’s not looking, she uses her finger to trace and then retrace each sentence—it’s slow, but it’s the only thing she’s found helps her still-skittish mind to maintain focus. She reads, sips tea and rereads, until the conductor announces they’re approaching York. That, to Sam, feels very far north. She’s pleased to close the book, because Denver’s words are bringing her close to tears.
“We’re almost there, Taylor,” she swallows. “It’s time for you to tell me about the real victim.”
He wipes his hand over his face.
“OK,” he breathes. “We have one real murder case that matches the details in Denver’s book. The lady’s name is Betty. Betty Brown.”
“I just read that chapter,” she gasps. “I mean, reread.”
“It’s a tough one,” he sighs. “The searches didn’t show up because her name isn’t actually Betty, it’s Elizabeth. I should have thought to search for nicknames and contractions…” Taylor runs his hand through his pristine hair, clearly agitated. “It was strange. When I called Northumbria Police, as soon as I mentioned the name Betty, I was put straight through to a DI Neil Duggan. He’ll meet us when we arrive. He sounded harassed but sort of… overjoyed—that we were traveling up. He just kept thanking me.”
“Overjoyed?” Sam wonders. “That’s odd.”
Taylor nods. “After Duggan, we’ll meet with Dr. Tweedy, the pathologist in Betty’s murder… Oh shoot!” Taylor slaps his hand on the table. “Dr. Tweedy sent us a report to read. It completely slipped my mind. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK,” she soothes. “You’re working crazy-long hours, Taylor. You’re tired. It’s not easy material we’re handling. We can skim it quickly now.” She tries to sound assuring, but she knows they simply do not have time to review the report thoroughly, as the train is already slowing into Darlington. People begin to stand, only to flop back into their seats when an announcement informs them that they’re being held outside of the station, pending a change of crew.
In a field, beyond the station, Sam can see a young girl cantering a pony around a small paddock. Her blond ponytail bounces up and down as the little skewbald’s legs hit the earth and take off again. Unbidden, Sam remembers the riding lessons her mother had taken her to as a child. She’d loved a little bay mare named Holly. When her father had accepted a job in the Met and she’d understood that London was a faraway place, she’d sobbed overthe prospect of never seeing Holly again. A year later, when her mum died, Harry had asked her to name anything, anything in the world that would make her stop crying. She said, seeing Holly again. Harry had called the riding school, but Holly had gone to live somewhere else, he told her, with a kind family on a farm. Of course, Sam now understands exactly what he meant.My lovely Mum, Sam thinks then. She never really had a chance.
“Ma’am,” Taylor says quietly, “are you OK?”
She rubs her cheek and nods, dismissing the concern etched into his pale face.
Sam stands and tugs off her coat, showering loose change, packs of pills, the netball keyring and two tampons into Taylor’s lap. Taylor’s face is the same color as the pink wrapper as she gingerly retrieves her Super-Plus from his open palm. His Adam’s apple bobs and he tugs at his collar, before wiping light perspiration off his upper lip. Something’s really not right with Taylor and it’s something more than her accidentally showering him with sanitary products. Past Sam would have shrugged off Taylor’s emotions and ignored his mood until he was back to normal, so Sam is surprised to find that she genuinely wants to know what’s troubling him. She sits back down and shifts in her seat, then steels herself and leans forward.
“What’s up, Taylor?” she asks, softening her tone as much as she can.
He says nothing for a few moments, and she waits in silence.
“It’s just Betty,” he says eventually, as if that explains things. He takes a silk handkerchief from his pocket and rubs his nose. “She reminds me so much of my gran, who I just lost a few weeks ago. Of all the victims, I really hoped that Betty was just made up. Rotten luck that she’s the one we found first.” He continues to stare out the window, but Sam can see tears in his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably and his knee rests against hers for a moment. Sam is surprised at the sudden heat she feels.
“Tell me about your gran, Taylor,” she says, and he smiles at her. She listens as he describes the woman, asking him questions that direct him away from the sadness of loss and firmly toward the joy of happy memories. She knows they should be reading the pathology report but instead she chooses to spend the final minutes of their journey smiling, as Taylor talks about a woman he clearly loved very much. By the time they reach Durham, it’s heartbreakingly obvious to Sam why Betty reminds Taylor of his grandmother.
As the train crosses the bridge over the great River Tyne and they both pull on their coats, Sam finds herself praying that it’s all made up, and Denver never really tested his prowess as a serial killer on an old lady called Betty.
Tea Time with Betty
Sir Edmond Locard,a pioneer in criminology, gave the basic principle of forensic science to be thatevery contact leaves a trace. This is known as the exchange principle. Our response is simple:fuck you, Locard.While he may be technically right, it’s perfectly possible to leave nomeaningfultrace. In this chapter, I’ll talk you through how to avoid leaving the police any useful clues or evidence.
You need to physically prepare yourself to ensure that your own body doesn’t betray you and leave behind the evidence that will convict you. I recommend watching the opening scenes of Christian Bale inAmerican Psycho. The shower routine is inspirational. You must exfoliate. Trim your nails. Ideally, remove all body hair. Hair is a big danger… and it’s not just on your head. Wear a face mask (now widely available and socially acceptable in public—thank you, Covid-19). Glasses also distort your appearance. Wear no aftershave, perfume, moisturizer or lip balm—there should be nothing on your skin. If you intend to do any biting, wear dentures, and if you don’t use a condom then I’ve no sympathy for you.
Come to think of it… I’ve no sympathy for anyone.
Only a small percentage of serial killers are identified using DNA orfingerprints, but these will be the things that convict you beyond a doubt. Use silicone (or superglue, for you cheapskates) on your fingertips, but for heaven’s sake wear gloves. They need to be thin enough that your fingers can operate restraints, etc., without impediment. I wear double Latex gloves under a simple pair of Thinsulates, removing the latter during my experience. While you may be drawn to wearing animal skin, remember that leather is porous and your hands will sweat through it, so this is a bad idea. Interesting fact, on the subject of fingerprints: they can’t be dated. Fingerprints made pre or postmortem are impossible to tell apart. This leaves some real opportunities open to you in terms of planting evidence at crime scenes and pressing the victim’s prints on to it.
The correct clothing and footwear is vital. You should cash-purchase mainstream items, which should be in dark colors with no distinguishable features. Get into the habit of using cash for everything. Always purchase footwear a size or two larger than your own and simply wear two pairs of socks. If you’re of short stature, or a woman, purchase much bigger footwear and add insoles to give you height—you need to aim to be around 5ft 10ins, or whatever is the average male height in your country of operation. Use clothing to conceal any distinguishing physical features such as breasts, a missing limb or skin color. A fat suit is a great disguise, if a little sweaty. You can use walking aids such as a Zimmer frame, big glasses and a white cane, or even a wheelchair to make yourself invisible (what a cruel world we live in). The aim of any disguise is to make you appear vulnerable, weak or incapable of crime. You need to be entirelyforgettable.
Disguise was important to me, as I enjoyed observing my victims whenever I could. You can learn a lot about your victim in a very short space of time. What they wear, what’s on their washing line or in their shopping trolley, the outside of their home, their socials—all ripe sources of information for us.
