The implication of what Tweedy has just said becomes clear to Sam as they sit in silence: Denver Brady is a liar. He lied about breaking Betty’s fingers accidentally. He lied about how many he broke. So, what else is he lying about?
“You’ll need to speak to DI Duggan,” Dr. Tweedy carries on, “but I believe he found family photographs of Betty that showed that she only ever wore two rings: a wedding band and an impressive star sapphire ring that had come down through her husband’s family. In which case, why would…”
“… Denver breakallher fingers?” Taylor finishes, turning to Sam. Sweat coats his upper lip, and a strand of his sculpted hair has come loose and dangles over his face.
“For pleasure, Taylor. He broke her fingers because he enjoyed it,” she says, her voice a sad whisper. Taylor’s eyes widen. “I’m so sorry,” she says.
“A pathologist cannot speak as to motive. And I’m afraid you may be missing thebigger pointhere, Detectives,” Tweedy says.
Sam rolls her eyes. “And that is…?”
“How did Denver Brady know that any of Betty’s fingers were definitely broken?” Tweedy sits back in his chair. “That information was not revealed to the family or the press.”
“How could Denver know?” Taylor wonders aloud to himself, wiping his face with his free hand.
“Denver Brady has some unique knowledge of the Elizabeth Brown murder that could only be known by the perpetrator, or someone directly involved in the case,” Tweedy states.
“Shit,” Sam says.
“Shit indeed, Detective Hansen,” Tweedy affirms. “I’ve read only Betty’s chapter inHow to Get Away with Murder,but I can imagine the nature of the book, and the claims of the author. I also saw the press conference that aired yesterday, in which your DCI denied that any serial killer is being investigated. But if Denver Brady killed Betty Brown, which seems probable to me, thatmeans there has been a serial killer operating unimpeded in the UK for almost twenty years.”
“Rest assured, Dr. Tweedy,” Taylor says, his chin up, “if that is the case, the Metropolitan Police will find him and see him behind bars.”
“From what I’ve heard,” the pathologist says, “the Met are still in special measures and—”
He breaks off at a knock on the door, followed by the entry of DI Duggan.
“Tweedy,” he says in greeting, before turning to Sam. “Detective Hansen, please may I borrow you for a moment?” Sam drops Taylor’s hand, stands up as smoothly as she can, given her pounding head, and follows him into the corridor.
“I’m sorry to do this, DI Hansen,” Duggan begins, “but I’ve been called away to an emergency. A multiple-casualty pile-up around Haymarket. I didn’t want to leave without speaking—”
Sam’s eyebrows raise in surprise, “A traffic incident?”
“I’m afraid so.” Duggan reddens through his three-day stubble. “We’re a little short-staffed here at the moment. Cutbacks—Northern policing has been badly hit. And it’s a bit of an all-hands-on-deck situation.”
“Sir.” A red-faced PC jogs up to them. “We’re leaving now.”
“One minute, Constable.” Duggan turns back to Sam and rubs his forehead as if trying to push his brain back on track. Sam wonders how many shifts this man is working, and on how many hours’ sleep he’s currently functioning. “I had very little to go on for Betty’s murder. No witnesses. No evidence. No third-party DNA, only Betty’s and her nephew’s—he found the body. Betty’s neighbor’s DNA was also present, but he was old and ailing. Betty and Albert didn’t have any other family who visited. Their only son died young—drowning. Very sad story. The boy had only just graduated and—”
“Sir,” the PC interrupts again, “it’s just that—”
“One minute, Constable!” Duggan snaps, running a handthrough his hair. “Look, Hansen, like I said earlier, when looking into Betty’s murder again in my own time, I discovered that Betty did a strange thing not long before she died and I think it’s enough to get the case reopened. That’s why I want the cold-case team to—”
“Sir, please—”
“What did you find?” Sam asks.
“Betty and Albert were from mining stock. Coal miners, just like my family. Back then, the pit houses came with the job and if the bloke was killed, well, the wife and kids were thrown out, sometimes the same day. Betty and her mam were chucked out their house and saved from poverty by the Sally Bash, and that’s—”
“Sally who?” Sam interjects, wishing that he’d get to the point without a Catherine Cookson–style back story.
“Sally Army. You know, the Salvation—”
“Duggan! Get your arse up here now!” someone bellows from around the corner and both the DI and the PC jolt as if they’ve been tasered. Duggan rubs his brow again, clearly fighting to remember something else he had hoped to say. After a few seconds he shakes his head, then shakes Sam’s hand and scuttles away.
Sam leans up against the wall to process everything she’s learned. The Betty Brown case sounds completely unlike Charlotte Mathers’ murder. A different victim type. A different MO. Yet both victims seem linked to DB—Denver Brady. But then, Denver does advocate selecting victims at random—in fact, it’s one of his victim selection “principles,” so perhaps the seeming randomness of location and victim actually pointstowardDenver. Yet Denver simultaneously claims not to murder children.
Sam lingers in the corridor, letting her thoughts brew. There’s a growing tightness in her chest, like an elastic band has been wrapped around her and is slowly cutting her in two. She inhales deeply through her nose, then closes her eyes and focuses on the exhale. It’s so long since she last left London and everything’sfeeling incredibly intense. Perhaps she shouldn’t have agreed to give up her rest day and skip her session with Dr. Thomson, after all. But acknowledging this only makes her feel less incontrol. She pulls in air, concentrating hard on clearing her mind. She can’t let herself have a panic—
