False confessors may also be enticed by the flocking women (or men—let’s not discriminate here). They may fancy a wedding in the prison chapel and conjugal visits without the arduous “Do you love me?” shit after the dirty deed is done. Charles Manson was eighty years old when he got a license to marry a 26-year-old hottie. Apparently, it’s hybristophilia—the condition of being turned on by someone who commits violent crime—that brings the bright young things to the prison door, hoping for a visit. The badder the serial killer is, the hotter they get.
Then there’s the fan mail. There’s tonnes of it for your false confessor. Letters from all around the world, telling them how sexy their mug shot is. The fame brings with it a new voice and image for your confessor. Louis Theroux will be popping around for a chat. Maybe Oprah will call. There’s the chance an A-lister will play them in the movie.
It can be a fun life, so I’m told. Enough to elicit even sane people to confess to your crimes. Personally, I’d rather stay this side of the prison walls. Just thinking about those chilly steel toilet seats is enough to make me constipated.
To equip your confessor, they’ll need a few facts about the crimes that aren’t known to the public. This is a risk, of course, but one you might feel is worth taking. The more famous you are, the more readily the police will gobble up your confessor’s revelation. Let your confessor know one or two minor details and then stick to information in the public domain. If possible, supply them with a small piece of physical evidence: the dentures you wore or a trophy you took. If you think your confessormight back out at the last moment, it may be better to conceal the physical evidence at their home ahead of time. There is simply no coming back from a confession, no matter how ropey or vehemently retracted, when it’s accompanied by physical evidence.
We’ve all seen the seriesMaking a Murderer,right?
That’s exactly what you’re doing here: making your own murderer.
Chapter Ten
“Thirteen!” Harry bellows across the Holmes Room on Monday morning. “Thirteen Denver-bloody-Bradys. The custody suite isfullof them. We’ve had news crews lining the street outside all weekend and there’s more of them arriving by the hour!”
Sam’s head rattles inside her skull. She’s spent the entire weekend trying to banish the memory of her panic attack and the associated migraine and sickness. She’s only just feeling human again and now Harry’s yelling brings her out in a cold sweat.
“Earth to Sam?” Harry yells.
“Sorry, sir,” she says, looking up from her half-written email response to HR. “What was that?”
“I said,” Harry says through gritted teeth, “I want you and Edris in my office. Now.”
She glances across the fourth floor at Taylor. She really shouldn’t have persuaded him to head to a Newcastle pub on Friday afternoon. She’d become the cliché she hates so much: a detective who washes away their mental health issues with a bottle of wine.
First, she’d vomited all over the cobblestones the momentshe regained consciousness, then she’d told him she couldn’t go back inside the police station and she needed a drink, and they’d walked to the nearest pub—which, in Newcastle, took thirty seconds. The Dog and Parrot was everything Sam had thought a Tyneside pub would be: worn wooden bar, sticky damask carpets, old men sitting around playing dominoes, the clacking sound of snooker balls colliding. She ordered a glass of Pinot, then a bottle. Taylor had been unable to drink his bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, his delicate Home Counties palate wincing at the authentic bitter. She’d bought him a Smirnoff Ice with a pink straw instead, much to the bartender’s amusement. Sam can’t remember if he drank the alcopop or not. Come to think of it, she can’t remember much of anything after she’d dragged him on to the pub’s tiny dance floor and sang “Teenage Dirtbag” at the top of her lungs. She can’t remember the train journey home or the taxi ride from King’s Cross. She can’t remember feeding the dog when she got home, but there were fresh puppy pads and kibble in his bowl the next morning. She herself woke up on her sofa under a blanket, with a large bucket and a glass of water left beside her.
No wonder he won’t meet her eye now.
The women follow their DCI into his corner office and close the door.
“Sir—” Tina begins, but he cuts her off.
“This is on you, Edris!” he barks. “You’re SIO. You put a drugged-up father in front of a room full of journalists and didn’t think to frisk him or brief him about what not to say? Take a look out there!”
Harry points to the office beyond his glass window, where the floor is a hive of activity. The civilians are all typing furiously and talking into headsets. The police officers are huddled around the lift, waiting their turn to ride down to the custody suite.
Tina looks at the chaos as directed, her back straight, hands clasped neatly in the front.
“We’re buried in phone calls, emails and confessions,” Harry continues. “I warned you both about what a shit show this would become if the existence of that bloody book leaked to the press.”
“Sir, Nigel Mathers concealed the book from both of us at the press conference. How could I have known he’d jeopardize the investigation like that?” Edris tries. Sam can see light sweat forming along her colleague’s hairline, but her voice is controlled. Sam wonders if Nigel Mathers realizes how much his actions will take away precious time and effort from solving his daughter’s murder; work now diverted to managing the thousands of phone calls from the public and following up on dozens of leads, most of which will meet a dead end.
Sam begins, “It’s clear that Nigel Mathers—”
“Nigel Mathers is almost as much of a corpse as his daughter is,” Harry says, coldly. Sam’s mouth drops open at her godfather’s callousness. “I mean, Nigel Mathers is a grief-stricken father,” Harry corrects himself. “You were supposed to manage him, Edris. You failed. For the love of God, tell me that you’ve found Denver, Sam.”
“Sir, we’ve not got anything solid to connect Denver to Charlotte yet,” she replies, determined to stick to the facts. “However, there is a strong probability that Denver does exist and he definitely has unique knowledge of the Betty Brown murder and perhaps others. Either Denver is a serial killer and he murdered Charlotte, or we could be looking at two killers: Denver and a copycat.”
“DI Hansen,” Tina chimes in. “Did you follow the money trail, as I suggested?”
“The money from the website is landing in a Glaswegian student account in the name of Drew Mackay, then moving into a Welsh account in Cardiff. Details pending, but I suspect Denver is using money mules. We do have one good lead: the printer’s where the book was pressed was subjected to an arson attack. Sussex Police are investigating. If they find the arsonist—”
“We find Denver,” Harry finishes. “I’ll call the right people at Sussex and speed that up. But it’s not enough. We’ll have to respond tangibly here. It’s not just about what we do, it’s about what we areseento do.”
“We can’t let media pressure dictate our—” Tina begins, but Harry cuts her off again.
“Sam, I’m making you joint SIO,” he declares, and Tina gasps. “We’ll have to quadruple the size of the team on the Brady side of the investigation and you’ll need to work more closely with Edris to understand all the details of Charlotte’s case, to speed up the search for further connections. It’ll be a joint taskforce, with you two leading together. Sam, you’ll remain focused on finding Denver and I’m sorry, but I need you on that full-time. I can’t bring someone else in now—you’re already well on your way to finding him and Edris can’t handle both sides of the case.”
