“It was—not that I knew it at the time.” She looks up again. “But I found the file in the archive once I joined up. My dad was the only suspect, but he had a watertight alibi. He was drinking at the pub down the road from our house. At least a dozen other officers confirmed it.”
“Mmm,” Taylor says, and Sam can tell he’s tempted to speculate that her father might have left the pub and returned, unnoticed. “Was DCI Blakelaw in the pub that—”
“The man’s a monster,” Sam cuts in.
“Your dad?” he asks, and Sam gives him a confused look.
“Richie Scott. A monster. A beast,” Sam clarifies. “Such a short prison sentence for all this abuse, and then murder reduced to manslaughter. Where’s the justice?”
Taylor’s eyes flick from the road to Sam’s face, still searching for some trace of emotion, so she smiles at him reassuringly.
“Old wounds, well healed, Taylor,” she says, and means it. She’d found her own ways to cope after her mother’s death lefther in her father’s sole care. She’d learned to get herself to school on time, to use the washing machine and to keep out of his way when his temper got the better of him. She’d read a lot. True crime, mainly. She could relate when Denver said the librarian gave him a funny look for his book choices.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Taylor says.
“Really, don’t worry,” she assures him. “It was a long time ago. My dad died when I was nineteen and I inherited the house and joined the police with Harry’s support. The rest, as they say, is history.”
Sam returns her focus to the case file, and Taylor taps the steering wheel in time to the radio. They cruise like this for close to an hour before he speaks again.
“You probably don’t want to hear this,” he says, “but Richie Scott’s new lawyer filed for his release after the Denver Brady publicity, on the basis that another person has confessed to the crime.” Taylor fiddles with the radio, flicking buttons on the steering wheel in search of a song he likes.
Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Jeez, that was quick. It’ll never stick. Well, not unless we catch Denver and he legally confesses and is actually convicted of murdering Melanie.”
They travel in silence for a few more minutes before Taylor says, “Actually, I was hoping to talk… we never got the chance to… talk about Newcastle?” His voice is small, gentle.
Sam takes a long, slow breath in. “Don’t worry, Taylor,” she says, reaching inside her bag for a paracetamol. “I get headaches and stuff for reasons unrelated to alcohol. I promise that time in Newcastle is the only drink I’ve had for months. So, can we park it, please? I swear it’ll never happen again.”
“Erm…” Taylor changes lanes and passes a lorry.
“Please leave it, Taylor,” she says. “All I have space for right now is Charlotte.”
He frowns, hands tight on the wheel, gaze fixed on the roadahead, seemingly trapped in thought—whether about Newcastle or something else entirely, Sam has no idea. More of southern England flashes past their window.
Gradually, Taylor relaxes again and begins humming along with “Denis, Denis…” After the song has ended, he says, “Hey, did you know about Blondie and Bundy?”
“No. That was a new one for me,” she admits. “I googled it. Some sources suggest it wasn’t Bundy. They claim he was elsewhere when Debbie was abducted. Which is even scarier.”
“What’s scarier than Ted Bundy?” Taylor asks.
“If it wasn’t Bundy who abducted Debbie Harry, it means there was a copycat in New York that summer that was never identified or caught. That’s scarier than Bundy.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It is.”
A text pings from Dr. Thomson with a new appointment date. Sam sends a thumbs-up emoji but doesn’t add it to her calendar. When she looks back up, HMP Bath looms before them.
They wait withthe other visitors—mainly women and children—and Sam can see that Taylor is discomforted by the place. She tries to see the prison through first-time eyes. The absence of bars, the relaxed atmosphere, children’s pictures all over the walls, books and whiteboards: it’s nothing like TV, and all the more disturbing for it. They’re shown to a small meeting room and Taylor sets up the recorder, which they’d had to bring along as the prison doesn’t have its own interview equipment.
Richie Scott is far smaller than Sam supposed he would be, although he tries to walk like a much bigger man; around five foot five, with greasy hair that’s receding. There’s a faded Union Jack tattoo on his neck, the red more clementine than crimson, the outline pixelated by time. He adjusts his balls and lets his eyes creep over Sam, whispering something to the guard who walks beside him.
Taylor had shown Sam the online petition that Richie Scott’s lawyer had launched on his client’s behalf. This man already has over 200,000 signatures demanding his freedom and exoneration of the murder of the girlfriend that he’s on record as having beaten up numerous times.
The guard leaves and Richie sits down, swinging the chair the wrong way around and straddling it like a cowboy on a horse. The man is clearly high on ego and expectation, believing he will soon leave this place and be greeted on the outside by scores of cameras. She has to fight not to curl her lip at him.
“Mr. Scott,” Taylor begins, sliding their business cards across the table toward him, “I’m TDC Adam Taylor and this is DI Sam Hansen. We’re here to talk to you about the night of 10 June.”
Richie Scott pockets the cards. Sam’s surprised when he produces a creamy card with a black logo on it and slides it to her in return, giving her a little wink. It must be his lawyer’s card, and she leaves it where it lies.
“We’re lead investigators in the Denver Brady case,” Taylor says, “and any information you can give us relating toHow to Get Away with Murderwill be much appreciated by—”
