“I remember a man knocking on the door. Saying something about his dog, Tony. Stupid name for a dog. I was well out of it, but I remember the geezer was lanky. Like, really tall. With black hair.”
“Anything else?” Taylor asks, scribbling wildly in his notebook.
“No. I’ve told you everything now. But this is the most important thing, son: I didn’t kill my Mel. I knocked her about a bit but a saint woulda knocked Mel about. Catch the fucker what killed my girl. Do ya fuckin’ jobs.” Then, without another word, he stands up and the guard escorts him from the room.
As they drive back toward London, Taylor hums along to the Libertines’ “Time for Heroes” and Sam marvels at the young man’s diverse taste in music. He sings along quietly to Northern Soul, hard rock and country on the radio, skipping channels to avoid the overplayed rubbish that she hates too—“Viva La Vida” makes her soul die a little each time she hears it and Taylor’s thumb changes the station before the vocals have time to kick in. She remembers the songs her mother used to sing as they drove together to school. Once the family moved to Clapham, the singing stopped. Not just because her mother no longer drove anywhere—her father sold the car immediately—but because her dad’s new role in the Met came with strains and stresses he didn’t know how to handle. His moods became more frequent, his frustrations and fear bursting through without warning. Sam and her mother trod on eggshells around him, but soon enough, one cracked. From then on, whenever her mother sang, the words were slurred and Sam turned up her own music to drown out the sound. That was when Sam discovered that heavy metal and hard rock were the perfect way to shut out the world around her. Disturbed, In Flames, Audioslave—their angry voices, their pain-soaked lyrics somehow soothed her.
Taylor taps the brake as the slow line of traffic halts once again, jolting Sam out of her memories.
“What were you saying, Taylor?” Sam asks. “I was in my own world there.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know the look by now.” He smiles, and she returns it. “I was just saying that we need to tell DCI Blakelaw and DI Edris what we’ve learned about Denver potentially being a tall, dark-haired man with a foreign accent. God, I’m loath to help Richie Scott out of jail. But it’s potential evidence that Denver may have murdered BettyandMelanie.”
“It’s not evidence at all,” Sam says stoutly. “Scott could have made it all up. We’ll not mention anything he said today. Not to Harry, not to Tina, not to anyone. This is completely irrelevant to the case unless it’s connected to Charlotte Mathers—which it isn’t. Yet. So, we say nothing.”
Taylor peers at her, uncertain. “Aren’t we obliged to share our findings, boss?”
“We say nothing,” she insists.
“There’s a chance Richie Scott is innocent of Melanie’s murder, though,” Taylor argues. “If that’s true, Denver now has two victims that we know of. It’s looking like Denver really is a serial killer.”
“There’s also a chance Denver killed Mel before Richie got to deal the final blow,” Sam says, “but otherwise Richie Scott would eventually have killed Mel himself. Healmostkilled her more than a dozen times. Richie Scott belongs in prison. Do you know that in 2021, of the eighty-one thousand women in the world who were murdered, forty-five thousand died at the hands of an intimate partner or family member? Forty-fivethousand, Taylor.”
“That doesn’t sound right, boss,” Taylor says tentatively.
“It’s not right,” Sam replies. “It’s appallingly wrong.”
Sam’s stomach churns as she imagines that man on the loose again. Free to find a new woman to prey on. To coerce. To abuse. To kill.
Taylor Swift’s voice fills the car and Sam notices that Taylor is trying his hardest not to sing along like the closet Swiftie sheknows he is. When the verse arrives at the point where Romeo kneels to the ground and pulls out a ring, Sam takes a deep breath and launches into tuneless but powerful singing. Taylor laughs then joins in, both knowing every word and bellowing each one at the top of their lungs. As the song finishes, Sam and Taylor grin at each other.
“Charlotte Mathers loved Taylor Swift too,” Sam says, and the joy of the moment drains away as their minds turn back to the dead child. “We need to push that arson lead again, Taylor—surely Sussex Police have foundsomething.”
“And if the person who burned down the place whereHow to Get Away with Murderwas printed turns out to be a tall man with a foreign accent, like Richie Scott said?” Taylor asks, and an unexpected sense of foreboding begins to brew deep in Sam’s stomach.
Now thatwouldbe too much of a coincidence.
Timing and Alibis
The best timeto kill is usually in the early hours of the morning, between 3 and 5 a.m., when the fewest police officers are on duty. It also means that you can maintain alibis, as you can be present when your alibi (spouse, pal, mother) falls asleep, and you’re there when they wake up. Using your regular routine and cover-life in this way should not only eliminate you from any police inquiries early on, but also greatly reduce the chance of you ever being convicted, as it raises reasonable doubt in the minds of jurors.
Alibis matter. Let me teach you how to build one.
I spotted this heavenly creature in a coffee shop. Daisy’s name-badge was pinned to a T-shirt with the wordsSwift-Teaon it. I couldn’t not look, with a top that tight. Our fingers brushed against each other’s as she passed me the steamy macchiato. (Don’t believe everything you read about serial killers—black coffee isn’t our go-to. But I digress.) As I sipped, I noticed a little smiley face next to where my name was scrawled (and incorrectly spelled) on the takeaway cup. I was desperate to touch that soft, young skin. I rarely feel that kind of urge. I came up with some chitchat about how hard baristas work and managed to discover whattime Daisy’s shift finished. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from being there to walk her home.
I was in the city for a conference. It was a huge, all-day networking event and I didn’t really know anyone there. I was confident in my own killing skills by this point, but I decided that an alibi could only be a good thing. I mingled my little heart out that day. I was sure to introduce myself and say my name clearly and loudly to as many people as I could. The event stretched well into the evening, but when the time came, I visited the lavatory and secreted my mobile phone underneath the pot plant in the corner of the bathroom. It was one of those strange, mixed-gender affairs—a large room and cubicles within it that anyone can use—and I noticed that a boxed pregnancy test had been left on the top of the wastepaper basket. It hadTwin Packwritten on it and I quickly surmised that one test had been used and the other discarded.Interesting, I thought, and, using a piece of tissue, I took the unwanted pregnancy test with me, a little idea flitting about in the back of my mind as to how I might use it.
I pulled on my waterproof jacket, hat and glasses, and left.
The event wasn’t far from the coffee shop and I waited patiently outside for my date. I followed her for a while. She took a route that led down through a picturesque hamlet and along a riverbank.
Daisy hummed as she walked—I think it was Coldplay. Music for people who don’t like music, in my opinion. Never mind yellow, they’re beige. Haha. Occasionally, Daisy turned, looking over her shoulder toward me. I was alone, without Tony, and I sensed that she was immediately uncomfortable about my presence. The humming stopped. The looks over the shoulder grew more frequent. I knew I was in trouble but I also have come to understand that women rarely act on their instincts, favoring politeness over their own survival.
“Excuse me,” I called out. “Excuse me!” Daisy hesitated, looked around for other people (there were none), then stopped. Slowly I approached, a smile on my face. “I’m a little lost,” I said. “Could you point me toward Notown?”
“Oh, sorry, I just moved here and…” Daisy said. “Wait, didn’t Iserve you…?” She didn’t finish the sentence. She’d recognized me. The game was up. I smiled at her reassuringly but she turned on her heels and ran. Ah, Daisy, if only you’d done that earlier.
I caught her easily, of course. She was carrying a satchel that slowed her down and wore flat pumps that simply weren’t suitable for cross-country. I pushed her shoulder and she fell down the river embankment, landing in the ferns and brambles at the bottom. I climbed down after her to be sure she was OK.
