I spent a little time with my barista in the undergrowth. I suspect that she had a weak heart, because we really didn’t get much time together before she expired. Not a bad thing, I supposed, because I didn’t want to be gone for too long. I confess, I was once again tempted into taking a shiny dragonfly necklace from her neck as a wee keepsake.
I retrieved Daisy’s satchel, which she’d dropped near by. Taking the pregnancy test from my pocket, I pressed her fingers all over it. Remember, folks: fingerprints made immediately after death cannot be discerned from those made while alive.
On the return journey, I left my outer jacket in the doorway of a British Heart Foundation charity shop—I like to give back when I can. I wiped my shoes down and arrived back at my networking event. No one had noticed my absence, of course. I collected my phone and enjoyed a few whiskies in celebration. When the night was drawing to a close, I cajoled one or two fellow guests to share a taxi with me. I got dropped off first, and when I entered the hotel, I made a pointless inquiry at the front desk to ensure that the receptionist noted my arrival and thus added more weight to my alibi. In my room I ordered a paid-for movie, to prove that I was indeed present in the hotel.
Creating alibis in this way ensured that I was unlikely to be labeled a suspect in Daisy’s murder and introduced reasonable doubt, should I have had the misfortune of ending up on trial. I took a little pride in the pregnancy-test red herring, imagining police officers and profilers looking closely at the men in her life. As long as Daisy wasn’t some rainbow-flaunting rug-muncher—and based on her haircut and fingernails, I didn’tbelieve she was—there was bound to be a man somewhere in her periphery upon whom suspicion would land.
I didn’t receive so much as a phone call about the whole thing. Daisy’s ex-boyfriend was arrested for the crime. Unluckily for him, he was working in the same city that very weekend. I couldn’t have planned it better. The boyfriend was charged but the jury found the case not proven and he went right back to his life. I doubt he ever thinks about poor little Daisy.
I do.
I think about her every day, as I sip my macchiato.
Chapter Twelve
Sam watches the man on her bus. He’s reading. The book is curled painfully back on itself so she can’t see the cover, but she knows what it is from the size, shape, even the font. She’s re-read the Betty Brown chapter so many times that she can even guess what sentence the man’s eyes are on. He has a coffee in his free hand, and she wonders if it’s a macchiato. He takes a sip and licks his lips. Smiles at something on the page, then casts a guilty glance around.It’s not about Denver-bloody-Brady, she wants to yell. To scream.What about Charlotte?Everyone needs to remember her name, not her killer’s and not Denver’s. She sighs, knowing that her day will be filled with more searching for the man behind the book, and while Sam believes that Denver is a killer, she doesn’t believe that he isthekiller. Charlotte’s killer is the man she wants and Sam is convinced he’s a copycat.
Sam yawns and takes Taylor’s timeline from her handbag. She unfolds and scrutinizes it as the bus sways toward New Scotland Yard. The piece of A3 paper has grown messy since the first daythey’d looked at it together and the bottom few items on their list are curled underneath, out of sight:
How to Get Away with Murder—Timeline
Denver is born—approx. 1981.
Denver kills Jono (Quarry. DB age 12)—1993.
Denver kills Sarah (Convent. Physical evidence: letters)—1997.
Denver becomes a serial killer by age 20 (Missing victim?)—2001.
Denver kills Sean (Samaritan Technique)—2006.
Denver kills Betty (Physical evidence: blue star-sapphire ring)—2007.
Denver kills Melanie (Physical evidence: diamond earrings)—2019.
Richie Scott is convicted of killing Melanie—2019.
Denver kills Daisy (Barista. Physical evidence: dragonfly necklace)—2020.
The bus jerks to a halt at her stop. Outside New Scotland Yard, the street is entirely blocked. There are uniformed traffic cops trying to get the road cleared, but the number of press vans, journalists and protestors is insurmountable. Thankfully, there’s a back entrance that officers can use, and as she walks toward it she hears journalists broadcasting live in various languages. Sam walks a little faster, eager to pass by the news crews unnoticed and even more eager to solve the case they’re all talking about. She doesn’t speak any foreign languages, but she doesn’t need to. A phrase that needs no translation is spoken time and again:
Denver Brady tueur en série.
Denver Brady asesino en serie.
Denver Brady Serienmörder.
You don’t need a language degree to work that out: the UK has a serial killer on the loose and his name is Denver Brady. Not a single reporter mentions Charlotte’s name.
When Sam steps on to the fourth floor, Taylor immediately waves her over, a cup of tea in his hand.
“Thanks, Adam,” she says and he blinks.
“Er, you’re welcome,” he replies, then adds, “… ma’am.” She smiles at him, enjoying her confidence that he’s one of the good guys, when only a few weeks ago she hadn’t believed they existed. Progress.
“Detective Chief Inspector Blakelaw would like us all to assemble in the briefing room,” Tina Edris says as she walks briskly past and clicks the kettle on. “The DCI has brought in an offender profiler.” It’s the first time she’s seen Tina since she said those awful things she deeply regrets. Sam tries to meet Tina’s eye but the other woman only has eyes for the task at hand.
“We can’t make it, ma’am,” Taylor responds. “I know you’ll be sad to miss it, what with how effective you believe profilers to be…”
