“Does the name Betty Brown mean anything to you?” Sam tries.
“Brown rings a bell…” Sean rubs his chin. “I think the lad Jem lived with was called Brown. Or maybe Smith. Or could it have been Jones? But maybe I’m just remembering Brown from Denver’s book. I skimmed the chapters after mine to be—”
“Does Jemma remember?” Taylor asks, and she hears the undertone of frustration in his voice.
“We aren’t in touch. I don’t want her to know where I am, right? That’s confidential.” Sean shoves his chin out to emphasize his point.
“So she didn’t have the baby?”
“She had it, aye.”
Then it falls into place. Sean’s evasiveness and odd word choices; the way he described Jemma as “getting herself pregnant” and just now referred to his child as an “it.” This man ran away, as many unwilling fathers have before and many will again. Sean didn’t want to be a dad. The baby wasn’t in his belly, so he had choices. He chose freedom. He’s not a victim, just another absent father.
“What’s Jemma’s surname?” Sam asks.
“Hammond,” Sean says, then adds, “Why do you need to know that?”
Sam ignores the question and pulls from Sean’s folder a driving license and a utility bill with his current address on. Sam photographs the documents using her phone.
“So you believe me?” Sean asks. “You believe that I’m one of Denver’s victims?” Sam fishes through the rest of the paperwork. It certainly looks like Sean was a twenty-four-year-old music student at around the right time, although he didn’t complete thecourse. There’s a photograph of a man posing next to a burned-up billboard, Jake Gyllenhaal’s face charred and flapping in the wind. Some song lyrics and various letters and bills. The details are exact matches for those Denver supplies in his book.
“We’ll speak to Jemma to see if she remembers the name of the man you think might be Denver,” Taylor says.
“Right, but my details stay confidential,” Sean demands.
“What university did Denver’s friend attend?” Taylor presses, pen poised.
He thought a moment. “Newcastle,” he says. “Or maybe Northumbria.”
“Let’s wrap this up,” Sam says. “Taylor, get on to those unis for a list of students that fit our time frame. I’ll have DI Duggan speak with Jemma personally. He’s keen to help.”
“Wait. I need a receipt,” Sean says. “For my visit. Something to prove that I came here today and you agree I’m a victim.”
“This is New Scotland Yard, not Primark,” Sam scoffs. “We don’t do receipts.”
“Well then, I need you to sign something to say that I amtheSean fromHow to Get Away with Murder.” He takes his folder back from Sam and extracts a few sheets of typed paper from it, placing them on the desk. She glances at the top sheet—an incredibly basic form stating exactly what Sean has just described. At the very bottom she spots the name of a company—a plc she’s never heard of, but her mind connects the dots.
“You’re trying to sell your story,” Sam declares, her understanding dawning. “And the newspaper, or media group—whoever is interested—won’t publish without some kind of proof.”
“Look, this story is worth more money than—”
“Get out,” Sam snaps.
“I’ll split it with you,” Sean begs.
“Cut this homophobic loser loose, Taylor.” Sam stands to leave the room then turns back, loathing suffusing her face. “We have adead child and at least one killer on the loose. A killer who could strike again any moment. And your only concern is—”
Sean slams his fists on the table. “It’s just a signature!”
“Pay your child support, you spineless fraction of a man!” she spits.
“You fuckin’—”
“See him out, Taylor,” Sam says dismissively, pulling her phone from her pocket and noticing several missed calls from Dr. Thomson and DI Neil Duggan.
“Listen to me, you cunt!” Lister yells, jumping to his feet and grabbing at her over the table. “Denver has the world thinking I’m a faggot—”
Before Sam knows what’s happening, there’s a crunchy pop and Lister is clutching his nose as blood immediately starts to run between his fingers. She gasps, then turns to Taylor, who’s nursing his right fist.Shit, she thinks, watching her trainee turn pale. Sean begins to whimper and mumble about police brutality. Sam grabs some tissues from the box on the table and hands them to Sean. They all stand frozen for a second, looking at one another. Sean tips his head back and holds the top of his nose. Taylor flops forward in his chair, head in hands.
