I believe Daisy the barista was actually Marguerite Moreau. I didn’t realize that the name Daisy is used for Marguerite, but apparently it used to be very common. Who knew? Well, Denver apparently.
I’m sure you remember the Moreau case? It was all over the news at the time. French girl studying medicine in Edinburgh. No one was ever convicted but Moreau was in an on-off relationship with a personal trainer who had previous convictions for domestic violence and he was charged. The verdict the jury returned was “not proven,”a verdict that only the Scottish legal system allows, whereby the jury aren’t happy to say he’s innocent, but the Crown Prosecution Service haven’t enough evidence to prove guilt.
I’ve attached the case file. Looks to me like the PT did it. He’s currently serving a separate rape charge in HMP Edinburgh.
Is Denver just twisting real stories into something else? If so, how does Betty fit in?
Neil
DI Neil Duggan
Northumbria Police
Good question, Sam thinks, but more important to her is the questionHow does Charlotte fit in?Denver’s stories are unraveling one by one, and it’s becoming impossible to keep up with his truths and lies. Denver has potentially lied about Daisy the barista and yet he knows details about Betty’s murder that only the perpetrator and police should know. Still, she reminds herself, there is no clear link to Charlotte. Nothing at all that a copycat couldn’t have lifted fromHow to Get Away with Murder.
Sam replies to Duggan, telling him they now believe Denver may be Betty’s nephew, and to send all information he’s gathered on the nephew’s whereabouts. She searches the name Marguerite Moreau and a photo of a smiling woman with a Roman nose and long, straight eyelashes fills her screen. Sam traces her fingers over the woman’s dragonfly necklace, her blood bubbling. Betty’s nephew chose to twist and retell Marguerite’s tragic story for his own gain. Even death didn’t stop her being used and abused by awful men.
“We’re here, ma’am.”
She looks about them as Taylor slowly drives past the tower blocks that contain their target location, then loops around and does the same again. They see nothing suspicious, no one hanging around. No vehicle is registered at the address, so theyhave no idea if the person they’re looking for is likely to be home or not.
They leave the car in a parking space and Taylor’s eyes linger on the Mercedes as he pushes the button to lock the doors and activate the alarm.
“We’ll walk around the building, see what we can see,” Sam says.
“And if he’s in there?”
“I’ll make an arrest,” she says. “Andrei Albescu has a string of petty convictions on his record and the CCTV Sussex Police sent over is clear: Albescu bought two cans of petrol from the garage next to Swinton’s only a couple of hours before someone set the printer’s ablaze. Albescu might not be Denver, but he might be able to tell us something useful.”
“According to Google,” Taylor adds a little apprehensively, “Albescu is a popular surname in Romania. He’ll likely have an Eastern European accent, just like Richie Scott suggested. And the guy in the CCTV footage looks pretty tall…”
Sam loosens the top button of her shirt and takes a deep breath.
“I still think Denver is Betty’s nephew. This Albescu is perhaps hired help,” she says. “Is your body cam on?”
Taylor nods. They look at each other, share a tight-lipped smile and walk toward the lobby of the nearest building.
Predictably, the lift doesn’t work and Sam and Taylor begin the arduous climb to the tenth floor. They each cover their noses: Taylor with his silk handkerchief, Sam with her sleeve. There are yellow stains in the corners of the landings and the stairs are littered with debris—needles, condoms, babies’ pacifiers. The long corridor of the tenth floor is filled with garbage bags and the occasional faded plastic toy. Where once there had been CCTV cameras, now there is only melted plastic or dangling wires.
Outside flat number 1064, they pause. There’s a storage box with a broken lid, from which the rusted frame of a doll’s pram sticks out. Sam presses her ear to the door. She hears a woman’s voice, singing or perhaps pacifying a child. Sam nods to Taylor, then raises her fist and bangs on the door.
For a minute, it doesn’t open, but they hear movement inside. A woman talks in a language that isn’t English. A baby cries. Eventually, the door is edged ajar on a chain.
“Mrs. Nadja Albescu?” Sam begins, “I’m DI Sam Hansen. Is Andrei at home?” The woman shakes her head. “May we come in, please?” Sam asks. Nadja’s eyes flick to the bruise over her eye.
“Come,” Nadja says, calmly opening the door. Sam glances at Taylor, wondering if he’s picked up on what she’s noticed: usually, police officers aren’t just admitted by an unexpecting homeowner without a few questions being asked first. Nadja hasn’t even inquired as to why they are there. Sam doesn’t know what to make of it, but it’s definitely odd.
They follow her down a dingy hallway toward a dark lounge. There are two rooms off the corridor and Sam checks each in turn. Empty, save for mattresses and the odd piece of old furniture. The lounge is swelteringly hot, but then the windows are all shut. Two toddlers sit in front of a television that’s showingPAW Patrolwithout any sound. A baby wails in another room. Nadja stands silently as Sam calmly checks the kitchen and a large storage cupboard for anyone else in the home.
“Can you tell me where Andrei is, Mrs. Albescu?” Sam asks, once she’s confident he isn’t here.
“Andrei, he is work. I bring you drink?”
“Yes, thank you,” says Sam. She isn’t thirsty but one of the first things you learn on the job is to always accept a drink offered by a potential witness. It buys time in their home, and makes themeeting feel more relaxed; a friend popping round for a cuppa. As Nadja turns to leave the room, Sam notices her swollen abdomen under her dress. They hear her cooing, and the baby in the other room stops crying. Then there’s the sound of cups and cupboard doors from the adjacent kitchen. Sam squeezes past Taylor to take a seat on the haggard sofa between two children. Taylor quietly updates their backup team: suspect not present.
“Hello, you two,” Sam says softly to the children. “What are you watching?”
“Chase! Look!” says the older child, pointing at a dog on the screen. Sam supposes the child is around three years old. Both little ones wear vests and nappies; the place is too hot for anything more. The vests are well worn and graying, but clean. Sam feels a bead of sweat slip down the back of her collar. Nadja reenters, a baby balanced on one hip, and hands Sam a chipped mug. She takes a sip. Lukewarm water.
