“I’m going to do it right now,” she says, moving to the door. “Doc, you should leave.”
“Why not come by for a proper session tomorrow?” Dr. Thomson offers. “We could tackle the photos then if—”
“No,” she says, opening the door. She walks directly to her desk and finds the brown envelope, before quickly reentering the meeting room and locking the door once again. She slams it down on the table with more force than she’d intended. “You really should leave, Doc.”
Sam takes a couple of deep breaths. Wipes her palms on her trousers.I can do this, she tells herself, running her hand over the coarse cardboard of the envelope. Her fingers tremble as she opens the gummy flap and slides the photographs out. Mercifully, they’re face down, but Dr. Thomson still takes a sharp breath in.
“It’s okay, Doc,” Sam assures him, “I can do this. You should go, and I’ll see you tomorrow—I promise.”
He swallows, straightening in his chair. “No, if you’re really doing this now, it’s best I’m here. I’ll close my eyes.” He briefly drops his head into his hands and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
“Sure?” she checks. He nods. “OK. Look away now, Doc.”
Charlotte’s skin is pale. The contrast with the bright green of her school uniform is striking. The girl looks almost translucent. She’s curled up beneath an oak tree, her head resting against its giant trunk. Rough bark against such a delicate cheek. Her red hair is free from debris and a few strands fall gently over her face.Her eyes are closed. Her hands rest on her lap. On the grass in front of her, her school bag and various possessions are strewn about. The messiness of the everyday objects is jarring next to the almost saintly serenity of the dead child. Sam breathes. She knows there’s nothing serene about this, not at all. This death wasn’t holy, it was violent and ugly. Too quick and too slow, agony and the obliteration of a soul.
Sam’s breath comes in erratic bursts. She tries to pour herself more water from the jug, but it slops on to the carpet. Dr. Thomson opens his eyes, gently takes the jug and fills her cup. She gulps the water. She looks up at the doctor, thanks him. His eyes are skyward, roaming above her head, deliberately avoiding glimpsing the pictures in her hands. He really doesn’t want to see these photographs.Police officers deal with more trauma every day than most people will in a whole year, Sam remembers Harry saying to her on the very first day of her induction. Seeing the fear in the doctor’s eyes strengthens her resolve.This is my job, she thinks.I can put this man behind bars.Her breathing eases slightly.
Still on the first photograph, Sam holds it closer to her face, examining each of the objects in turn. There are a couple of school books—Blood BrothersandGCSE PE, books for exams Charlotte will never take—and, of course,How to Get Away with Murder.There’s also a foldable hairbrush, various lip glosses, vanilla body spray, a compact mirror, concealer, sanitary pads and pens. Plus a Squishmallow soft toy, a plastic Troll doll with pink hair and a Boost chocolate bar.
“Take a break if you need to,” Dr. Thomson says. Sam declines, holds her breath and turns to the next photograph. It’s a close-up of a tree trunk. She exhales. Some of the bark has been hacked away, exposing the lighter, softer fibers beneath. In an asymmetrical heart shape, she sees the initials:CM + DB. Sam rotates the photograph and examines it from a different angle. The carving is precise. Not at all rushed. It clearly took time—at least half anhour, the expert they consulted had told them, and that was the minimum time needed. Not to mention the preparation. Tools were used. Tools and time. Very risky, to linger in a public park with a dead body, just to carve a tree. Unless the killer carved this before the murder. But not even Charlotte herself knew she would be in the park that night. Perhaps he carved some of it earlier and left the center space blank for his victim’s initials. Sam squints at the “CB,” holding the image at the end of her nose. The letters don’t appear to have been hastily added—they’re equally well crafted.
“‘Mobile phones have tracking features,’” Sam says aloud. “You can pop a tracking device into your intended victim’s satchel and find out their regular routes; people rarely deviate from their usual journeys… Perhaps you could be really creative and use a tracked phone to lure a victim to where you want them to be… Tracking can be very useful when properly understood.” She’s amazed at the accuracy of her recall. She’d read Denver’s chapter about the dark web several times in a row, even taking it into the shower with her and propping it up on the soap shelf so she could read it again, but even so.
“Pardon?” says Dr. Thomson, his eyes still squeezed closed.
“Thanks, Doc,” Sam says, standing up and sliding the rest of the photographs back inside the envelope without looking at them. “You can relax now. They’re gone. It’s over.” Dr. Thomson lets out a breath of relief and opens his eyes, blinking rapidly. His face is pale and his skin clammy.
Sam struggles to keep calm as she walks the doctor to the elevator. Her mind races with her discovery and she presses the button for the ground floor over and over again until the lift finally chimes and the doctor steps in. Even before the doors have closed, Sam spins on her heel.
“Taylor!” she calls. “Adam Taylor!”
“Here,” he says from behind her. He’s standing at the smallkitchenette, three cups lined up and the kettle in his hands. Taylor looks over her shoulder to where Dr. Thomson has just disappeared behind the lift’s closing doors. “Taylor, find Tina, bring Chloe too, and meet me in the briefing room,” she says. “I think I’ve found a clue.”
Taylor places mugsof tea down in front of Tina, Chloe and Sam. He doesn’t meet Sam’s eye and the distance this creates unnerves her, but she can’t deal with that now so she takes her tea gratefully, then puts the two crime scene photographs she was looking at in the middle of the table. They’re sitting in the large briefing room, around one end of the table. On the whiteboard behind them are the case notes and Charlotte Mathers’ photograph. Sam’s phone buzzes: another email from DI Duggan.
“Aw, cute,” Chloe coos, catching a glimpse of Sam’s phone screen. “Is that your dog?”
“Ma’am,” Taylor says, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting with that gentleman. But I wanted to tell you immediately that I’ve received a call from DI Neil Duggan at Northumbria Police. Duggan confirmed that Betty’s son Robert Brown attended Northumbria University. Bobby’s death certificate says…” Taylor pauses and pulls out his phone. “Robert Albert Brown. Aged twenty-two. Cause of death: Accidental. 1A—drowning. 1B—Fall into a river. Location: Tynemouth. So, your theory about Bobby potentially being both Denver’s cousin and Betty’s son seems to be adding up. Duggan has been working to track down a current address for Betty and Albert Brown’s nephew for some time and he’s proving very difficult to locate. Apparently Duggan put a lot of effort into finding him when he tried to get Betty’s case reopened—sent letters to all known addresses, social media, DVLA, the usual—but got no response. In all likelihood, the nephew has concealed his identity.”
“Congratulations, Detective Hansen,” Edris says, her voice laced with resentment. “I’m not sure why I’m in this meeting, though. I still stand by what I said to the DCI about us sharing the SIO—”
“And I agree with you,” Sam says, genuinely. “I’m not ready to be SIO. Look, Tina, I’m sorry—OK? You said that Harry wasn’t doing the right thing by us and you’re right. Harry has failed me before, when I needed him most. But at other times in my life, he’s been more than a godfather to me. It’s difficult to reconcile, and I lashed out. I’m sorry about what I said to you.”
“Mmm,” Tina says. “All right. I suggest that we approach DCI Blakelaw again and attempt to—”
“My therapist, who you all just saw out there, has told Harry himself that I shouldn’t be SIO. But I know Harry better than any of you, and no one will change his mind once it’s made up.”
Tina opens her mouth to respond, but instead she turns her eyes to the crime scene photographs and stares at them as though she hasn’t seen them a thousand times before.
“Yourtherapist?” Taylor asks, and Sam tries not to hear the relief in his voice. She can’t look at him right now, not given what Dr. Thomson has just said about how Taylor looks at her. The idea that there’s something between them makes her cheeks burn. It’s not something she has space to process at the moment, so she returns her attention to the matter at hand.
“I have another theory,” Sam begins—
“Exciting,” chirps Chloe, smiling and leaning forward.
Sam points to the photograph showing Charlotte positioned as if asleep against the tree trunk. With her finger, she gently circles first the girl’s body, then the items scattered on the ground.
“Notice the contrast between the precise positioning of Charlotte’s body and the disorganized scattering of her possessions?”
