“I need to tell you—”
They both jolt as Taylor’s phone rings, loud and insistent. Toni jumps up, barking once again. Taylor stands, slides his phone from his back pocket, his other hand in his hair. He paces and talks for a moment, then hangs up and turns back to her.
“That was the DCI,” Taylor says. “Andrei Albescu is at the station.”
The custody suitefeels chaotic at night. Bright strip lights buzz and flicker, several guests complain loudly about the accommodation and a woman wails in the waiting room. Sam and Taylor press through and are directed to interview room number one. Sam prepares herself to take her first look at Andrei Albescu. The man who burned down the printer’s ofHow to Get Away with Murderand is receiving profits from the sale of the book. The man who much of the evidence points to as the most likely candidate to be Denver, whether Sam agrees or not. She tries to quell her instincts, but as soon as she turns the corner and sees Andrei, she knows.That’s not him, she thinks.That’s not Denver Brady.
The man is very tall—around six foot five. He manages to appear simultaneously skinny yet strong. His face puts him around fifty, but his dense, dark hair and heavy black eyebrows suggest he’s younger. He’s covered in dust and grime, and wears a laborer’s outfit: navy work trousers, a tatty sweater and a beanie hat thathe’s removed and is kneading between his hands. Rigger boots. A couple of days’ worth of stubble. Brown circles under his eyes. A nervous sweat sheen on his brow.
None of them speak; they have instructions to wait for Harry. Albescu leans against the wall and closes his eyes, exhausted. Sam and Taylor simply stare at the man from their seats.
“He’s lanky,” Taylor whispers, “just like Richie Scott said. He’ll have an accent, too.”
Sam doesn’t reply. Richie Scott would love Denver Brady to confess to killing Melanie. That would be Richie’s ticket out of jail, and Sam is determined not to do anything to help that along.
Fuck Harry, thinks Sam.“Let’s begin,”she says smoothly. “Take a seat please, Mr. Albescu.”
Taylor opens his mouth to object, but catches the look in her eye and starts the interview recording. He goes through the formalities—the caution, the introductions, recording protocols—and assures Albescu that this is an interview to aid with an investigation and that he isn’t under arrest. The “yet” is silent, but loud. All the while, Sam takes the man in.
“Mr. Albescu—may I call you Andrei?” Sam begins, and he nods and tries to smile. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, what with a wife and little ones to get home to, so I’ll dive right in. Do you recognize this child?” Sam slides a school photograph of Charlotte across the table, letting her eyes rest on it for a second before returning them to his face.
“I seen her on the news.” He speaks with a light accent that’s an unusual hybrid of cockney and Romanian.
“What about in real life?”
“No.”
“You know nothing about her murder?”
“No.”
“Do you own any tracking devices?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been to Holland Park?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me why someone carved this girl’s initials, and Denver Brady’s, on to a tree in Holland Park?”
“Yes.”
“Do you—wait, what? Yes?” Sam blurts. “What can you tell me about that?”
“I think the killer readHow to Get Away with Murderand copy.”
Sam sits back and takes a sip of water from her plastic cup. Taylor clicks and unclicks his pen, his knee bouncing up and down beneath the table, making her drink vibrate when she puts it back down.
“So, you recognize this book, Andrei?” Sam pushes her battered copy ofHow to Get Away with Murderacross the table. The red spine is badly cracked, the bottom edge, below the author’s name, is forever curled and the page corners are creased where she’s folded them down to mark her place. A scrap of paper functions as a bookmark and protrudes from among the final pages. There’s not much left for her to read.
“Yes, I recognize it,” Albescu says, stroking the cover. “I wrote it.”
Taylor’s head snaps around to look at Sam.Keep cool, Taylor, she thinks.
“You wrote this book, Mr. Albescu?” Sam asks cautiously.
“Yes. I wrote this book.”
