“Ipromiseyou, Harry, on my mother’s soul,” she pleads. “That man is not Denver.”
“Sam, your parents would be so proud. You have caught aserial killer.Paparazzi from around the world are camped out on our doorstep and I can walk out there and sayyour name.Their name—Hansen. Can you grasp what that would mean? What would your father—”
“He is not Denver Brady!” Sam yells.
“God, Sam,” Harry hisses, glancing up and down the corridor. “Haven’t I always done what’s best for you? I’m telling you to takethis win. For both our sakes. I want this for you. And you will not take this opportunity from me.”
Harry turns and walks away, leaving Sam alone in the corridor. She shivers, runs her hands down her face and flattens herself against the wall, letting it hold her up. It would be so easy for her to go upstairs and call the CPS, outline the evidence and charge Andrei with murder. She’d stand next to Harry, smile and nod as he told the world’s press that she’s found Denver Brady, then work to build a case against Andrei for the murder of Betty Brown and Melanie Davison, potentially freeing Richie Scott in the process. Sam would be the jewel in the Met’s crown. All she has to do is go along with Harry’s suggestion. It’s not like she hasn’t done it before.
A deep heat begins to stir in her stomach, then it rises to her chest and burns out through her face and neck. She stands up straight, smooths her jacket, rolls back her shoulders and marches after Harry. When the lift opens on to the fourth floor, she strides across the space and directly into Harry’s office, not giving a shit that he’s already on the phone.
“Yes. Quickly, please. Thanks.” Harry places the phone in the receiver and sits down, letting the momentum carry him backward in his chair. He laces his fingers, closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths as if he is an exhausted parent about to handle a difficult child.
“DI Hansen,” he says, “kindly refrain from entering my office without—”
“Cut the bullshit, Harry. Do not pin Denver’s crimes on some poor immigrant who—”
“Andrei Albescu is already under review with Immigration as a result of his petty crimes. Not to mention the arson charges we can bring against him today. Now this. Once we put the evidence to him, he’ll probably—”
Sam turns and slams the office door. It’s a visceral need to move. She wants to hit something. Anything. All the anger from the last year is boiling up and finally spilling over.
“Harry. Don’t do this. Albescu is an innocent man. He’s being framed or… or something. I just need some time to find the real—”
“Think about it, Sam,” Harry pleads. “This will be the making of your career.”
“It’s wrong,” Sam announces, folding her arms. “Just like transferring Lowry instead of reporting him was wrong. I will not go along with you this time, Harry. I will not watch an innocent man charged with murder. I will not see him branded a serial killer while a real predator is released from jail and another remains free.”
Harry sighs. “Can’t you see that it’s in your best—”
“Do not talk to me about my best interests,” Sam barks. “I refuse to allow this to happen. I’ll speak to the Police and Crime Commissioner. I’ll speak to some old journalist friends. I’ll sing it from the rooftops like Maria fucking von Trapp if I have to.”
By the end of her rant, Sam is panting, and Harry sits patiently, waiting for her to contain herself. They both know she knows how to cause trouble. These days, people listen to whistleblowers, and Sam’s a credible one. She can see the headlines now:WE HAVEN’T CAUGHT DENVER! DETECTIVE CLAIMS.Harry would have to discredit her somehow and she’s been nothing but well-behaved since she returned to work. He even made her SIO.I have a strong hand here, she thinks. Why, then, is he looking at her as though he knows something she doesn’t?
“My dear girl…” He shakes his head. “I’ve done everything I can for you.”
There’s a knock at the door. A woman Sam vaguely recognizes enters the office. When she turns back, Harry has the saddest look on his face. It reminds her of the day Harry carried her father’s coffin up the aisle of the church.
“Last chance, Sam?” Harry pleads.
“Fuck you, Harry.”
Harry takes a deep breath. “Sam, this is Erica Mason from upstairs—HR. I’ve asked Erica to join us as I have some difficult news for you, Sam. I’m afraid we need to suspend you from duty, with immediate effect.”
Sam steps back, her throat suddenly dry. “You can’t suspend me without cause,” she tries to say, but the words come out in a rasp.
Erica gives her a calm smile. “I’m sorry, Detective,” she says, “but it’s come to our attention that you recently suffered a panic attack while on duty. Subsequently, you went to a public house and rendered yourself incapacitated by way of alcohol. All while on duty and supervising a trainee, who managed, under difficult circumstances, to bring you home.”
Salt floods Sam’s mouth and her chest seizes. How could they know? Taylor wouldn’t have said anything. He brought her home and left her on the sofa under a blanket.
“Taylor called me,” Harry says.
“Why would Taylor—”
“Because he couldn’t get you out of the taxi!” Harry spits, anger flaring. “So, I came and got you on to your sofa while the boy cleaned up the dog shit from your kitchen floor. I told him I’d have his job if he didn’t keep shtum—”
“You made me joint SIO the next day!” she cries. “How could you? Knowing I’d had a—”
“What the DCI means,” Erica interjects, “is that he directed Trainee Detective Constable Taylor to leave the matter in the DCI’s hands. The decision to make you joint SIO was never formalized and nor will it be, as we have also discovered that you’ve failed to attend your private counseling appointments. If you remember, when you first took sick leave, it was agreed that private counseling would be an acceptable alternative to in-house therapy, but that it remained obligatory. Our well-being officer hassent you numerous emails requesting updates and meetings, and you have ignored them. All things considered, DCI Blakelaw has decided to involve HR—”
