“A book inquiry team of just two?” she challenges. “Me and a probationer to catch a potential serial killer?”
In response, Harry just holds out a flimsy brown case file along with what appears to be a skinny novel. Sam takes them from him. There’s very little in the file itself, and she guesses it’s been hastily thrown together over the weekend, probably a task delegated by Harry to a junior. She sees a simple case summary and a system-generated progress report, along with a smaller envelope that presumably contains crime scene photographs. It’s clear that Sam will be bringing herself up to speed as best she can.
Harry begins clicking his mouse and cursing modern technology. She waits, her eyes drifting around the room, trying to finda comfortable spot to rest. She wonders if her new apprentice will have been briefed to keep an eye on her. If they’ll have been warned about the unstable female, possibly suffering from perimenopausal hysteria, back on the job after spending six months at home after she lost her grip.
“What’s-his-name, your trainee, has been briefed,” Harry says, as if reading her mind. “On that subject… make him work for it. He came in on one of these fast-forward schemes. Shortcuts to get bums on seats, when what we need is more like you and me. Grafters. Doers. Not box-tickers. So, make him pull his weight. Do the heavy lifting. Save you getting stressed out. Six-figure degrees and a rich daddy MP can only get him through the door, but he earns the rest. OK?”
“Yes, sir,” she says.Great, she thinks,a newbie to manage.
“Good. You’ll meet DI Edris before the next briefing. I think she’s attending the postmortem today.” He clicks again, oblivious to Sam’s stomach lurching at the wordpostmortemand the accompanying mental images of cold, sharp steel and chilled young flesh. “It’s great to have you back, Sam. Don’t stretch yourself and don’t miss any sessions with Pete, OK? They’re mandatory.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Sam, anything you need or if you… you know… feel overwhelmed again, please say. You’re not the first Sam Hansen I’ve said this to: my door is always open.” The DCI clears his throat, and Sam can see the moisture in his eyes as they linger again on the picture of himself and her father.
“Sure,” Sam says, then adds, “Any tips, Harry? On where to start withHow to Get Away with Murder?”
Harry looks flattered. “You don’t need my help to investigate a book, Sam. Just find Brady quickly and rule him in or out. Personally, I’d start by comparing the description he gives in the book to Charlotte’s crime scene photos. There are some disturbing similarities.”
“Any chapter in particular?” Sam asks, flicking through the pages of the book and resisting the urge to sniff them.
“Yes,” Harry says. “Don’t stop reading until after the chapter about Sarah. That’s the one with the most links to Charlotte’s murder.”
Popping My Cherry
It was anextremely hot and still day, the kind rarely enjoyed in England. Owing to that particular area’s past, the landscape was littered with abandoned quarries. Over time, these places filled with groundwater and became havens for wildlife, including the local youth. On warm days, villagers would head to the quarry to sunbathe, socialize and swim. The shale floor felt not dissimilar from sand and the rock bounced the heat around inside the quarry, making the place a suntrap. If it was a good day, the ice cream van might stop near by.
That day, it didn’t. I’d gone to the quarry with my cousin, Bobby, who was a couple of years older than me. At twelve, that small age difference can feel like a lot, and, given my small stature, I noticed the distance between us keenly.
The quarry was only five minutes from the village market square, and Bobby knocked on his friends Gordie and Jono along the way. Gordie had a nasty habit of calling me “Tiddler,” and sometimes my cousin would join in. I preferred Jono, who was a milky, doughy creature with a stutter. I tended to keep myself to myself whenever the three boys were together. That day, I sat on the toasty shale, reading, while Bobby and his palsworked on the raft they had spent the summer building. From my shady spot, I could see their already-tanned skin turning increasingly pink at the shoulders. The grown-ups were all at work and, for the most part, we had the place to ourselves.
The boys had, over the preceding weeks, acquired four barrels and lashed four planks to them to form a square floatation craft that was quite impressive. That day, they were building oars from pilfered baking trays that they nailed to the ends of old broom handles.
I recall quite vividly the minutiae of the day. I was reading a book about Mary Ann Cotton that I’d waited months for the library to acquire. I’d only picked up Mary Ann that morning, when Bob and I had gone into town to buy ourselves some pop for our day at the quarry. The librarian, a nosey old hag, asked if my mother knew what I was reading and I poked my tongue out at her.
It was some time around 2 p.m. Definitely after lunch, which we hadn’t brought. My hunger added to my anger at discovering that Mary Ann Cotton was likely entirely innocent. I was about to throw the book into the quarry depths when it all began.
The raft was being launched. A couple of younger children gathered around as Bobby, Jono and Gordie pushed the craft out on to the water, each jumping aboard, perched above a barrel. The little children cheered, but it was immediately obvious to me, watching from the shade, that the boys would have a problem. The raft was a square construction and the fourth barrel, without a sailor aboard, was lifting out of the water. They’d all tip off. Jono’s milky flab, coupled with Gordie’s height and muscle, made the endeavor impossible. They’d ignored the simple laws of physics.
Idiots, I thought, as I tilted my face skywards and breathed deeply, turning my mind back to the final chapter of my book on Mary Ann Cotton and the day the prison officer in Durham Jail had escorted her to the scaffold. I pictured her trembling lips and pinioned hands. I wondered if she had protested her innocence, or better still, begged for—
“Oi, Tiddler!” Gordie was standing over me, dripping. I’d been so deepin thought, I hadn’t heard him approach. “It’s your lucky day,” he said. “We need a fourth man for the raft.”
I glanced from Gordie to the shoreline where my cousin Bobby and the fat boy, Jono, were waiting. They were all at least a foot taller than me and significantly heavier.
“No,” I said firmly. Gordie stared at me, so I elaborated with, “I can’t swim.”
“Just come and have a look,” Gordie said, “you don’t have to get on it.” He placed his hands on his hips and, reluctantly, I stood. He put a sweaty arm around my shoulders and I could smell his musk. Not entirely unpleasant, but nothing like my own body produced yet. “Tiddler will be the fourth man,” Gordie called to the others.
“No,” I said again, trying to back away. “I can’t swim!” Gordie held me firmly around the shoulders and I didn’t meet Bobby’s eye because he knew only too well that I was, in fact, a fine swimmer.
“Don’t worry, Tiddler,” Gordie said. “You can sit in front of me. I’ll look after you.”
“I c-can’t swim too great, neither—” Jono began, but Gordie cut him off, calling him a chicken and dragging me forward. Gordie maneuvered me over one of the front barrels. I was still fully clothed, in torn denim shorts and an overly small black cats shirt that had been Bobby’s. The boys launched me on to the water. The barrel was between my legs like a battered, round horse and my feet dangled in the water. It was startlingly chilly and my skin pimpled as the others mounted their barrels and began to row. I watched as the water changed color beneath me and I saw the skeleton of an old car in the murk below. There were no fish and few plants, just dark depths.
We’d reached the middle of the quarry, the deepest point, when the raft failed. Looking back now, it was inevitable, wasn’t it? Before we had a chance to realize our peril, the planks had detached and we were clinging to debris. Gordie immediately swam to shore with an impressive front crawl. My cousin bobbed on a barrel a fair distance away from me.Jono was holding on to a plank close by. I was treading water, trying desperately to hold on to my barrel; it kept spinning round and I was too small to reach over the top of it, as Bobby had done.
“Swim to Jono, he’s really close to you!” Bobby called as the barrel spun again, plunging me into the cold blackness. The icy water filled my ears and tingled against my scalp as I gulped. My legs burned and my feet cramped inside my sandshoes.
