“Because he needs me out of the way for a while so he can convict the wrong man. Otherwise you’d have said nothing to H-fucking-R, would you, Harry?” Sam’s words are venomous, but they lack real strength. She’s already struggling to breathe properly and the room’s beginning to spin. Through the glass, she sees Adam Taylor looking in at them. His cheeks are red and she’s sure his eyes are glistening, but his regret can’t help her now. Sam places a hand on Harry’s desk, trying to steady herself.
“Screw you, Harry,” Sam whispers, the tears spilling over and plopping on to her blouse.
Harry smiles at her calmly, then the phone rings. They both know it’ll be the prosecutor calling to discuss charging Andrei Albescu with the crimes of Denver Brady.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Harry says coolly, “I’ve come to believe that you need some additional sick leave. Please excuse me now.” With that he nods at Erica, who tries to place her arm around Sam’s shoulder, but can’t reach and settles for holding her elbow instead.
“Let me see you to a taxi, Detective Hansen,” she says, “and I’m afraid I’ll need your work phone and badge.”
Chapter Eighteen
Time melts into a blur of miserable sleep.Sam has come to know these as her dark days. There have been a lot of them in her life. Ever since she found her mother at the bottom of the stairs when she was nine years old, the dark days have hovered in the background. They hit her again when her father died, ten years after her mother. And more recently when DS Phil Lowry assaulted her and her godfather destroyed her fragile trust all over again.
She should get out of bed. She should take a pill and call someone, but she has no one to call. Apart from Dr. Thomson, and she can’t face him. Sam knows she’ll do none of the things she should do to feel better. Things like showering, taking a walk, eating a healthy meal.That’s possibly the worst thing about this, Sam thinks. Knowing how to help yourself and being utterly incapable of fighting the overwhelming urge to do the exact opposite.
Sam pulls her duvet closer around her and curls into a ball.
She ignores the need to eat. She ignores Adam Taylor calling her name through the letterbox. She ignores the hurt that Harry doesn’t even try to visit. She lets the dark days roll into one another, untilthey become a week, then two. The most she manages to do is empty a whole bag of kibble into a casserole dish and put new puppy pads down for the dog. Toni barely leaves her side. The little scruff rests his head on her waist and it feels like someone who loves her is holding her. When she cries, he whines and tries to lick her tears away. When she drags herself to the toilet, he waits for her outside the door. When she turns over in bed, he pushes his warm weight into her.
It’s black outside when the dark days ease into gray ones and Sam makes it to the kitchen for a slice of toast from a freezer loaf and a single tablet.Fuck you, Prozac. The kitchen is in an unspeakable state and Toni watches as Sam puts on some kitchen gloves then cleans up the dirty pads and sprays bleach over the lino before mopping it down. Once she’s sorted the kitchen, she crawls back upstairs, washes her hands and face, and climbs back into bed. The next morning, when the birds start to sing outside, Toni barks and jumps around on the duvet.
“Sshhh,” Sam says, but he won’t stop. Eventually, she sits up and the barking ceases. She lies down again and it starts once more. She sits back up. “OK, OK, I’ll get up. But the sofa is the best I can do.”
They curl up on the sofa together and Sam uses her old laptop to order a pizza. It’ll be the first full meal she’s eaten in a fortnight and her stomach cramps in expectation.
As she waits for the takeaway, Sam flicks on the TV, ready for the familiar comfort ofOnly Fools and Horses. Instead, she’s immediately hit with the headlines.SHOULD SERIAL KILLER’S FAMILY BE GRANTED ANONYMITY?scrolls across the screen. Sam switches channel.DCI BLAKELAW ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT FOLLOWING RECENT TRIUMPHS.There are photographs of Jack Mathers in handcuffs alongside grainy images of Andrei “Denver Brady” Albescu. The only relief Sam can feel is that there are no pictures of Nadja or the children; they seem safe, at least for now.
A news presenter standing in front of New Scotland Yard’s famous rotating sign lets her know that Andrei Albescu has been charged with the murders of Melanie Davison and Betty Brown, plus arson and other offenses. Words like “overwhelming evidence” and “expected to plead guilty” make Sam throw the TV remote at the wall. She instantly regrets the decision, because she now can’t quickly turn off when the camera cuts to Harry’s face.
“Thank you, yes, this is indeed a great day, a great time, for the Metropolitan Police. Two killers behind bars. I cannot say much more, as we will be working hard to secure convictions of these men, which I’m convinced, in the face of significant circumstantial and forensic evidence, we will achieve. The dedication of my team, my SIO Tina Edris and her colleagues, has been exemplary. That’s all, thank you.”
Sam curses, retrieves the remote and switches channel once again. She watches as reporters livestream from around the country. A camera pans to a large group gathered outside 10 Downing Street, then cuts to another at Albert Dock in Liverpool, before settling outside York Minster. “Jesus Christ,” Sam says to Toni. “It’s everywhere.”
A reporter asks a young woman with red lipstick why she’s protesting.
“The British public is sick and tired of dead women and girls. There are dead women everywhere. Dead in their homes. Dead in our parks. Husbands killing wives. Dads killing daughters. Strangers killing anyone. We’ve even got policemen killing and raping women. We want it to stop.” The small crowd stands behind the camera and the woman turns to them, her fist pumping the sky as she shouts, “Make Britain safe for women! Make Britain safe for girls!” The chant gets picked up instantly and the camera zooms back out, the reporter handing back over to the studio.
Sam sighs and flicks over toOnly Fools and Horses.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, Sam wakes on the sofa under an empty pizza box, feeling more human. Her stomach is still full and she brews herself a cup of black tea and swallows a tablet, noticing that there’s only one left.
For the first time since her suspension three weeks ago, Sam showers. Toni sits outside the bathroom as she washes her hair multiple times to penetrate the layers of grease that have accumulated. Her pajamas are ripe and could probably stand up on their own; she pushes them into the washing basket and dons her Nordic jumper and sweatpants. Then she feeds Toni and as he eats, she mops the kitchen lino once again with hot water and bleach. His meal finished, Toni scratches at the door. Sam shakes her head. He barks.
“OK, boy,” she says, pulling out a denim jacket. “Only a little walk, though, and while we’re at it we can call at the pharmacy for my Prozac.” Sam grabs Toni’s new collar and his extendable lead. He jumps up at the front door while she searches for her keys and phone before remembering that she’d had to hand in her workphone when she was told to leave. She digs about in her kitchen drawer, the one with everything from sticky tape to tampons in it, and finds her personal mobile, which she hasn’t used since being back at work. Mercifully, the screen comes to life when she plugs it in. The battery symbol flashes and she leaves it to charge, fitting Toni’s collar and clipping on his lead.
It’s bright outside, and Sam supposes it’s about midday. There’s a blue sky and not much traffic.Perhaps it’s the weekend, Sam thinks. Making her way down Matrimony Place, past St. Paul’s Church, she passes a queue of brunchers lined up outside Bubbles and Beans. The pharmacy that Dr. Thomson sends her prescription to is only a five-minute walk along the high street, but Sam is sweating by the time she arrives.
Now that she’s managed to leave the house for the first time in weeks, Sam decides that she wants to make the moment last. So does Toni. He struts and sniffs, looking back at Sam and waiting for her if he gets too far ahead. She notices that his hip bones are no longer visible and there’s a spring in his swaying step. A little smile creeps over her face, feeling strange but pleasant.
They head north toward Battersea Park. She’s always loved to stroll around the Rosery Gardens, the Ladies’ Pond and the rest of the lake there, and she wonders if that might boost her mood. There are some street food vendors by the water and Sam buys Toni a doggy ice cream, which he licks once and growls at, so she gives him half her hot dog instead.
Taking a different route home, down an unfamiliar high street, most of the shops Sam passes are the usual franchises: Costa, Subway, Currys. Toni gives a little yelp as Sam jerks to a halt outside an electrical shop. The window is filled with huge televisions. The latest curved flat-screen dominates the display. On the screen, a smart presenter sits behind a news desk, talking to MP Cecil Taylor. But it’s not the man’s face, an older version of Adam’s, that’s caught Sam’s attention. It’s the wordsscrolling across the bottom:CONVICTION OVERTURNED: MET POLICE APOLOGIZE.
Taylor senior and the presenter disappear and a new presenter begins to talk from outside an old building that Sam knows is the city courthouse. There are no subtitles, so Sam enters the store and heads directly to the nearest TV, grabbing the remote that’s attached to it by an anti-theft chain and upping the volume. As if sensing Sam’s prickling armpits, Toni lets out a low whine and licks her shoe. Sam’s pulse is racing. A throbbing strikes up in her temples. Behind the presenter, Sam sees a familiar figure, his arms raised in the air as if he’s just scored for Bristol City. She can just make out the Union Jack tattoo. Bile rises in Sam’s throat as he steps on to the podium and the camera closes in on his grinning face as he reads from a piece of paper.
“Excuse me, miss,” says a voice behind her, “no dogs in the store.”
