“Today,” Richie Scott says, “justice has been done. Justice for me and justice for my beautiful Mel. I always said I was innocent and now everyone knows what Denver Brady, now identified as Andrei Albescu, has done to her. Not what I done. I loved my Mel.”
“Excuse me,” the voice says again. “I’m sorry but there are no dogs allowed in here.”
“I want to thank you lot, the public, for your support. I want to thank my mates what stuck by me and I want to thank my lawyer here, for getting me out.” Richie gestures to the man by his side who is standing back from the crowd, only his torso momentarily visible as the camera quickly skips out and then back to Richie’s grinning face. Sam gasps.
“What will your first act as a free man be, Mr. Scott?” calls out one journalist.
“I’m off to the pub.” Scott grins. “First round’s on me, boys!” Another cheer rises from the crowd.
“How do you respond to women’s rights groups who feel that you still belong in prison, Mr. Scott?” asks a different voice.
“I done my time for that, and I’m sorry for it. Mel could really push my buttons, but I’m sorry I rose to it. I don’t accept violence against women.”
“What do you say to the Met Police, who wrongfully arrested an innocent man?” asks another journalist.
“Everyone makes mistakes.” Scott shrugs. “Police are just humans. But not catching Denver Brady sooner. Not even knowing a serial killer was—”
“Security. We’ve a woman with a dog in the TV section. She’s refusing to leave.”
Sam’s feet find motion and she walks from the store and back the way she’s come. Her mind begins to whirr and clunk like an old car that’s stood still for too long but is made of strong stuff. For weeks she’s struggled with so many pieces of the Denver Brady case. Like a jigsaw that she couldn’t quite finish. But in that moment, looking at Richie Scott without his prison jumpsuit and out in the open, it all comes together.
Sam knows who killed Betty.
Sam knows who killed Melanie.
Sam knows it all. Because she recognizes that dreadful tie.
Sam rushes home.Ignoring the bunch of flowers on her doorstep, she fumbles her way inside and grabs her mobile, navigating immediately to her work email and finding herself logged out. Her password doesn’t work. She logs on to her personal email and drafts a message to Neil Duggan. She’s not 100 percent sure of his email address, so she sends several, with varying combinations of forename and surname and initials. Within ten minutes, she’s had half a dozen bounce-backs and one reply.
Hansen,
Pleased to hear from you. I’ve been calling but been stonewalled Met end. What’s going on down there?
I found Betty’s nephew. Barry Brown is a lawyer in London—see attached.
We need to talk. My (personal) mobile is 07700 900458.
Neil
DI Neil Duggan
Northumbria Police
Sam slumps on to the sofa, panting, and clicks on the attached PDFs, reading them quickly. Then she smiles a great, wide smile. There’s a certificate of name-change.
“I knew it,” she says to the dog. “I’ve found the real Denver Brady and his name is not Andrei Albescu.”
Legacy
We have arrivedat the end of our time together. I truly hope you’ve concentrated on my words, taken notes and underlined. It’s important that you reread this guide to murder before you begin your own career. Repetition is an important component of learning and understanding for average people, such as yourself. I say this not to insult you, but rather to protect you. I call you average as you are now. I doubt that I will call you average for long. Not if you’ve paid proper attention to my advice. Once you’ve become what I’ve taught you to be, you’ll leave average behind forever. This is why I need my final lesson to be on legacy.
My legacy, your legacy. For nothing but the art lives on and everyone knows the name of the artist.
After my own near-death experience at Basil’s hands, everything changed. I started to give due care and attention to what I would leave behind for the next generation.
When I woke up on my office floor, the day after Basil had slit my throat, I couldn’t believe I was alive. I was not, however, filled withjoie de vivreafter not having succumbed to my wounds and perished. Instead, a great anxiety consumed me. As my wounds healed, my mood didn’tlift. It was my dark night of the soul.I kept the piece of paper with my scrawled sentence on it and, one evening not long after, it gave me the answer.
I needed to be known. I needed to tell my story. That very day, I began writing this book. As part of my journey, I’ve given a lot of thought to how I want to be remembered, and I’ll pass this learning on to you here, in my final meditations.
