“Are you kidding?” he says, “Denver Brady himself—Andrei Albescu is his real name, you know, but I stick with Denver because,let’s face it, it’s cooler… Anyway, Denver won’t give interviews. His family—he has a wife and three kids—they’ve vanished, so I can’t entice them to speak to me.”
Andrei has four children now, Sam thinks. She doesn’t correct the YouTuber as he describes how interviewing the lawyer is as close as anyone will ever get to speaking to the biggest serial killer of our age—possibly the biggest ever, because who knows how many other murders Denver has committed and hasn’t put in his book, he says, the egg bouncing with enthusiasm.
“… this interview would be groundbreaking. Could give us insight into the mind of a serial killer. What makes the monsters do it, kind-of-thing. I’m hoping to make him an offer he can’t refuse and, in exchange, I want insight into Denver’s childhood, his mother and how she raised him. Plus—”
“I’ll give you some insight,” Sam says. “These men are losers who kill women because they can, and because they want to. It’s power, control and sex. Nothing more sophisticated than that. It’s not his mam’s fault and his dog didn’t pass on a message from God or Satan. There is no great philosophy to it, and murder victims are not entertainment. You’re wasting your time, anyway. He won’t grant you an interview. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t be seen on TV.”
“I can pixelate his face,” the YouTuber argues, “and change his voice. I’m offering him six figures for—”
“Miss Hansen?” the receptionist interrupts. “You may go in now. Please take the lift to the third floor. Mr. Windsor’s office is room 1408.”
Sam stands, stuffing the last of her croissant into her mouth.
“Wait,” the man says, his brow puckering. “I thought you said… Why are you here?”
Sam shrugs, but it’s a good question, and one she’s been wrestling with since she made the appointment. Why does she feel the need to confront this man? To come to his lair and look at him; toquestion him; present him with everything she knows, even though she has no legal power to act on anything he may say? For the most part, it’s self-indulgence. Sam wants her showdown. HerScooby-Doomoment, where she alone unmasks the killer. Denver’s readers want it too, she supposes. A trope of the genre that she derives too much satisfaction from herself to subvert.
“You want a real story?” Sam asks. He nods. “Why not do an exposé on the number of criminals and suspected criminals changing their names and becoming untraceable? Nowthat’ssomething that’sreallyscary. Anyone can assume a new identity and our software is so archaic that no one ever knows. Nothing is monitored because the systems don’t talk to each other. Everyone assumes that a name-change is a big deal, and that the police know about it. We don’t. No one does. Pedophiles, rapists—anyone can change their name and then vanish. HOLMES knows nothing about it. Politicians talk about closing the legal loophole, but it’s never happened. Even if that comes into force, it’ll only stop known offenders—those already convicted.”
The journalist thinks for a second and then says, “Nah. I think theGuardianalready covered that story,” he says, then adds, “Who’s Holmes, anyway?”
“HOLMES2. Didn’t you readHow to Get Away with Murder? Denver talks about HOLMES in detail.”
“I tend to skim-read,” he says.
“You can’t skim-read books likeHow to Get Away with Murder,” Sam admonishes. “Endings make no sense that way, and we’re almost there.”
He sighs. “If I read too deeply, I start feeling like I’m just another character on someone else’s page and the other people around me are just characters, too. Some days, I feel like I’m not even an important character. That I’ve been cheaply thrown into a scene, probably at the last moment, because the author forgot to convey significant information earlier on. Or needs me tochallenge some convention or hint at something a hundred pages in the distance…”
He’s still talking as Sam walks away, deciding that the young man has really missed the point—he’s tantalized by the villain and hasn’t been paying attention to the bigger picture.
Sam is surprised to feel the lift descend as she pushes the button for the third floor. When it pings open, she feels that the strange YouTuber might have a point, because nothing in front of her seems real or right. Gone are the gleaming white tiles, the fake jasmine scent and Bach. Here is motion-activated strip-lighting and grotty carpets that don’t quite meet the skirting board. Sam doesn’t step out. Instead, she pushes the button again for the third floor.Beam me up, she thinks, but the doors just bounce in place.
Sam squeezes Charlotte’s little netball keyring as she steps out into the dark corridor. Something that had once been a pressure-laden reminder of a murdered child now soothes her and gives her confidence in her abilities and conviction. The air is stale and her shoes cling slightly to the floor as she lifts them, implying a stickiness to the carpet that she doesn’t want to consider. As she walks, the lights behind her turn off and those ahead flicker to life. Arriving at room 1408, she knocks and a male voice invites her to come in.
This is it, she thinks.
The dragon’s den.
Julius Windsor, ashe is known now, sits behind his desk and doesn’t bother to stand when Sam steps into the room and closes the door behind her. She’s immediately struck by how tiny the space is. She had pictured the lawyer’s office as resembling Charles Dickens’s study: giant bookshelves, a mahogany desk, a fountain pen. Instead, Windsor sits behind a faux-oak desk that’s uncomfortably small foran adult and accommodates only his laptop, his legs clearly visible beneath it. He looks like a man at a primary school parents’ evening, crammed into a child’s chair. The seat for guests is a foldable yellow plastic thing and Sam notes the creak it gives as she tentatively sits down. There’s a small table to the side of Windsor’s desk with a browning pot plant, two used blue china cups and a teapot covered with a floral cozy. Sam heats up as she recognizes Betty’s precious collection.
In contrast to his grim surroundings, Julius Windsor gleams in his tailored new suit and brogues that are polished to a high shine. The man is average height, with sandy hair and pale skin. He’s slightly built and hides a paunch beneath a patterned shirt and garish tie. The tie.
He waits patiently as Sam plonks down her bag and removes her beige trench coat. She’s gone over and over what she’ll say to him, but as he sits smiling pleasantly, she finds that she’s lost for words.
“Good morning, DI Hansen, how lovely to see you again,” he says.
“Good morning, Denver Brady,” Sam counters.
He simply raises an eyebrow slightly. “Hansen,” he says, as if musing. “Like that dreadful long-haired boy band from the nineties? ‘MMMBop,’ wasn’t it? You must get that a lot.” He gives her a jovial grin.
“Not really,” Sam says. “I quite liked that song, actually, and the band’s name is spelled with an O not an E. Speaking of names: Julius Windsor is pretentious as fuck. Especially given that you chose it yourself. It’s a bit of a leap from Barry Brown. I guess you needed something posh-sounding for your big-city law firm. A firm you set up with your ill-gotten inheritance.” There’s more emotion in her voice than she intended and she focuses on slowing her breathing.
“I don’t deny changing my name,” he says carefully, “and movingto London to set up a law firm with the inheritance from my Aunt Elizabeth. Bettering oneself is hardly illegal.” His accent is pure RP—Received Pronunciation—with perfectly formed vowels and no dropped t’s. He even pronounces the word “aunt” like the word “aren’t,” rather than “ant” as a northerner would. He must have taken elocution lessons to finally rid himself of his Geordie twang.
“Let’s talk aboutHow to Get Away with Murder,” commands Sam, redirecting the conversation.
“Ahh. Catchy title, wouldn’t you say? A solid four and a half out of five on Goodreads, you know.” He winks.
