The old stairs are solid English oak, and she walks down them without making a creak. Using the light on her phone, she examines the now empty room. Only her dad’s desk is still therein the corner, with a huge lamp next to it, strewn with cobwebs. She doesn’t need to close her eyes—she can see him there still. Slumped over his desk, antique pistol in one hand, a pot of polish open in front of him. Brains splattered up the wall. No note. That’s odd, the police had said.
Sam jumps as her phone pings, and Toni whines from above. She takes one last look at the old desk and turns, walking back up the basement stairs. The message, as she expects, is from Lindsay, and Sam fills the kettle and sets it to boil as she begins reading. Lindsay tells her that she’d like to meet up again at the café in Bath. It’ll be their fourth meet-up since the day Sam spoke candidly to her in the hairdresser’s.
It’s a long drive for each hurried cuppa and conversation, but Sam agrees to it immediately and sets a day and time. Lindsay’s been doing really well; her arm is healing and the women have become like friends. Sam suspects that she’s getting ready to leave Richie, and wants to be there to see her to safety. She knows it takes victims of domestic abuse an average of five years and around half a dozen attempts before they finally leave for good. Lindsay would be a bit of a miracle if she got out this soon, but she’s living with a murderer so perhaps she’s more motivated.
“And I can’t wait longer than one more month,” she says to Toni, who scratches at the door, asking to go to the beach, “because we’ll be moving away.”
The kettle boils and she warms the teapot, adds two teabags, then lets the water hit them with a hiss—the strike, it’s called. Sam fires off a few more messages and checks the news for anything new on Andrei Albescu or Jack Mathers.DENVER BRADY SENTENCED TO LIFE, she reads, and takes a deep breath. She knew the day was coming: Andrei pled guilty and thus skipped a jury trial and went straight to sentencing, so it was only a matter of time. She suspects a deal was offered: a life sentence, rather thanawhole lifesentence, meaning he’ll serve twenty-five years. For burning down a building and making a few bad choices. Sam swallows. She desperately wishes she could help the man, but it’s impossible. All she can do now is ensure those responsible are brought to account. Sam pours her tea from the pot when the timer sounds and adds milk.
She carries the cup to the lounge, where she and Toni sit together on the sofa. Sam polishes her police baton and sips her tea. On the TV, Del Boy tries to sell an oversized camel-hair coat to his mate. Sam chuckles. She knows the words to this episode; it’s one of her favorites. Once the baton is polished, she places it on the shelf in the entry hall. It’s supposed to live on the leather belt that police officers wear around their waist, and Sam promises herself she’ll put it away soon.
After she’s finished her tea, she clips on Toni’s lead, grabs a coat and unlocks the front door. Outside, Toni runs toward the car, tugging her along.
“No, boy, we’re not going to the beach today,” Sam says, and the little scruff falls into step beside her. Toni loved their strolls along the clifftops, but Sam’s already closed that chapter.
Instead, she turns toward the high street. After purchasing a small bunch of daffodils, she hops on the next bus and they disembark near Holland Park. She walks the full length and breadth of it today, in no hurry to reach her destination. When Toni starts to shiver, she turns toward the cluster of oak trees.
The teddies and flowers are fewer, but still fresh, lying against the tree where Charlotte Mathers was murdered by her uncle. There’s a warm breeze, but Sam is cold under the oak’s shade and can’t take her eyes off the scratched trunk where Jack Mathers carved his niece’s and Denver’s initials to throw the police off his scent. Now there’s a plaque instead:
Charlotte, sleep well, my angel. Dad xxx.
Sam lays her daffodils against the tree and closes her eyes.
“Hello, Detective Hansen,” says a small voice from behind, and Sam turns, wiping her eyes. Jessica and Mrs. Patel stand together, each holding a bunch of fresh flowers. The woman nods a greeting, then walks away from her daughter to place the flowers against the trunk.
Jessica smiles up at Sam. “Thank you for catching him,” she says. “This increases your solve rate to ninety-nine percent.”
Sam smiles, saying nothing. Toni approaches tentatively and the girl bends to stroke his head, giving Sam a second to think. She reaches into her jeans pocket and holds out her clasped hand. “I think this belongs with you.”
Jessica steps closer and takes Charlotte’s netball keyring, running her thumb over its now well-worn surface. TheCin the middle of the ball is barely visible, and the chain is twisted from so much handling.
Jessica holds the keyring to her chest. “I’m one hundred percent certain that I’ll remember you always, Detective Samantha Hansen.”
“Just Sam is fine,” she says, blinking away tears.
Without warning, the girl throws her arms around Sam’s waist, then just as quickly detaches herself and walks away. Sam watches as Jessica goes over to the great oak tree, lays down her flowers and, beside them, places Charlotte’s little netball.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sam’s sick of the sight of the M4, but she taps the steering wheel as she drives, singing along to her favorite dad-rock-band, Journey. The song finishes and the presenter announces that the news is coming up, followed by “Delilah.” Sam flicks stations and lands on a Taylor Swift song, “Love Story.” She remembers singing along to it with Adam Taylor and she shifts stations again, picking up a country-music station. This time a woman is singing about a pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive. It’s a happy song that feels like summer, even though the skies are a perfect shade of British Gray.
Lindsay is already there when Sam pulls up outside the pool building at Bath’s leisure center, hovering in the doorway, teeth chattering. Not for the first time, Sam wishes she’d wear a proper coat. Sam folds her arms around her friend gently, as if she were embracing a bruised bird, then they go to the desk, pay and walk through the turnstile to the swimming pool’s cafe. The smell of chlorine is overwhelming, but Sam quite likes it, the same way sheenjoys the fumes at a petrol station. They order their usual drinks and sit at their table in the corner; Lindsay likes to have her back to the wall and see the entrances and exits of any room she’s in. Her teeth continue to chatter and she looks around nervously, even though she knows Richie is at Ashton Gate football stadium, fifteen miles away. Sam is still waiting for her to speak when the drinks arrive. The tea is good, and Sam warms her hands on the cup.
“I’m ready,” Lindsay finally says, picking a marshmallow from the top of her hot chocolate. As she strokes her hair back from her face, Sam sees that her ear is black and swollen. Bruised and out of shape like a rugby player’s. Like Melanie’s.
“Are you sure, Linds?” Sam asks. “I don’t want to discourage you, but if we do this, we have to do it right. Leaving an abusive partner is dangerous.”
“I know I chickened out before, Sam, but this is different,” Lindsay promises, her words sounding thick, as if she’s talking with her mouth full of food. “Last night…” She trails off, staring into space.
“Linds?” she says, pulling the other woman’s focus back.
“Sorry. My head is battered. Literally. I think I might have concussion. My ears are ringing, too.” Lindsay pushes her fingers hard against her temples. “It’s like this high-pitched sound, but all the time.”
“It might be tinnitus. My mum had it. I know it’s awful.” Sam smiles sadly.
“It’s because he hits me round the ears, isn’t it?”
Sam doesn’t respond. She doesn’t have the heart to tell Lindsay that the bruises will fade and the bones will knit back together, but there are some things Richie has done to her that she will have to live with long term.
