by P. D. Viner
“I think …” Jim starts.
“Shh!” Dani holds her finger to her lips and then frowns back at the paper.
“If you …” he tries.
“Shh. If you want this tied properly you need to keep quiet.” She reads, “Fold the left over the right …” She proceeds to follow the directions carefully, concentrating on the diagrams.
“Eureka!” She jumps up and down doing her happy dance. It’s a little loose, but a recognizable bowtie. Dani beams broadly, proud of herself. From the door there is a wolf whistle. Jim turns to see Patty. He gives her a twirl.
“I could rent you out as a gigolo,” she says huskily.
“Sorry, I’m a one-woman man. You look fantastic.”
She rolls her eyes; compliments are not something she likes to hear.
“Cab will be here in five minutes.”
“Will Jenny be here soon?” asks Dani.
“Any minute. She’ll give you some supper, then into jammies, stories and bed. Got that?”
“Yes,” says the eight-year-old with a little roll of her own eyes, as if to say: I’m eight. I can understand simple instructions and I don’t really need a babysitter anymore anyway.
“If you win will you wake me up and show me your prize when you get home?” she asks.
“No.” “Yes.” Patty and Jim answer simultaneously.
“I won’t win—it’s just stupid.” Patty shakes her head.
“Daddy says you fight for truth and justice.”
“Oh does he? I just write stories in a newspaper.”
“I’m going to be a superhero when I grow up,” says Dani as she jumps off the chair and lands with a slam at her parents’ feet.
“And what superpowers will you have?” Patty asks her. Dani thinks for a moment.
“To make people be nice.”
Patty snaps the light back on in the room. She checks the tape again. His mouth’s totally covered, but just to make sure, she pulls his head back to rest on the chair and wraps layer after layer of tape around and around. He can’t possibly move now. There is no dignity. He’s wet himself; it drips down the chair and onto the floor, joining his blood. The smell is rank. It looks as if he’s melting, like the Wicked Witch of the West.
When she’s finished with the tape, she turns her attention to the room. A double bed dominates. She has lain on it; it’s lumpy. She didn’t pull back the sheets, sure they wouldn’t be clean and not wishing to leave any evidence. She wears gloves, has done each time she’s entered the room. She also wears a shower cap and plastic pinafore, as if she works in a meat-pie factory. There’s a bedside table with alarm and telephone, a chair by the window, a wardrobe that contains a mini-safe and an ironing board. She looks down. The blood will be difficult to get out of the carpet.
“Maybe when I’m finally done with this room I’ll leave a pile of money for the poor cleaner who finds all of this … If all goes well,” she thinks.
According to the plan, she should return in less than eight hours to find nothing disturbed and her prisoner still unconscious. If not … then she must leave no trace. She checks all the drawers, they’re empty; not even the Gideons see any point in coming here.
She moves to the bathroom: cracked white tile and a faint smell of bleach over damp and mustiness. The shower curtain has mildew along the bottom. She brought no toiletries with her, has not touched the two small plastic beakers, nor the two small bottles of shampoo and body wash. There’s a hand towel. She wonders if she used it and decides to take it with her just in case. She stuffs it into her bag.
“Better safe than prison,” she thinks.
She turns to leave and catches sight of herself in the mirror. Blood is smeared on her glasses and arcs over her cheek, sweeping across her right eye. She draws back from her reflection, horrified for a second and then … exhilarated. Fiery eyes blaze through a red cowl of his blood. She smiles at her bloody twin. She likes it, would like to keep it forever, a red badge of courage. Nemesis—the Red Revenger. But she’s no superhero. She wipes the blood away with a wet-wipe she pockets after. In the mirror is a crone once more. She gives the bathroom one final look and heads back to the bedroom. Everything is clean. She looks at her watch: 5:30 a.m. Time to go. She checks she has the room key and then switches the light off and plunges the room once more into darkness.
From somewhere far-off she hears Jim ask her: “Patty, what would your superpower be?”
She whispers into the dark. “To bring back the dead.”
SIX
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Tom sits at his desk. He should get moving—he doesn’t have much time—but he can’t move. For the last ten minutes he has read from a small purple book. The same page over and over. On the cover, written in bold black letters: PRIVATE—DO NOT OPEN. He takes the diary and slides it back into the safe in his desk. Inside there are two other diaries and a small photo album, full of pictures of Dani. He locks the safe and slides the desk drawer closed, then locks that too. No one knows he has a small safe in his desk; he fitted it himself one weekend.
Tom goes through his checklist one last time. He’d signed in twenty minutes ago, chatting to old Charlie on the desk for a while, asking about his daughter just as he always did. Then he took the lift up to his office on the third floor. He’d unlocked it and turned his computer on, logging in at 5:22 a.m. and started an e-mail. Now it is 5:36 a.m. Time to go. He heads into the corridor and takes the stairs down to the first floor, the main ops room for Operation Ares.
It’s a large room with floor-to-ceiling glass composing one wall. Almost every other inch of wall space is taken up with whiteboards covered with lists of names, photos of victims, schedules of surveillance, reports and statements. Seen from eye level it’s a mess, a Rorschach test in three dimensions. Yet from above it resembles a hive city with maze-like avenues created from dozens and dozens of dividers forming little rooms or corridors where desks can congregate. Everywhere, everywhere is paper. Great, towering skyscrapers of paper. In some places they are still intact, in others smashed down or mashed into other towers as if Godzilla has rampaged through central Tokyo. Some of the paper skyscrapers spill onto the floor like a river that’s burst its banks. In other spots, reams and reams are scrunched into balls and lie under desks or scattered around empty bins. A sorry testament to the lack of basketball skills in Britain.
At this time of the morning, before natural light begins to spill through the glass, it feels oppressive. A city of paper, dark and shadowy. Except for one desk that blazes in the very center of the web. This is where the graveyard shift works, or more likely dozes, while they wait for information on breaking crime. Mostly they file reports for later attention by the day shift, but sometimes they need some poor bugger woken up and dispatched to some drafty wasteland to look at a body. Tonight they had just passed on a run-of-the-mill missing person’s report … but that had made Tom head directly there, not passing go and not collecting £200.
Tom looks at his watch: 5:38. In under an hour the graveyard shift will be over and the morning staff will start to arrive—he has to move. He can feel his stomach spasm; he’s the boss, he should be beyond reproach. What he’s about to do is misconduct at best. He vowed to himself, twenty years ago, that he would be straight, that his conduct would be whiter than white, that he would never do anything that he knew was wrong. Not again. Not since … That was why he was the youngest special-operations superintendent in the Metropolitan Police; that was why he had the loyalty of his team. And will he jeopardize that now—for her? For Dani? Of course he will.
He takes a deep breath and swings the door open, making straight for the only officer—Eddie Matthews. Fat Eddie. As he walks toward Eddie, Tom can see from the way he slumps sideways that he’s asleep. He comes level without disturbing him, then slaps him hard on the shoulder. The big man jumps like he’s been electrocuted.
“What the fu—Guv? What are you doin’ ’ere?”
“No peace fo
r the wicked, Eddie.” With a Cheshire cat smile, Tom sits on the desk and looks the big man up and down. “Honestly, Eddie, have you got a shirt that isn’t covered in Pot Noodle and tomato sauce? You look like you’re bloody homeless.”
“Sorry, guv, I’ll—” Eddie looks like he might cry for a second and then hauls himself out of his chair and shambles off toward the gents.
Tom watches him go and feels a pang of guilt. It was a cruel thing to say. The reason Matthews had been given the graveyard shift was because his wife had kicked him out and he actually was homeless. A WPC had found him sleeping rough one night and called Tom rather than move him on or arrest him. Now Matthews had a rollaway bed under his desk, a corner of the gents had his suitcase in it and a mug with a razor and toothbrush. As long as no one had to see him with his shirt off and he didn’t smell, everyone was pretty pleased to have an officer permanently on nights.
Tom watches the big frame amble into the gents and then quickly pulls out Eddie’s chair and sits at the desk. Any tracing request needs to come from Matthews’s computer; that would make everything look normal. If Tom did anything from his own computer or accessed any of the Serious Crime Squad’s PCs there would be trouble. Of course, he’s the boss and he knows Matthews’s username, Fat Eddie. But he doesn’t have his password. It takes just one guess. Rachel. Eddie’s wife’s name, poor bastard.
It takes a few seconds to open up all the information on Duncan Cobhurn, then he copies it into the management pensions file on another server—a report so boring nobody has accessed it in six months—closes down the file and logs out.
He slides the chair back and swings himself onto the desk. Then he waits for the gents door to open. It takes about a minute, then, as Eddie appears, Tom opens his desk and takes out a Picnic bar.
“Guv!” Eddie wails.
Tom smiles broadly and takes a big bite.
“That’s me last one.”
“I’m saving you from yourself, Eddie.”
“I don’t need saving.” Eddie approaches his desk, sullenly reaches into another drawer and pulls out a Snickers.
“Last one?”
“Last bloody Picnic, I love those. I’ve still got Snickers, Mars and a couple of Lion bars.”
Tom shakes his head. “See ya, Eddie.”
Tom starts to walk off but Eddie asks, “Didn’t ya want something, guv?”
He calls back over his shoulder, “Just some sugar, Eddie. Cheers.”
Back in his own office Tom opens the pension file and cuts the missing person report from it. He excises any trace of it and saves it in his personal documents on his desktop. Then he opens it and reads quickly but carefully.
Missing person: Duncan Cobhurn.
Date of report: Friday, December 17, 2010, 11:45 p.m.
Reported by: Audrey Cobhurn. Wife.
Called wife at 4:20 p.m. to say he had arrived and would see her in three hours.
Landed at Heathrow from Lisbon. Flight BA147
Arrival confirmed by BA at 4 p.m.
Additional notes:
Cobhurn car found in long-term car park. Tires slashed. Snow has obliterated any signs of potential struggle. Bags missing.
House keys discovered in glovebox of car.
Status of investigation:
Potential abduction enquiry.
“Christ!” Tom’s face drains of all color as he reads the report. Something was happening after all this time. He needs to see them again, Jim and Patty. They will have to talk about what happened twenty years ago.
Tom opens his drawer, then the safe, and fishes the diary out once again. He reads, though he probably could recite the page from memory.
October 3, 1985
Tom said today he is applying for Cambridge too. Probably King’s to read literature. I’m sure we’ll both get the results we need, but is he going there because of me? I don’t know. I love him, of course I do—he’s brilliant. My best friend and he’s been so amazing the last year. There is no way I would have held it together without him but … what if he suggests we get a flat together? In one sense it would be great but in another, I don’t know. He wants more. What do I want? I wish I could ask Dad about it but really I think his head would explode if I talk love and sex. I’ll ask Izzy, but she has a bit of a blind spot when it comes to Tom. I know he’s the best friend in the world, but …
SEVEN
Saturday, December 18, 2010
It’s 6 a.m. Still a couple of hours before the sun will be up and even then it will probably be pathetic, wishy-washy gray light like dishwater. They have been watching snow swirl for a while and playing games. I Spy fizzled out quickly, but naming films and books with heavy snow scenes lasted quite some time.
“I need a coffee,” Jim finally tells his daughter.
She starts to lift herself out of the chair.
“No, stay here and watch the snow.” He turns away before he can see her face. He just feels like he needs some time on his own.
Three measured spoons into the grinder, top on, a triple tap on the side to make sure all the beans are in the center and then he presses the button and counts to thirty before the beans are ground. It’s all a little OCD. He tips the coffee into the pot, the roasted scent swirling around the room. He pours the almost boiling water on (starting the little timer on the fridge) and watches the black mass fizz and bubble as a creamy skin forms on top. He slowly stirs the pot with a chopstick. Why is Patty back in his thoughts? From somewhere deep down in his body he feels a sense of dread start to build again, to … The beep of the timer pulls him back to earth and he plunges the coffee. He pours and sips. The black tar catches in his throat, acrid and syrupy, and sits uneasily on his empty stomach. Maybe a piece of toast would make him feel better. He slices himself a thick piece and puts it under the grill. The echo of her voice plays through his head. Urgent, desperate and needy. His heart begins to race and his chest tightens.
“Dad.” Dani is next to him. “Just breathe.”
He immediately starts to calm. Dani has always been able to cheer him and calm him. That’s why he needs her. Why they need each other.
“Dad. Dad, the toast’s on fire.”
“Oh hell.” He pulls the grill pan out and dumps the blazing slice into the sink. Dani doubles up laughing.
“It’s not funny.”
“It is, it so is.”
He turns the taps on full and the blackened bread disintegrates and washes down the plughole.
“Bit of luck the smoke alarms don’t work anymore.”
The kitchen smells bitter and smoky. It reminds Jim of a Bonfire Night from many years ago. He closes his eyes and can see Dani—she must be about six or seven. That night he nailed Catherine wheels all along the outside wall and made a big production out of lighting the first one, which spun and shot vicious sparks everywhere. He’d made a mistake; the fireworks were much too close, the sparks from the first hit the next and the next. Suddenly they were all alight. Spinning, squealing and roaring until one of them shot off the wall and landed in the bin, setting it ablaze. The next-door neighbors called the fire brigade, thinking it might spread. Of course, by the time the firemen arrived it was out and they were pretty annoyed at being called to something so minor on the busiest night of the year. He was really embarrassed but Dani sat there in silence, her face illuminated first by the sparks and flames, then by the flashing blue lights of the fire engine, all the time smiling so broadly. When it had all finished and the grumbling firemen had left, she said, “Do it again, Daddy.”
“Do you ever talk to your mother?” he asks. It suddenly seems such an obvious question but he’s never asked it before.
Dani scowls. For a second he’s scared she doesn’t know who he’s talking about—has she forgotten her mother? Then she shakes her head. “No,” she answers sadly. “You miss her?”
Jim can only nod. Miss is such a plain little word to describe how he feels. And after his nightmare he can’t shake the sense that something awful
has happened.
EIGHT
Saturday, December 18, 2010
As soundlessly as possible, Patty opens the door and cranes her head out, first left and then right. Empty. She steps out into the hallway, pulls the door closed and slips the DO NOT DISTURB sign onto the handle. She peels off the gloves and slips them inside her bag, then the shower cap. She hopes she looks normal once again. She draws a deep breath into her lungs and holds it there. She will succeed. She releases the breath and walks to the service lift. She almost uses her bare finger to call the lift, but stops herself just in time.
“Think, Patty. Think.”
She pulls a rolled-up glove from the bag and pokes the button through it. The lift arrives quickly and she takes it down to the lower depths.
The door opens and she strides out, trying to look as confident and non-kidnapperry as possible. The effect is immediately ruined as she jumps out of her skin at the explosion of sound her heels make on the concrete.
“Christ.” She stands shaking for a full minute before she can pull herself together again.
She’s lucky. There is no one to hear or see her. The car park has no CCTV; this was one of the factors that made her choose this particular hotel. She slips off her shoes and walks to her car. She opens the driver’s door and slides in. Then she locks herself inside. It’s not something she would normally do, but this morning it makes her feel safer. She turns the engine over, wincing a little at how loud it seems, and then she slowly drives up the ramp and out into the street.
Slide.
“Fuck.”
She loses control. The top of the ramp is sheet ice, the wheels slew to the left and the brake does nothing. The nose of the car hits the wall and she hears the crack of glass. She turns the wheel slowly and bites down on the accelerator. The wheels spin but don’t catch.
