by P. D. Viner
Patty gets up and pays the bill. Outside it is quite dark. The day is lost. She stands there stuck. She could go to a hotel and start early in the morning. Maybe the local paper has … but instead she turns toward the path back to the station. The chance to avenge Dani has gone. There is no revenge for her. This has been a long way to come for a bite of cheese sandwich.
“Sorry,” the man says as he hits her shoulder, walking the other way.
“Watch where you’re going,” she calls back to him.
He goes a few steps more and looks back. He recognizes her immediately from the church. Ten years—but it’s her mother. His chest tightens as he watches her walk up the hill. He feels a force, like a rubber band stretched between them. He follows her, keeping his distance as she heads up the hill.
In the station she turns to the platform heading south, and he walks to the opposite platform and sits, watching her across the tracks. She has a thin jacket on; she looks frozen but seems oblivious to the cold. She’s lost a lot of weight since he last saw her; she looks lean now, like a runner. She looks more like Dani—how Dani might have looked when … if … he feels a tear breach his defenses and roll down his cheek.
Patty looks across the train tracks and sees a man crying. He reminds her of Jim for a second—so close to tears all the time. She wonders why he’s crying … and then the London train rattles into the station wiping the image from her sight. Was the man real—or just Jim-in-her-head? She will not admit to missing him. Not allow the loneliness to flood back in. She had to leave him; the closeness was killing them both.
She rises slowly and walks to the train. She will not make this journey again. There are people she can help through Lost Souls, there are men she can punish, laws to change and young women like Dani to protect. Maybe she could even write again … maybe …
He walks to the edge of the track and tries to catch a glimpse of her on the train. A part of him wants to run through the tunnel to the steps and get on the London train. Maybe he could sit opposite her and … what? Say sorry. Say sorry for the pain, sorry for his part in Dani’s—From nowhere a hand grabs his arm and pulls him back as a train rushes past his nose.
“You need to be careful,” a voice tells him.
“Yes. Yes, thank you. Thank you.”
From the air, a disembodied voice announces the London train is about to depart. The man stands there and watches as it pulls out of the station. Then he heads back to the twisting path that leads to his wife and daughter.
FOURTEEN
Monday, October 4, 2010
Tom stands on the doorstep, frozen. His arm raised, finger pointing toward the doorbell, yet he cannot move. It’s a cool autumn day, but his hairline is beaded with sweat. His eyes are wet with tears that threaten to stream. He lowers his arm and pulls at his jacket, which is a little too snug along his back. The insignia on his chest and shoulders pronounces him Detective Superintendent in the Metropolitan Police; inside the uniform he feels like a child, knocking on the door to ask if his friend can come out to play. He breathes and steadies himself once more. This should be easy, it isn’t like he’s calling to tell someone their loved one has been killed. Not this time.
Inside the house, a body lies on the floor. She looks dead, but not at peace, her brow puckered, her mouth pinched. The doorbell rings, the body doesn’t move. The doorbell sounds a second time and the face creases with annoyance. Patty opens her eyes, they swim, unfocused for a second and then fix on the world. She had been lost inside her head somewhere in a fog. Her stomach growls, she has no idea when she last ate. The doorbell rings again.
“Go away!” she shouts. She doesn’t open the door these days. She doesn’t answer the phone either. It’s never anybody real anymore.
The doorbell sounds three times in quick succession.
“Christ,” she mutters and rolls over onto all fours, then pulls herself upright and walks to the door. She doesn’t know why; it was just that the three quick rings reminded her of something.
On the doorstep, Tom braces himself.
“What the hell is it?” Patty glares at him angrily for a moment and then softens as she recognizes …
“Pup,” she whispers. She takes a step forward and her hand reaches out to trace the lines around his eyes.
“Hello, Patty,” he manages to squeeze the words past the lump in his throat. Her fingertip is suddenly wet and she pulls her hand away, embarrassed.
“Tom. It’s good—a surprise—but good to see you. Come in.” She steps back and he follows her in.
She takes him into the lounge. It’s quite Spartan—there are two chairs and a small table covered with leaflets. She says something but he can’t quite sync her mouth with the sound. It looks like Dani’s mouth, which is odd because it never used to. It had been very full, soft and inviting. He remembered Jim telling him one day—one drunken night really—how it had been Patty’s mouth he had fallen for that first night, the greatest mouth he had ever seen. Now it was thinner and tighter. Tom wondered if it ever laughed anymore.
“I am so sorry. I have no tea or coffee or anything really.” Her stomach growls again and she hopes he can’t hear it. “Water?”
“No, I’m fine.”
She stares at him, not knowing what to do—it’s years since she had to entertain. He stands awkwardly, waiting for her to offer him a seat, until he realizes she never will.
“Can I sit down?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Where are my manners? I don’t have any tea …” she trails off knowing she’s said that already. She flushes with embarrassment.
“You look good.”
“Liar.” She sits opposite him and studies his face—so hard to see the boy in there now. She remembers how he had aged suddenly after Dani … after Dani. But now he doesn’t just look merely old but craggy, weathered—it suits him. Suits his position, he has authority about him. She likes it, and yet, feels a stab of pain.
“It is good to see you,” she says, and means it.
“I was sorry about you and Jim.”
She waves her hand as if she were swatting a fly—wiping away the past.
“It’s twelve years. Too long to care about.” She wonders for a moment if they still see each other—Tom and Jim. They used to go for drinks, after they’d been to the garden of remembrance. Remember what? The good old times.
“You’ve done well for yourself. I’ve seen your name in the news over the years.”
He ducks his head. “Luck.”
“Don’t be silly. Intelligence and a good heart—that will get you high in the police. So few of them have it.”
“Well,” he starts, but doesn’t know what to say. He remembers Dani yelling at him, “Don’t join the police, for God’s sake! Mum, Mum tell him.” And Patty shot him a look that was so full of disappointment he almost gave in.
“Where are you at the moment?” Patty asks. “You were family liaison weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was always the one called in to tell the bad news.”
She nods. She knows what they used to call him: the Sad Man.
“Now I head up a special operations unit, small but …” he trails off again.
“What does the unit do?”
He looks at her. He can feel his face crumble a little. “We investigate sexually aggravated murders, usually multiple victims.”
She nods. The irony is not lost on her.
“Children?”
“No, the Child Protection Unit deals with under eighteens.”
“No, sorry … I meant: do you have any? Are you married?”
His face is blank for a second. “No.”
From nowhere, a thought hits her that takes her breath away: “Why is Tom here, in uniform?” Numbness spreads across Patty’s chest, her stomach starts to churn. Tom is the harbinger of death—it’s Jim … A tremor begins, a bad one.
“I’m sorry I … I … could you …” Patty stammers, hands already shaking. She stands and makes her way over to t
he mantelpiece with intense effort. There is a bottle of pills there. Tom strides over and tries to help, but she brushes him away. She takes two of the small pills and swallows them down without water.
“Patty?” Tom asks with obvious concern.
“I’m fine.” Patty can hear how sick her voice sounds; it embarrasses her. She sounds like an old woman. She pulls herself together.
“Tom, is it Jim? Is he …?”
“Oh no, sorry, no. Patty, no, no. This isn’t a bad news visit. Christ, I’m sorry.”
He takes her hand and leads her back to the chair.
“Could you get me a glass of water?” She points toward the kitchen and he rushes off.
He returns with a full glass and hands it to her. She drinks greedily; it triggers more growls from her stomach.
“Good. Thank you.” Patty closes her eyes. She breathes into the tremor—feeling it lessen and finally ripple away.
Tom stands waiting until she finishes the water. He takes the empty glass and sits back down, a little shocked.
“Why?” she asks breathlessly. “Why are you here?”
What does he say? He feels lost.
“Is it an official visit?”
No nods, he tries to speak but his voice seems a long way off. It’s stupid, he has done this a thousand times.
“There is a chance …” He stops and starts again. “Patty, there have been breakthroughs, scientific breakthroughs in forensic technology, DNA matching and profiling over the last few years. Pretty amazing steps forward—you probably know this already.”
“I haven’t kept up with the technology lately, I …” she trails off.
“Okay, well there’s been a revolution in forensic analysis, and it’s meant that cold cases all over the country are being reviewed. There’s a series of teams looking at every unsolved murder case. Families are being contacted and …”
The penny floats in the air and then drops like a hand grenade. “Dani? Will they review Dani’s case?”
He pauses, a little scared by the small flame he has seen ignite in her eye.
“Yes. Dani’s case is on the list. They would have sent an officer round from family liaison but …”
“You volunteered.”
He nods. He could add: “I wanted to see your face when you got the news, I wanted to manage your expectations—not to get your hopes up.” But he doesn’t. He can’t.
They sit silently together for quite some time. Patty’s mind is whirring. She used to keep up with the changes in procedure and testing; it had been part of her job. She remembers sitting in the British Library reading the Journal of Forensic Science, but when did she do that last? She was at a conference in Berne on DNA profiling. When was that? 2000? 2001? Ten years ago? When did she stop looking? When did she give up on Dani? She shakes her head, trying to clear the brain fog, feeling the cogs start to engage once again.
“What do you mean by forensic analysis?” she asks.
“It’s an evidence-based review. They’ll go through the file and look at whether any of the recent technical advances can be used to develop DNA matches, looking at samples taken at the time to consider if they can be tested.”
“Samples?”
She remembers the cold and damp of the room. Spider webs that not only have spread into the corners but seem to creep over the ceiling, and down onto the metal struts of the shelves, knitting the darkness together. She can’t imagine this room ever having been cleaned, the must of decaying paper and mold making her sneeze again and again.
She waits while the man who manages the evidence store tracks down the files she needs. He moves slowly, far more slowly than she has patience for.
“Really, I could find it myself.”
“No. No, sorry to say I couldn’t allow that, my dear—authorized personnel only.” His voice has a sibilant hiss; his skin looks mottled with mildew. Maybe all the years down there have turned him into a half-man. Certainly looks like it.
Finally he emerges with a green file. She knows that means an open case. Open but cold.
“Now, miss, you understand I am doing this as a favor to PC Bevans, up there in Greenwich.”
Patty nods.
“Officially, you are not here.”
“I understand.”
He nods over at a desk and chair. “You can sit over there.”
“Can I make any copies?”
“No. You can make notes and sketches. No photographs and you can’t leave this room with any of the papers. Want a cuppa?”
She nods and accepts this kindness from a stranger. He walks off and she prepares herself. She slips her hand down her leg and into her boot, removing the tiny Leica camera. She quickly photographs each page. She can only hope she has got the exposure right; the head photographer on the paper had given her lessons, though she hadn’t told him what she planned.
She hears Tom’s warning echo through her head. “Careful, Patty. Take care of yourself.”
She knew what the warning meant. It wasn’t merely “Don’t get caught”; it was “Don’t be disappointed.” He had told her many times that the file had nothing—no leads. But the file held photographs.
“From after she was found … in that room,” Tom told her with a shaking voice.
“I understand.” And of course she had understood; she’d seen crime-scene photos and autopsy photos many times. She could handle it. She had to see everything. Tom had nodded, looking defeated and a little worried.
“I’ll arrange it.”
She photographs each page methodically and quickly with the little spy camera, but does not read anything, barely glances at the content. Not until she has finished and stowed away the camera does she begin to read the file.
Patty shakes those memories away; she needs to concentrate on Tom now, not twenty years ago.
“What forensic testing … of what evidence, Tom? I saw the files back then and there were no DNA samples taken.” She tries to remember the exact wording. She’s sure it said: “Samples collected for storage: none.”
“I haven’t seen the original report. Perhaps they weren’t classified as samples because by the standards of twenty years ago they weren’t.” Tom tries to make it sound like he isn’t guessing.
“But today? Today these tests …”
“Minute traces can be tested today whereas twenty years ago you needed so much more. And samples can be taken from so many more surfaces and materials.”
“And does the file have—”
“Patty, I don’t know. Maybe, but …”
He feels out of control. Normally he wouldn’t give the family any technical detail, just be calm and reassuring without getting anyone’s hopes up. But this is Patty.
Tom continues. “They sent me a scan of the log sheet—it’s a one-page summary on the front of the file. It says there were fluid samples taken and clothing samples retained.”
Patty feels tears break through the levee and begin to run down her cheeks. She thought she’d cried every tear her body was capable of years ago; she’d become desiccated through so much sobbing, but they still come. Tom stands and moves forward slowly, like a trainer with a wild animal. He puts his arms around her shoulders, and … Flashback to twenty years ago and he is breaking the news to her and she begins to scream and scream, he holds her tight. The same woman twenty years later … He can feel a fury build in his own chest but he holds it down.
Later, when he is alone, he will scream Dani’s name until his lungs feel like they will burst. Then he will cry for her and her mother. He will cry for them all. Now, he and his love’s mother are wrapped together before the last sob wracks Patty and she pulls herself away from him. She gets up and goes in search of some tissues. All she can find is a roll of toilet paper.
“Patty, you have to know that the chances are slim. Really slim that anything is even usable, let alone could provide evidence.”
“But possible?”
He should say “no.” He can see her hopes rise.
He should say “no” to save her more torment, but he can’t. “Yes, it’s possible.”
Possible. The word seems to burrow into her, letting the fog out. Her heaviness falls away, like one of Salome’s veils dropping to the floor revealing the shape of something indistinct, a tease, but something is there. Patty feels alert, for the first time in years.
“Do you have any idea about the timescale? When will Dani’s murder be reviewed?”
Tom hesitates. “Forty-eight months,” he tells her, deeply embarrassed. “Probably about forty-eight months. I’m very, very sorry.”
“Oh, Tom” is all she can say.
They sit together for a while longer, though there is not much more to be said. Tom gives her a web address and tells her that a letter will arrive soon restating pretty much what he has just told her.
“Jim will be informed too,” Tom tells her.
“I can tell him,” Patty offers.
“Or I can.”
“It would be better if I told him.”
“Fine.” Tom nods.
In her heart, Patty knows she won’t tell him and thinks it better if he doesn’t know. Not for a while at least. Finally Tom moves to leave and Patty shows him to the door.
“Oh. Wait,” and she runs off.
Tom stands at the door awkwardly as time ticks by. She is gone for at least five minutes, before she finally returns.
“There is this. I thought you might … I don’t know why I have it. I have almost nothing else but …” She hands him a small metal cup on a fake marble plinth. On the front is a gold-colored plaque that reads:
14 JUNE 1982
800M CHAMPION
DANIELLE LANCING
He smiles as he runs his finger along the rim of the trophy. He remembers the day as if it were yesterday, not almost thirty years ago. She broke the school record that day, and that night was the first he talked to her, talked to her properly, just the two of them.
“Tom. Isn’t there something you can do to bump her up the list? Surely there must be.”
He looks at her as the memories crash around him. Patty was good. She had ambushed him at his most vulnerable.
