by P. D. Viner
“Thank you,” she says softly to the back of his head. He tries to turn but she stops him. She likes him to be close but doesn’t want him to see her.
“I want to say something … not to you, exactly, maybe like a New Year’s resolution. I think I just have to say it to get it out there.”
“Okay.”
“I won’t ever do that again.”
He stays silent, waiting to hear if there’s more.
“I don’t know how I feel about kids, I … I’m not sure my mum’s the best role model for balancing a career and motherhood. But I didn’t take care of myself and … and look at the mess I got myself in. I need to look out, think—not just jump at things for the challenge, to see what happens.”
Tom nods but doesn’t really understand. His own desire is so focused on Dani that it skews his natural inquisitiveness. He notices other women, especially their breasts and bums, but always in comparison with Dani. For him there is no one else.
“I need to get my shit together,” she says, forcing a smile that’s more like a grimace.
They lie there for a while and then Dani sighs, gives him a last squeeze and gets up to face the world again.
EIGHTEEN
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The next few days Patty spends in some kind of limbo. Waiting. Waiting for news from Keyson. Waiting for the name of her daughter’s murderer and, of course, considering how she might end another human being’s life. Planning a killing. Really anticipating, imagining and relishing the taking of his final breath. Both in her waking life and in sleep, she is consumed by a bloodlust that has lain coiled around her heart for twenty years and is now ready to strike.
She has become an early riser. Not because she goes to bed early—she doesn’t—but because she’s weaned herself from the need for sleep. Four hours is all she’s needed for many years. Even that seems a luxury now, as she rises at five o’clock after just three hours of sleep. But she wakes refreshed, buzzing with adrenaline. She’s moved the telephone next to her bed and during the day walks around the house with it in her pocket, desperate not to miss the call from Keyson. She still leaves the house to run but she’s gone for only an hour and takes her mobile. When she returns, she checks the answering machine and calls the talking clock to make sure the phone has no fault. She waits.
She waits for four days and three hours. Then the phone rings. They speak for a few seconds. That afternoon, she goes to her bank and withdraws the money. She is surprised at how small ten thousand pounds is, just a paper bag about the size of a sandwich.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Patty drives into the NCP car park and all the way to the top level. That high, it’s almost totally empty. She parks in the outer rows looking out over the Thames. It’s a crisp autumn day with barely a cloud in the sky. The sun is bright, but not warm. She stands on the edge of the parapet and looks out. If she leans forward and cranes her neck out, she can see down the river to St. Paul’s. The majesty of it takes her breath away and for a moment makes her forget why she’s there—what she will soon do—but just for a second.
She watches boats motor along the Thames, mostly tourists boarding in the shadow of Parliament and going downriver. So many years since she has done anything like that—enjoyed the city she had once loved so much. She and Jim used … Oh, what good will that do? The past is buried, burned black, and should not be dug up. Instead, she thinks once again about how his filth can be examined on a cellular level. How each cell bears his signature; his blood and piss and seed all spell his name and will prove his guilt. Then, once it is proven beyond doubt, she will kill him.
She wades in her daydreams for about ten minutes before another car drives up the ramp. Keyson is at the wheel. He’s alone. She feels inside her coat once again to make sure the money’s still there. She realizes she’s enjoying the cloak-and-dagger aspect. Keyson parks his car and gets out; he wears a World War Two–style trench coat, slightly turned up at the neck. In his hands is a metal box.
“Mrs. Lancing.” He nods in greeting, then tips his head to indicate the box. “This is the sample.” He holds it gingerly. He hands it to her as if it might explode. She takes it with her fingertips. He hands her a wad of paper.
“These are the instructions on how to store the sample. You need to get it home and in your freezer quickly. Did you prepare it like I said?”
She nods. “I did everything like you said.”
She had stripped all the food out and taken it to a soup kitchen rather than throw it away. Then she’d bleached the interior and lowered the temperature to minus eight degrees.
“Good. That’s good.” He puts an envelope on top of the sample box in her hands, then reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out a file folded in half. “These are the case notes.”
He places those on the box too. Then he grins at her. “It’s a beautiful day and hopefully we’ll have a really nice week. Anything planned for the weekend?”
She ignores the question. Instead she walks to her car and carefully places the box on the passenger seat. From her pocket she takes the brown paper bag and hands it to him.
“Thank you. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he says, offering his enormous hand for her to shake. She reaches up to him and lets him squeeze her fingers once. She watches him drive away and then she collapses.
She wakes some time later, freezing. She can feel foam fleck her lips. She has rolled herself half under her car, probably had a small seizure. She slowly rolls onto her side and then gets up, her joints straining and her teeth beginning to chatter. Her vision swims slightly, her focus shifting, not too much but enough to worry her. She has barely eaten in three days.
“Get your bloody act together, Patricia,” she hisses to herself. She gets into the car and starts it up. No heat yet.
In her kitchen she stands by the sink and eats a packet of biscuits from her almost bare cupboard. She finishes them and forces herself to drink a large glass of water. Then she turns to the box. She tears the security tape from around it and takes out one small, squat jar. There is a label on the outside; the ink is faded and the paper dried-out from twenty years in a fridge. The faded and stained label around the jar reads: CASE HTR234Y678D: DANIELLE LANCING. MULTIPLE RAPE AND MURDER. 7 FEBRUARY 1989. SAMPLE: SEMEN FROM VAGINA RECOVERED POSTMORTEM.
She places the jar in the freezer and closes the door.
Patty switches on the lights and settles into an armchair, unfolds the document wallet and, as if curling up to read a good book, she begins. After half an hour she stops. Her heart is beating triple time. He had been right, Dr. Keyson. The officer in charge had felt there was a very strong case against this man, this prime suspect. He had been a client at the health club Dani had temped at in the summer after her first year at university. He’d been linked to her during a routine questioning of her colleagues. One of them had said that he’d given Dani a lift home once. He’d denied this, but his car was checked and hair, which seemed to match hers, was found on a jacket on the backseat and a partial print was found on the boot. That had been enough to question him but no further link could be made. He’d argued that she could have just been walking through the car park and touched his car, and her hair was similar to his own daughter’s and it was probably hers. No charge could be brought. He was top of the suspect list for months and eventually the investigation petered out.
She reads the report again and again, at first becoming angry that the investigation had failed to make the final link: they let the bastard go. But soon the anger seeps away and is replaced by a steely calm as she settles into the knowledge of what will happen now. His name is here in black and white: Duncan Cobhurn.
When Patty finally looks at her watch, it is 3 a.m. She should sleep, but sleep’s for the dead. Now it’s time to plan.
Saturday, October 22, 2010
Patty finds him online. She ignores an actor Duncan Cobhurn, who’s a Winston Churchill look-alike, and there’s a guy
who values property for some huge investment bank but he’s too young. She also disregards the evangelical preacher from Arkansas who believes God will produce a fireball that will purge the Earth of all homosexuals in 2020. But there’s a story from 2008 in the Durham Chronicle: LOCAL BUSINESSMAN RUNS FOR MAYOR.
She clicks on it. Sixty-three-year-old Duncan Cobhurn, owner of the successful Porto Pronto chain of Mediterranean furniture design shops, is running for office. Blah blah blah … it’s him. Must be. A later story shows he lost the election; some kind of smear campaign was blamed. Another story about him has a picture; she clicks on it. The grain makes it hard to see details, but that is her Duncan Cobhurn. He’s shaking some teenager’s hand and handing over a check, blood money probably. He reminds Patty a little of Bob Hoskins and … Jim. A short, squat Jim.
She finds another photo from election night. He’s with his wife, Audrey, and their daughter, Lorraine. Patty examines the daughter—she doesn’t look a bit like Dani, but they must be about the same age. If Dani had been allowed to live, they would be about the same age. Patty can feel the blood around her heart boil. She googles Porto Pronto and finds the website. They open at nine. She calls at 8:50 a.m. and lets the phone ring a long time before a slightly distracted receptionist answers.
“Por—”
“Is Duncan there?” she asks in as friendly and girly a voice as she can manage.
“Sorry, no, we don’t actually open till—”
“Do you have the authority to book me an appointment with him?”
“I—”
“We’re old friends. I’m just in from Seville. My time is pretty limited. I’m about to jump on a train, I only have a minute or so.”
“Okay. Erm, let me see. Could you see him …? This week is pretty bad, he’s in Lisbon …”
“Oh, is he already there?” Patty asks as nonchalantly as she can.
“No, he’s in London today. He flies out from Heathrow Monday morning. So you could see him next Monday, maybe?”
“I’m gone then. Oh dear … I really wanted to see him, it’s been absolutely ages … well, it will have to be next time. Or maybe … Lisbon, does he fly there often? I have a holiday home there, you see.”
“Well …” The receptionist hesitates.
“Maybe I’ll call Audrey instead and try to see her.” Patty tries to make it casual, but planting the wife’s name works a treat.
“Well, he flies to Lisbon every month, mostly the last Monday so …”
“Oh, you have been so helpful. Tell me, sweetheart, what’s your name, I must tell Duncan how wonderful you’ve been.”
“Greta, it’s Greta.”
She calls back at 12:20, recognizes Greta’s voice immediately and hangs up. At 1:10, however, there’s another receptionist.
“Greta, please.” Patty tries to sound her most authoritative.
“Greta’s on lunch. Can I help?”
“Oh hell. Well, I bloody hope you can help. It’s Monarch Travel. Our computer’s gone mental and I know your boss is flying Monday morning out of Heathrow.”
“That’s right. Lisbon.”
“Well, we’ve got no records available so I’ve no idea if he needs a cab …”
“No, he’s driving himself. He leaves it in the long-term there.”
She rolls the dice. “And it’s the 9:20 a.m. BA flight?”
“That’s the one, and back on Friday morning.”
Patty quickly scans the BA printout of flights to Lisbon. “The 11:40 coming back.”
“That’s it.”
“Lovely, my darling. All right, let’s hope the IT department can get their fingers out of their arses long enough to get us back online.”
“Good luck,” she says, which makes Patty smile.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Patty gets up at 4 a.m. and grabs a bucket of mud from the garden. She smears it all over the car, making sure to obscure the number plate. Then she gets dressed in clothes from the back of her wardrobe that she hasn’t worn in years. They come from an era when she had curves and filled them—perfectly, according to Jim. Now they hang like tents. She should have given them to charity but they have a sentimental pull. The old life.
She completes the ensemble with a scarf, hat and sunglasses. In the mirror she cannot recognize herself. Then she drives to Heathrow.
She arrives at 6:30 a.m. and parks in the long-stay car park. She reasons that if he uses it often he must know exactly where the shuttle picks up passengers, so parks close to that. The spot is directly below a CCTV camera, which she hopes will make it harder to view her. It’s all automated so there is no actual person in the car park to notice that she’s just waiting. Only cameras, like so much of England now.
She gets out of the car and goes into a dumbshow, looking angrily at the car and then opening the bonnet. She swears, stamps her foot and then calls someone on her phone. If a security guard shows up she’ll tell them she’s broken down and is waiting for the RAC.
Then she gets back inside and settles down to wait for Duncan Cobhurn.
She has almost given up hope when, finally, at 7:45 he arrives. He speeds into a spot and leaps out looking flustered. He grabs a pull-along suitcase from the backseat and runs to the shuttle stop. Her heart is pounding. She hasn’t thought about what to do now. She can see the shuttle come through the gate and make its way slowly to the stop. Should she get on the shuttle too? She’s paralyzed. She watches him jump on the little bus, which then trundles away to the terminal. Once it’s out of sight, she opens her car door, swings her head out and vomits violently.
Thursday-Friday, December 16–17, 2010
She takes a train out to a town she’s never been to before. She carries only cash with her; no cards, no ID. She doesn’t use her Oyster card. In charity shops she buys two outfits. She also gets a pair of large sunglasses, a hat and a wig. In a pharmacy she buys a bright lipstick, a shade she would not normally be seen dead in. At a hardware store she adds two rolls of gaffer tape and a small rubber ball.
She finds a park that has a public toilet that’s reasonably clean and has no attendant. Inside she changes into one of the suits and, in the cracked mirror, applies the lipstick. The sunglasses and hat complete her transformation. She rides a bus out to an address she’d found the previous day in Loot. There, from a very friendly but highly suspect man called Dave, she buys a car for cash. No log book—no questions. She drives the car home and parks it in her garage. Her own car is parked on the street. She does the trick with the mud again until it is impossible to see even the make of car. Then she showers and dresses in the second outfit. She takes the Tube out to Amersham, reasonably close to the airport but not right there. She walks to the hotel she’s chosen. She has stayed there three times already, each time checking in as Joyce Adams and paying the bill with cash. She pays for three nights, telling the bored clerk she’s on business and is eight time zones out—she does not want anyone disturbing her so she can sleep. No room service, no cleaning. She needs nothing.
In the room she sits and watches TV for two hours. After that she turns off the TV and leaves the room as quietly as possible. She places the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and takes the lift down to the parking area. She saunters through as if her car is just at the end of the row … but walks all the way out to the street. She sees no one. From there she walks back to the Tube station and retraces her steps home. She gets back at midnight as Friday slides into being. Today is the day. She does not sleep.
At 8 a.m. it is time for her to get ready. She dresses in the second outfit she bought yesterday. She puts on the wig and threads the sunglasses into it, then applies the unnaturally bright lipstick and looks in the mirror. A stranger stares out. She logs onto the Heathrow site to see the flight arriving from Lisbon at 11:40 a.m. It’s in the air but the weather report is poor and deteriorating. She opens her bag and checks the contents: money in Ziploc bag, the hypodermic and drug vial, the tape, the ball, a long knife. In the hall is
a folded wheelchair to put in the car. It is time to go.
It cost £500 to have the CCTV put out of action in the long-term car park. That had been Patty’s main concern right from that first morning she watched Cobhurn get on the shuttle. She had known then that, with luck, the long-term parking was where she would kidnap him from. She had to put herself in the mind of the police. Once Cobhurn was reported missing they would retrace his steps. They would find that he landed and took the shuttle, and they were bound to look at CCTV footage from the car park. She called someone on a London paper; she’d known him years before when he was just a cub reporter. Now he runs the crime desk. She asked him for a snitch, pretended to be working on a book of true crime. He gave her a name and that name gave her another. After five degrees of separation Patty had some kid who had twelve ASBOs ranging from tagging his school gym to exploding garden gnomes in the local shopping mall. She left his money and instructions in a Hello Kitty bag on a park swing, a few days before she planned to kidnap Cobhurn. At 10 p.m. on Thursday, December 16, he shot the head off every camera in the car park. Money well spent.
She arrives at 10:30 a.m. and as she waits the first snow begins. She watches the flakes—their beauty mesmerizes her and yet she curses them. As the storm thickens she realizes that very few planes are landing. She had not factored in God.
After two hours of sitting she cannot stay in the car any longer and gets out, feeling the snow crunch beneath her feet.
“There is something very Zen about watching snowflakes tumble through space as you turn to ice yourself,” she thinks, slowly accepting the idea that he will not be arriving—that his plane had been grounded somewhere or redirected to another airport.
“If I have to wait I will.” She knows she must get him. And something keeps her there, in that cold parking lot, until the sounds of the shuttle break the dead silence.
