by P. D. Viner
He turns on his heel and walks back toward the door. He feels the daggers in his back from all quarters, but he’s pleased with how it went. If he can avoid food poisoning in Munchies, this will be a good day.
DI Thorsen stops for a second outside Tom’s office; she’s shaking a little. She feels so angry at the ex-pathologist that she needs to pause. Marcus Keyson betrayed them both, but in a funny way it’s Tom who has been more deeply affected. She was the one who’d slept with him, had even taken him to meet her super-judgmental mother—and annoyingly her mum had been thoroughly charmed by him—but she has other friends, real friends. She’s been on a lot of dates since, slept with a number of men, and it’s water under the bridge as far as she’s concerned. But Tom doesn’t make friends, at least none that she knows of, certainly none in the force. That was why it had seemed so strange that he and Keyson had become close. She knows better than anyone how seductive Marcus Keyson can be—clever, funny and a great listener. She remembers that Tom and Marcus had even talked about holiday plans, a long weekend in Copenhagen for some conference. Didn’t happen in the end. Instead, Professional Standards took Keyson into custody one afternoon and closed the unit down for three days while they investigated accusations of gross professional misconduct. They had all been questioned. The entire department had fallen under suspicion, especially Detective Inspector Jane Thorsen, the idiot who had been dumb enough to sleep with him, and Detective Superintendent Tom Bevans—his friend. Detectives from DPS had been through both of their files and their personal lives with fine-tooth combs. It took months, but eventually the only person reprimanded was Keyson, though there remained a stain on the reputation of the whole Serious Crimes Unit and Operation Ares in particular.
It was hushed up, of course. No press got wind of it. They discharged Keyson with no pension, but there were no criminal charges. She still doesn’t know how the slimy bastard managed it. That had been three years ago. Since then she had barely thought of Marcus Keyson. He had no lasting power over her life, though she feels that Tom is still hurt by the loss of his friend. So, how would he react now? There is only one way to find out. She knocks.
“Come in,” he calls.
Tom Bevans stands by the window looking out onto the street outside. The gray December light makes him look even paler than normal; his silver-white hair shines a little. He turns toward her, his face seeming to contain both a little boy and an old man simultaneously. Though he is her superior officer, she wants to hug him to her and make him eat some soup.
She holds up the note. “Marcus Keyson just slimed in.”
“Keyson. Why?”
“He asked me to give you this.” She waves the note. “And to tell you he’d be in Munchies and would get you a tea.”
He walks over and takes the note.
“Cheeky bastard, well, he can go—” He unfolds the paper and dries up.
“Guv? Guv, are you okay?” She thinks he’s seen a ghost.
“You said he’s there, now?”
“He came in, gave me the note and left.”
“Well, how the fuck did he get in here? He doesn’t have clearance.”
“I don’t know, sir.” He had never shouted at her before; she feels herself contract a little, like when her father had come home.
“Okay.” He sees her flinch from him and immediately feels guilty. “I’m sorry, Jane. Thanks, thanks for bringing this up to me. You go back to work, I’ll … you go back.”
She nods and walks toward the door, feeling the tension in the air. She can see he wants her gone. She’d like to offer help, but she leaves instead.
Tom waits until Thorsen has gone and then calls down to security for them check the log. There’s no Dr. Marcus Keyson entered.
“Well, he was just here,” Tom tells them angrily. “Read me the names of everyone admitted into this building in the last half hour—I don’t care how fucking busy you are.”
The sixteenth name strikes a bell: Lewis Mason. There’d been a detective about ten years ago with that name but he’d transferred to Cardiff and then left the force. He’d become a hypnotherapist, specializing in helping the gullible and weak give up smoking and lose weight.
“Check Mason right now,” he ordered. Security checked—Lewis Mason’s level one clearance was still operative; it had never been rescinded.
“Well, bloody do it now!” barked Tom. “Then, start going through all existing access and check that the officers are alive and still work here … I don’t care how long it’ll take. We just had someone break into the Ares op room; he could have been a suicide bomber.”
Tom slams the handset down. In all likelihood this was probably worse than a suicide bomber. Damn Keyson. The scrap of paper Jane had handed him was still lying on his desk. He picks it up and opens it again. Two words, but they make the pit of his stomach lurch.
Danielle Lancing.
TWENTY-FIVE
Monday, October 11, 2010
From somewhere a trumpet plays “Joy to the World,” but plaintively, as if performed by a heartbroken elf.
“It’s only mid-October,” Tom grumbles under his breath as he stands under a grocer’s awning and scans the road. The rain is falling harder now and the street ahead’s a wind tunnel, threatening to slice anyone salami-thin if they venture into it. Tom’s hand slides through his white hair. He should have brought an umbrella. From where he stands he can get to Munchies in about two minutes—but he will arrive looking like a drowned rat. Normally he wouldn’t mind—he’s not a vain man—but Marcus Keyson brings out the worst in him.
“Come on, calm down for a couple of minutes,” he tells the rain. Of course, it gets harder instead. “Typical.”
He can’t delay this much longer. It’s already forty-five minutes since Thorsen gave him the note. After checking security, he quickly scanned the last six weeks of crime digest—an online summary of crime. He filtered it using as many keywords as he could think of: Keyson, Lancing, Durham University, Durham gang, Merchant and Cobhurn—nothing came up.
Then he washed in the gents—used Fat Eddy’s deodorant and razor—and put on the spare shirt and tie he kept for snap inspections. Waste of time. The new shirt is now completely soaked and he already smells a bit.
“Over the top,” he sighs, and makes a dash for it. He hits a paving stone and it rears up, shooting mucky brown water up his leg and into his crotch. He remembers his old religious education teacher, Vicar Tim, standing in front of them intoning in his deep somber voice: “With pestilence and with blood, I will rain down upon him.”
“What shit has Dr. Marcus Keyson come to rain down on this sinner’s head?” Tom wonders. Then he catches himself and realizes he’s in full-on apocalypse mode. “Really, Tom. Really—Bible quotations now? You need to get out more. And you need to stop thinking about yourself in the third person.”
He walks on, waddling like a duck as the muddy water soaks through his crotch.
Finally he reaches the cafe, but stops short of the door. Rain runs off him in little waterfalls, his socks are wet and his underpants squelch. He wants to shake like a dog but where’s the dignity in that? Instead he squeegees his hair with his hand and composes himself. At least there are unlikely to be any of his colleagues inside the cafe. Real coppers went to Fred’s—a large greasy spoon just around the corner. Fred’s is cheap, decidedly cheerful, and gives you the kind of home comfort that most coppers don’t get at home. Unpredictable hours, and the fact that most of the women they know work long hours too, means most male coppers defrost and microwave their own suppers in front of the telly or computer. Or they eat at Fred’s and flirt with his two plump daughters. The women coppers are similar; they either go home and heat up ready-meals for their husbands and kids—who are jealous of the time they spend on the job—or they eat a super-food salad from M&S on their own, knock back three or four vodkas and fall asleep in their clothes. This is modern policing.
While the worst of the storm drips off him, Tom reads
the specials board through the window: sunblush tomato and feta quiche, balsamic roasted parsnip soup, halloumi and couscous salad. Was this a date?
Below the board, sitting in the far corner, he sees Keyson, whose table is littered with empty cups and a teapot. Stone-cold, thinks Tom. As if he knows he’s being watched, Keyson slowly turns and looks straight at Tom. He waves.
Tom pushes the door open and steps inside. A very pretty waitress waves him toward a table by the door, but he shakes his head and indicates Keyson’s table.
“He’s my plus-one—finally,” Keyson calls to her. Both he and the waitress laugh. Tom grimaces. He takes off his coat and hangs it by the door, on a rack that is supposed to look like deer antlers. Keyson stands as Tom approaches and holds out his hand. Tom ignores the gesture and pulls out the other chair at the table—but as he does so he looks down. Scattered across the table are papers and photographs: Dani, Patricia, Jim and a face he barely recognizes—but it’s circled in red ink. Ben Bradman.
Tom reels. “I … I’ll be just a second.”
“Gents is over there.” Keyson points with a smile.
Tom heads off.
TWENTY-SIX
Monday, January 30, 1989
“Peace, man.” The reporter flashes a two-finger salute as he opens the door and sees a uniformed police constable standing there.
“Mr. Bradman?” asks PC Tom Bevans, controlling a desire to punch him.
“That’s me, Mr. Policeman.” He smiles.
“I wonder if I could come in and ask you a few questions, Mr. Bradman?” Tom asks in a level and friendly voice.
“Well, now, I am not at all sure about that. I would have to make clear I was in no way waiving my rights and not agreeing to my premises being searched or—”
“This is not about you directly, Mr. Bradman. Let me assure you I am not interested in what might be in your flat. I just want to ask you a few questions concerning the disappearance of Danielle Lancing. In your article this weekend you seem to hint at information you may have obtained—”
“Whoa, whoa there, Officer. A reporter’s source is sacrosanct. When he talks to me, that is like a priest hearing confession.”
Tom has trouble seeing Ben Bradman as any kind of priest, but he tries to keep the incredulity out of his face and voice. “Mr. Bradman, I have no desire to shatter the integrity of your relationship with your source. But I would like to ask about the information itself, and I do not think your hallway is the place to do this.”
Bradman thinks for a second. “Okay, but wait here.”
He closes the door behind him and goes into his flat. Tom stands stock-still. He assumes Bradman’s hiding his dope stash. Even through the door he can smell the oppressive fug of cannabis. He waits about two minutes and Bradman reappears. He nods and Tom follows him in, closing the front door. As he walks over the threshold, Tom slips his hand into his pocket and fingers a brass knuckleduster taken from the evidence room. He slips it on his hand. He follows Bradman into the living room. The curtains are closed.
“Anyone else here?” he asks.
“In a flat this size? You’re jo—”
Tom swings hard and fast; he feels a snap and hears the crack of cheekbone and his own knuckle pop out of its socket.
“Fuck!” both men shout together. Bradman drops to the floor, his hand to his face—blood showing through his fingers. It reminds Tom of how a torch glows red through your hand when you cup it. Tom pulls off the knuckleduster and pops his finger back into its socket.
“Jesus shit. Shit.” Bradman keeps repeating.
“Stay down or I will hit you again,” Tom says, in his best hard-man voice. He really hopes Bradman does stay down. His hand hurts so much he doesn’t think he could hit him again.
“Franco will get his fucking money. I just need another day or two.” Bradman is almost hysterical.
“I’m not from Franco.”
“What?”
“I’m not from Franco.”
“Then …” His brain reels: who is this guy if he’s not from Franco? “So, what do you want?” he asks, starting to get angry.
“I told you. I want to talk about the story you wrote on Dani Lancing.”
“You are shitting me.” He starts to get up.
Tom kicks at his knee, smacking him back down to the floor. Bradman grunts and grabs at the knee, smearing blood all over his jeans, which are filthy already. Tom unfolds a sheet of newsprint from his pocket.
“ ‘Dani Lancing has been painted as a promising student, sports star and much loved daughter—a good girl. However the truth may be very different. There is evidence to suggest Dani was involved with drugs in her first year at Durham University and was selling them to finance her lavish lifestyle—’ ”
“Freedom of spee—” Bradman interrupts.
“You fucking liar!” Tom shouts, kicking wildly at Bradman’s leg.
“I reported fairly,” Bradman whines.
Tom kicks at his leg again, this time just hitting into the thigh. “Fair, you don’t know the meaning of the word. You smeared a poor sweet—”
“Oh please. I read all that shit in the Independent and Echo. I heard stuff about Snow White.”
“What?” Tom drops to the floor, making Bradman squeal a little. “What did you hear?”
“She … she used to be the bitch of the campus pusher: king of the uni smackheads.”
Tom feels his stomach freeze. “You liar.” His voice is a little uncertain.
Bradman seizes on that; he continues, more brazen now. “She got turned. Happens to students all the time. She’s probably drying out somewhere—or stuffed to the tits on junk.”
Tom punches hard, into the floor by Bradman’s head. He hears his knuckle pop again but doesn’t feel it—his body is awash with adrenaline.
“I love her!” Tom screams into his face.
All color drains from Bradman’s face, finally understanding what has happened. “I … I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry?” Tom barks.
“You’re right, right of course. It’s not true. I embroidered, embellished. You gotta understand, there’s a pressure …”
“Pressure?” asks Tom, in a small voice.
“I can see what I’ve done now.” He laughs a nervous, edgy laugh. “I’ve tried to shoehorn two stories together: student druggies and your missing girlfriend. I’m sorry. We can do a big story—get the public looking under every rock and stone. Telling them how brave she is, about how amazing her parents are …”
“What did you hear?” Tom almost whispers into the reporter’s ear.
“Look. We can—”
“What did you hear?” Just a breath.
“Probably nothing, I—”
Tom swings again—the knuckleduster connects with chin—blood in the mouth.
“Fuck, fuck … I heard rumors. Okay, just rumors.”
“Who from?”
“I can’t—”
“Give me a name.” Tom takes the knuckleduster and drives it into the reporter’s hand, crushing it into the floor. He screams.
“A jazz guy, trumpet player in Durham. Diamond earring in his right ear, shaved head. I don’t know his name. Honest.”
Tom pulls the brass knuckleduster off his hand. Bradman pulls his fingers into his chest and rolls from side to side, tears rolling down his face.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Bradman.” Tom stands up—it’s over.
Bradman lies there and watches the policeman rise. He suddenly realizes it’s done, just a hurt hand and knee—that’s all this is. He laughs. Then he opens his arms as if to embrace humanity, his face sad—what can you do? Life.
It was the gesture Tom hated: supplicant and weak—a victim. It reminded him of all the ponces he’d arrested, the women he’d seen battered, his own fucking father after he’d beaten his own son and he opened his arms as if to say “It was your fault after all, but I forgive you.” Tom sees red. He grabs the knuckleduster and punches—once ha
rd. There is a crack—metal on bone, a pistol shot. Bradman lies unmoving.
Was it premeditated? That’s what Tom has asked himself so many times over the years. Ben Bradman and Bix Lego-dogshit.
He looks down at the body in front of him. Feels for a pulse—weak, but there. He isn’t dead. Tom runs into the bathroom and throws up. When he’s finished he cleans the bowl and bleaches it thoroughly. Whether Tom had planned to knock him out or not, he hadn’t planned what to do next, but it came to him in a rush. He started to search the flat; he knew Bradman had hidden something. He found it quickly but it was very disappointing, a small bag of dope—not enough.
“Think, Tom,” he tells himself. He needs Bradman out of the picture for a while. He can’t have him investigating Tom and Dani again.
Bradman’s keys are in the back of the front door; he’d used them to open up when Tom arrived. He checks Bradman’s pulse again. He’ll be out for a while.
“Okay.” He grabs the keys and leaves the flat, locking the door behind him. He runs down the three flights of stairs to the street and out into the night. It’s almost ten o’clock but where he’s going, that’s like morning. Bradman had given him the answer to the problem himself. Franco.
It isn’t far. He’s only been there once before, as extra support if a riot occurred. Franco ran drug distribution for almost the whole of East London. Pretty amazing, considering he is eighteen years old. Tom runs the whole way there. The base of Franco’s empire is a four-story block of ex-council flats sold off by Thatcher in the mid-eighties. Now it is equipped with armed guards on the roof, a helipad and the most sophisticated set-up of surveillance cameras in London—including those around MI5. As soon as Tom gets to the forecourt of the block, he can feel eyes on him. He knows at least one rifle will be trained on his head. He stops at the entranceway. It’s dark, but he knows how misleading that is. Blackout curtains mask the fact that most of the flats are being used to manufacture crack, PCP, amphetamines and a wide variety of mood enhancers and brain-cell killers. Tom doesn’t care.
