by P. D. Viner
Tom sits there feeling himself shrink, little by little. He wants to say something but his mouth is parched and no words form.
“I have been able to piece together some of the story, the true story. I spoke to a retired sergeant, Ray Stone. You knew him a little, I believe. He ran the Durham evidence store back in 1989. Fascinating man; he has throat cancer and talks out of his neck with a stick. He said to say ‘hello.’ ”
“Don’t remember him.”
“Tom!” Keyson wags a finger as if at a naughty schoolboy. “You have got to work on your poker face. How did you get where you are today?” He grins.
Tom gulps, he thinks the same sometimes.
“So you don’t remember Sergeant Stone? Well, he remembers you.”
“That’s nice. If you have his address I’ll add him to my Christmas card list.”
“Oh good idea—then you’ll need more stamps—I have another name to add. Journalist. Ben Bradman. Ring a bell?”
“Bradman,” Tom whispers.
With a single finger Keyson slides one of the newspaper clippings around to face Tom. He recognizes it immediately as Bradman’s News of the World story. Out of Tom’s left eye slides a single tear.
“We talked for quite a while, he and I. He had a lot to say about you, Detective Superintendent Bevans, none of it complimentary. You know he didn’t do well in prison, don’t you?”
Tom says nothing. He knows that Bradman was sentenced to seven years and spent four years and eight months in prison before he was paroled. He knows, from reading the governor’s reports, that he’d been beaten and sexually abused there. Tom lowers his eyes, not wanting Keyson to see the shame burning in them.
“I know nothing about him. I only met him the once.”
“Quite a meeting, though. I should think every one of his nightmares ever since features you. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you, Tom. You devil.”
Tom feels bile rise in his throat. “You know nothing about me, Keyson.”
“But we were such good friends,” he says with a frosty smile.
Tom wants to deny it and yet … and yet. “You betrayed that friendship.”
“Me?” Keyson’s face turns scarlet. “I betrayed you? Liar—you destroyed me. You dragged me through the mud and had me fired.”
Tom stands quickly, pushes himself away from the table, scared.
“You threw away your career, Marcus, you did it to yourself.”
With a squeal, Keyson pushes the table away so nothing stands between the two men—he reaches out to grab him by the throat.
“Is everything okay?” Candy is by Keyson’s shoulder looking concerned. “Do you need …?” She places her long fingers on his arm. Keyson pulls his arm away like it’s been burned and turns—snarling at the interruption.
“Get the fuck back to—” He pulls his arm up to swat her away.
Candy screams and shrinks back afraid.
“I’m sorry. So sorry. I—” He is immediately a civilized man again, but too late—she scampers back to the kitchen. A second later the chef emerges, a cleaver in his hand in case of trouble.
“Misunderstanding, nothing more. Sorry about that. We’ll leave immediately. Maybe the bill?” He smiles his most winning smile. The chef grunts and walks back into the kitchen. Keyson swings back to Tom.
“No more time for niceties. Patricia Lancing, the mother of your one true love, came to me to help find her daughter’s killer.”
Tom nods. “Changes in DNA profiling. The potential for matching samples with—”
“Oh drop it, Tom. DNA technology—don’t make me laugh. I don’t need a fucking microscope to solve this mystery. I just need to look past the cover-up.”
“What do you—”
“I’ve done it, Tom. I’ve found the killer of Danielle Lancing.”
The blood drains from Tom Bevans’s face.
Marcus Keyson smiles. “You killed her, Tom.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Monday, December 20, 2010
She watches them sleep. Her parents. It probably crosses a line, to sneak into the bedroom and watch them—Dani isn’t sure her moral compass is so accurate these days. She sighs. They’re both fully clothed. Her mother is wrapped in a blanket. She’s drawn her legs up into her stomach, like a baby in the womb. Her father lies on the outer edge, almost falling off the bed, but his legs curl against Patty’s and they hold hands.
“Did you know that otters sleep holding hands?” Dani remembers telling her parents that fact one day when she was five or six. For a long time afterward, at bedtime, she was an otter and her dad would hold her hand while she fell asleep.
She reaches out to their entwined hands—maybe she could. She holds her hand just above theirs—it looks as if the three hands are joined—but they aren’t. She cannot grasp them and her hand slips through … she pulls it back. She can’t feel, can’t touch. Just watch. She knows she should be happy—if her parents could be together again, it would make her dad so happy. But what would it mean for her? Would he need her? He is her only link to the world—would she fade for him? Might she be completely alone? The thought fills her with dread. It’s hard enough at night, being alone while he sleeps and having nothing to do but watch over him and blow the cobwebs of fear from him when the nightmares come. If he turns his back on her she will have nothing. Will she even exist with no anchor to life?
She looks out of the window. Snowflakes turn in the air once more. It will be dawn again soon—a new day. She closes her eyes and stretches out her hand to the glass; it slides through. She rises on her toes and leans—leans—leans forward and … she is through the glass and outside, in the air, falling? No, floating. Slowly she turns in the air like the snowflakes, twisting down, gravity has no effect on her, nor does the icy wind. She floats softly in the sky. A shooting star. There is a flash in her head—an explosion. She feels arms on her, holding her down—feels immense weight on her hips—something snaps. She hears a scream of pain—it must be her own voice. Hands squirm all over her, sharp pain in her arms—her wrists—smells of sweat, beer, sick. Her flesh is twisted, mouths bite her, suckle from her—a tongue forces into her mouth. White-hot, searing pain. She is violated. She falls through the air. The snow catches her. Her limbs and joints scream out—she burns. She opens her eyes. A face, a form.
“Tom?”
But he isn’t there. Just a memory.
“Jim. I killed a man.”
Patty’s words ricochet around his head. Alongside him she sleeps. It took a while to fall under after her confession. She wept, she curled in his arms and wept. He feels guilty but it made him happy. To hold her again.
He has no idea what the time is, but can see a dim light seep through the crack of the curtains. His body would appreciate more sleep but his mind is doing star-jumps. Patty killed a man.
He heads downstairs. In the kitchen he opens cupboard after cupboard—desperate for coffee. It’s a kitchen with a lot of storage, but it’s mostly empty. There isn’t even any salt or pepper.
“Oh, thank you, Saint Java,” he exclaims when he finally strikes gold. In a scrunched up carrier bag, stuck down the back of the sink, he finds an old, half-empty jar of Nescafé. It’s nestled in the bag alongside a pile of individually wrapped plastic cutlery, a mound of sugar sachets and about twenty little ketchup pots and a mayonnaise dip with a sell-by date that passed three years ago. He pulls out the coffee jar and, with some effort, unscrews the lid. Inside the granules are congealed into a solid lump. He tries to hack some out with a plastic knife but it just snaps. So he boils some water—in a saucepan—and pours it into the jar. The granules start to dissolve and he pours them into a cup. He sips at the coffee—it’s disgusting, but he still drinks it.
“Jim. I killed a man.”
“Slow down, Patty. Tell me slowly.”
“Tom came to see me.”
“Tom … Tom Bevans?”
“He told me that Dani’s case would be reviewed—that there w
as a new way of analyzing evidence samples.”
“Hang on, Tom told you. Was he talking as a policeman, was it an official visit?”
“Yes, it was official. He said he wanted to do it himself rather than send some family officer.”
“So …” Jim’s head reels. “What did he say?”
“That a team, a dead case team, in Durham will investigate.”
“That’s wond—”
“Jim, he said it could be years. Another four years.”
“It’s already been twenty.”
“I can’t do another four years. I won’t.”
“So … what did …?”
“I hired someone. An ex–police pathologist named Keyson. He knew who to talk to and who to bribe.”
There is silence while the last piece of information sinks in.
“And?” Jim asks—suspecting that he doesn’t want to know the answer.
“He found a suspect, a prime suspect, someone the police had thought could be the murderer. They had been almost sure but there wasn’t enough evidence. But they had samples from Dani. Samples that were useless back then, but now—now could prove his guilt. They could catch him. I could … I could …” Silent tears flow.
“Patty.” He reaches out to her but she pulls away.
“It wasn’t him.”
“We can look ag—”
“You don’t understand. His photo—it’s on the cover of every Sunday paper.”
“Why?”
“He’s dead. Jim, I killed him.”
Jim feels cold in his bones as he cradles the coffee. He isn’t going to drink any more, he just wants the warmth. He stands in the kitchen unraveling last night’s conversation. She’d kidnapped a man and killed him. That was what triggered her seizure. He feels scared all of a sudden. He heads to the living room, he needs to see the man who threatens to take his wife away again.
The floor is strewn with shredded newspaper. He bends down and pulls out yesterday’s Sunday Times. Only the headline is legible: HEATHROW TORTURE MAN IDENTIFIED.
“Christ, Patty.”
Under that is the Observer. The front page is also obliterated, but on page three there’s a photograph. A man in his early sixties, close-cropped hair, bullet-shaped head. His name is Duncan Cobhurn.
“Oh my God.” Jim recognizes the face, knows the man. He wants to be sick; he needs air. He pulls open the curtains and—there’s a body lying in the snow outside.
“Dani!” Jim runs to the front door and out, around the side of the house and into the garden.
“Dani.” He stands over her. Her lips are blue, eyes closed—skin pale. She looks like she did in the morgue. That awful day when he—
“Dad.” She opens her eyes, they brim with fear. “I saw them. They hurt me, they hurt me so much.”
“Dani.” He desperately wants to hold her.
“They laughed, Dad, they held me and wouldn’t stop and … Tom. I saw him too.”
“What? When?”
But Dani’s eyes are taken by the scrunched-up paper Jim still holds. She sees the photo and her eyes widen.
“Dad, why—why is there a picture of Duncan in the—”
Jim pulls it away but she’s seen the caption.
“Murdered? Duncan murdered?”
“She—” Jim clams up.
“She? Christ! What happened, Dad?”
TWENTY-NINE
Friday, September 30, 1988
Jim has a key; the landlord sent it after he called. The van he’s borrowed is parked downstairs. Inside there’s a ladder, dustsheets, two tool kits, filler and plaster, primer and paint—lots of paint. He loads himself up with as much as he can possibly carry and takes them up—clanking all the way like the Tin Man. He only wants a heart. He manages to juggle it all at the front door, and he slides the key home and pushes the door open.
He only gets a few steps inside when the bedroom door flies open and a blur rushes out: a man, naked except for a towel that he’s still tucking round himself.
“Who the fuck are you?” he shouts at Jim.
“I … I’m sorry, this was meant to be—” he starts to explain when another figure appears from the bedroom, wrapping a sheet around her. It’s Dani. Jim sees red.
“Dad, don’t!” Dani screams.
“Dad?” the man says, as Jim drops the paint and pulls back a fist.
The naked man responds by holding his hands up in surrender—his towel falls off. He stands there naked and smiling. Jim hits him in the face—a knockdown.
“Dad!” Dani shouts and drops down next to the naked man. “I’m sorry, darling,” she says to the naked man, using the corner of the sheet to wipe a stripe of blood from his lip.
“Dani. What th—” starts Jim.
“Dad, just go.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Jim doesn’t move. He looks down at the man he’s punched. He’s at least forty years old. He’s shorter than Jim, squatter but more toned with muscular legs, like a rugby player. His hair is short, graying and there’s the beginning of a bald patch at the back.
“Bloody cavemen,” Dani tells them both, talking to them like naughty children. She helps the fallen man to his feet. He wraps the towel back around himself and holds it securely.
“This is my father, Jim Lancing. Dad, this is Duncan. Duncan Cobhurn.”
Duncan holds out his free hand to shake—Jim keeps his hands by his side.
“Okay, so we’re going to play that game.” Dani bites at her lip. “Dad, please go over the road. There’s a cafe there—the Grange. It’s okay, nice eggs. We’ll be over in twenty minutes.”
“Just you, not … him. I’d like to talk to you.”
She pauses.
“That sounds like a good idea.” The naked man squeezes her hand. She gives him a small nod, then turns back to Jim.
“Just me. I’ll be over soon.”
Jim grunts something and leaves.
In the kitchen of the Grange Cafe is a tall, skinny man. Serving out front is a bubbly young woman who gives Jim a big smile when he walks in. He sits at a table; in the middle is a laminated handwritten menu propped up between two globes, red ketchup and brown sauce. He picks up the menu but can’t read it; his brains are scrambled. The waitress gives him a minute before coming over, notepad in hand.
“What can I get for you?”
“Coffee.”
“No food?” She looks very disappointed.
“I’m waiting for my daughter.”
She trots off, leaving Jim to stew.
Twenty minutes later Dani arrives. Jim’s pleased to see she’s alone. She sits down opposite him. He looks over to the waitress and for a second can see a strange look flick across her face. Confusion? Had she seen his daughter in here with an older man before? Had she thought they were father and daughter? The look is replaced, almost instantaneously, by a smile. They both order a cheese and onion omelette with chips.
“The omelettes are good here,” Dani tells him once the waitress has retreated.
“Good.”
“You came to decorate. A surprise for me. That was really nice of you.”
He shrugs. “I thought you were in the Isle of Wight.”
“My plans changed. I should have let you know.”
“You … no. No, you weren’t to know. That’s why they call them surprises.”
“And the surprise was on you,” she tries to joke. It falls flat.
They sit in silence. The waitress brings Dani a herbal tea.
“You look … you look well,” Jim finally tells her. And she does. He can see that her hair has been cut recently, her fingernails aren’t bitten down like they have been the last few times he’d seen her. She’s even put on weight—she actually looks a little cuddly rather than being lanky and gazelle-like. He likes it—makes her look more like Patty. All her life people have said Dani looks like Jim, and she does, but he can see Patty there too. He likes this new look.
She smiles. “I’m happy, Dad.”
“Dani, I really don’t mean to pry or anything, but—”
“Shut up, Dad.” She doesn’t say it with any malice or anger. “Please let me say some things.”
Jim zips his lips, like he used to when she was a girl. It makes her smile.
“You think I’m being stupid, don’t you?”
“Dan—”
“Listen, Dad. Look, I know how awful all that shit with Seb was—I will never forget what you did for me then. You saved me, but that’s over. I’ve grown up so much in the las—”
The waitress walks over with the omelettes. Dani stops talking while she waits for her to leave.
“I know he’s older than me—he’s forty-four.”
“He’s my bloody age.”
“Dad. His name’s Duncan. He imports furniture, rugs and tapestries from the Mediterranean. He’s really successful. Don’t look like that, Dad.”
“Forty-four?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Jim sucks air in through his teeth. Reluctantly he nods.
“He loves me, Dad. I love him. He’s proposed.”
“Oh, Dani.” Jim throws his cutlery down. The clatter echoes through the cafe, causing the waitress and cook to look over.
“Butterfingers,” he says loudly, waving the digits. The waitress smiles and she and the cook go back to reading magazines.
“Don’t you want me to be happy?” Dani asks in little more than a whisper.
“That isn’t fair, darling.”
“It is. It’s all about trust, Dad. This isn’t like with Seb.”
“I should bloody hope not—you swore to me that would never happen again.”
“And it won’t, Dad. I am not the same person I was then. You helped me so much when I needed you. But Duncan has too. He knows all about it, all about how awful it was and he’s kept me sane and … I love him, Dad. He loves me.”
“And he said he wants to marry you.”
She nods and then drops her eyes again.
“What? Dani, what?”
She doesn’t reply. Instead she holds up her left hand and wiggles the ring finger.
