by P. D. Viner
“Here you go,” a whisper comes from beside her. A hand is flapping a tissue, she realizes she’s crying.
“Thanks.” Patty dabs away her Judas tears.
Lorraine, his daughter, rises to read from his favorite book. She makes it through ten lines of Watership Down before tears make it impossible for her to continue. Patty gets it though: poor bunnies, life sucks. Then a favorite song: “Lola” by the Kinks. The congregation is told it was playing on the radio when Duncan met Audrey, his wife of more than forty years. At this the widow’s head sags and she leans into her daughter, both heads touch and seem to merge into one conjoined grief.
Patty’s throat is dry and mouth sour like that little taste of reflux sick. She cannot see the widow’s face or look into her eyes and yet knows what is written there. She sees that her need for revenge has sliced love from this poor woman’s heart, destroyed her life as callously and as starkly as Dani’s murder ruined Patty’s. She should stand and announce her guilt, let Audrey Cobhurn have the satisfaction of seeing her ripped to shreds like an exhausted fox set upon by hounds. She should … but is too afraid. Patty is disgusted with her own cowardice. Two more songs, then a last reading and it’s the final hymn.
The vibrato of the organ hangs in the air as the final words die away and the funeral is over. The widow and her daughter walk hand-in-hand up the aisle. The older woman is still bent into her daughter, deflated like a burst balloon. As they pass she reaches out and touches Audrey’s arm, then widow and daughter are gone. Patty can’t breathe. She needs to get out. She makes for the door: one step, two, three, four … Hand outstretched … and is through. She staggers over to the teeth of headstones, leans on one … the world is smeary with snotty tears and her chest heaves, she has to breathe or will blac—
“Where—why am I facedown in grass?” Patty asks herself, not sure where she is or … the funeral. It leaps back at her. “Crap.” Her knee hurts, she puts the slightest pressure on it and it burns—maybe twisted, definitely swollen. Her chin is wet, maybe with blood. She fishes around in her pocket and finds a tissue; she wipes at her chin and it comes away with only tears and mucus. She has no idea how long she’s been down here—seconds or minutes or hours? She gets up, slowly, supporting her knee, holding on to a headstone. Died 1824—they won’t mind then. Her hat is crushed, she leaves it where it is. Most cars have gone but a couple remain—she prays the policeman isn’t still here. But why pray when she plans to confess?
She can see her little car and slowly walks toward it. She is almost there when somebody comes out of the church. Patty turns—force of habit—and looks directly into the eyes of Audrey Cobhurn. A sign. It’s time to confess. She walks over to her.
“You don’t know me, Mrs. Cobhurn …”
“I bloody do.” The widow’s face turns quickly from puzzlement through recognition to fury. She pulls her arm free from her daughter.
“She knows me, my God, she knows who I am and what I have done,” thinks Patty, incredulous—but then all thought is stripped away as Audrey Cobhurn slaps Patty, who staggers back under the onslaught.
Patty is dazed by the ferocity—her ears ring and cheeks flare. Audrey’s hands strike Patty’s chest, sinking into the woolen blubber of the disguise—she looks at Patty with wonder. Then lashes out again.
“I buried my fucking husband here today. You have no right, no right.”
The punches start to lessen and then die away as the demon departs her. Her daughter manages to grab her arms as she falls forward, clutching at Patty, oozing into the padding as her rage is replaced by the utter desolation of loss. She falls to her knees, still grabbing Patty’s body—sliding down her. She looks up as she drops, her face a mass of streaming colors and all she can do is mouth …
“You shouldn’t have come here. I did what I had to do for …” and there is nothing except streaming tears. Patty kneels down and takes the widow in her arms, they hold each other and together they sob. Patty sobs for Dani and Jim. Audrey wails for her Duncan.
Lorraine gently grasps her mother’s shoulders and pulls her away from Patty. Her own face is a flood, all has been washed away. She turns her mother around and slowly walks her toward their car. Patty stays on her knees, watching the two women walk toward their car. Suddenly she is bombarded by questions: “How did Audrey Cobhurn know who I was? Why did she have such an angry reaction? Does she know I killed her husband? If she does—then why not call the police? What just happened?”
She sees Lorraine put her mother in the car, say a few words, then she turns once more and walks toward Patty. When she reaches her, Lorraine does not meet Patty’s eyes.
“I didn’t come here to cause you pain. Not you or your mother.”
Lorraine nods.
“I don’t know why I came really … I just …” Patty trails off—she has no idea how to end that sentence.
“We can’t cope with you too,” Lorraine says almost inaudibly, still looking down at the ground between them.
In the distance a new group of black cars drives through the gate and down to the church—black suits emerge. Next funeral … death goes on. Lorraine watches them arrive and forces herself to continue: “What we did to you, what Mum did—all that time ago. It’s never left us. I think it cursed us. Dad has tried to pay it back; he tried to make good. I … am … sorry! I know we all need to bury our dead.”
Patty can’t breathe.
“Please don’t hate us.” She pulls her bag open and fishes in it, finding a card and a pen. She scribbles something and then hands it to Patty. It’s a business card, LORRAINE SUMMERS DESIGNS, and then a mobile number scrawled on the back. She hands the pen and a blank card to Patty who, with numb fingers, writes her own mobile number on it.
“I can’t talk now, Mum needs me. Please call tomorrow and we can meet.”
She smiles at Patty, a conciliatory smile.
“Maybe it has been a good thing that you came today. Maybe you can forgive us after all these years, Mrs. Lancing,” and she turns and walks back to her mother.
Patty cannot move: she has looked into the heart of Sodom, like Lot’s wife, and been turned into a pillar of salt. The cold suddenly blows up and she is dissipated into the air.
THIRTY-FOUR
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Jim feels anxious. He’s been pacing around the house ever since he kissed Patty goodbye that morning. He looks at his watch again—the funeral was supposed to have started ten minutes ago. Christ, what will she do? She had held his hand and kissed him so tenderly, like a permanent farewell. He had asked to go with her, but she had held firm.
“I have to go alone.”
“I don’t understand why you have to go at all.”
“I’ll be back this evening.”
“Promise?”
“Scout’s honor.”
He knew she was telling him what he wanted to hear. It was more likely that she would see the weeping widow and then find the nearest policeman to confess to. In many ways he admired that, admired her. But what consolation was that? Admiration—he’d had twenty years of admiration and it didn’t fill his empty heart. He feels so alone. Where was Dani? Was he going to lose them both?
Suddenly the phone rings, he snatches it up.
“Patty?”
There is no answer, just a faraway sound of breath.
“Who is this?”
“James Lancing?” It’s a voice Jim doesn’t know.
“Who is this?” Jim asks.
“A friend, Mr. Lancing. I have some information for you. For you and your wife. Could you meet me?”
“I have not seen my wife in—”
“Please don’t bother lying to me, Mr. Lancing. You have been with her for the last few days.”
Jim feels sick. He lets the information sit there for a few seconds before he can speak again.
“When do you want to meet?”
“Now. Now would be good.”
“My wife isn’t here, we can’t
both meet you.”
“You alone will be fine, Mr. Lancing.”
Jim is silent for a few moments. “Where?”
“The birthplace of time?”
“When?”
“How about twenty minutes?”
There is a click and the call is ended. It takes Jim just a few minutes to get ready. He stands in the hall looking at the door. His stomach is full of moths. He’s scared. He heads out into the cold.
“There he goes.” Grant Ronson pulls the binoculars from his eyes and slips them into his pocket. He bloody loves this. He grabs the bag and makes for the door, shouting back as he heads out, “You were brilliant—bloody Blofeld. We have information, Meester Bond—classic.”
“Remember what we are looking for, Mr. Ronson.”
“Mr. Ronson—classic.”
“A small leather book—not a regular published book, the spine will almost certainly be blank.”
“Got it, Ernst Stavro.” And he is out of the door and gone.
Marcus Keyson watches him go. An idiot. But loyal and good in a scrap—that was Keyson’s assessment of his employee. But it was the “idiot” bit that worried him at the moment. The last time he had asked Ronson to break into a house to recover something, he had taken far longer than he should, as he’d been raiding the wife’s lingerie drawer and leaving her a “present.” They had an hour maximum. They had to be quick.
Jim was only at the end of the road when he realized he didn’t have his phone. Patty might need him. He turned and rushed back to the house. He knew exactly where it was. He would grab it and still be at the Royal Observatory in time to meet the mystery voice.
As soon as he opened the front door he knew something was wrong. It wasn’t any kind of sixth sense. Someone was upstairs, opening drawers, moving furniture and whistling The Dam Busters theme very loudly. What should he do? Not confront the man—he should back out and call the police—but his phone was just inside the kitchen. He could get it in a few steps, then get out and call the police. The intruder upstairs was making too much noise to hear him. He couldn’t see a second man. Jim moved as slowly as possible. It was twenty paces to the kitchen. He got the phone in his hand, flipped it open—dialed 99 …
Jim crumples from the blow to the top of his head. The phone spills onto the floor. Keyson retrieves it and turns it off. He looks down at the unconscious man.
“I am very sorry, Mr. Lancing. This shouldn’t have occurred.” He steps over the body. “Ronson, you idiot,” he screams up the stairs.
He feels his head move—not that he did it himself. No, someone is holding it and … “Shit. Shit. Shit.” A finger pokes into his skull and everything explodes. Sticky and wet. Jim feels sticky and wet.
“Jim. Jim.”
There is a voice from somewhere. Jim tries to open his eyes but …
“Too hard.”
“Jim. Here.”
Something pressed to his lips. Water. At least he thinks it’s water. He manages a sip.
“Need sleep.” Jim starts to slip away again.
“Jim!”
Water hits his face.
“Try and talk,” the voice says again. Jim attempts to open his eyes to see who’s talking. He thinks it may be God or an angel.
“Jim,” God says with a slap to his face.
“You are an angry god,” Jim croaks.
“Jim, you’ve been cracked on the head. There’s a lot of blood but I don’t think it’s serious.”
You don’t expect that sort of talk from God.
“Jim. Can you understand me?”
“Who are you?” Jim asks, beginning to think it isn’t God.
“Jim, it’s Tom. Tom Bevans. We need to talk.”
Jim forces his eyes to focus. “Tom. It’s good to see you. I might pass out again.”
“No, you don’t. Come on, walk around—have you got any painkillers?”
“Kitchen.” Tom helps him to his feet and walks him into the kitchen. Jim sits at the table—pointing to the drawer with painkillers. Tom finds them and gets a glass of water.
“Thanks.” Jim takes the ibuprofen and swallows them down. “What time is it?”
Tom looks at his watch. “Eight o’clock. When were you hit?”
“Erm … one-ish. I think.” It all seems very hazy. Jim opens his eyes to see he is in the living room but the room has been demolished.
“Patty.” Jim suddenly starts to panic. “Where’s Patty?”
“You’ve got a few texts.” Tom hands over Jim’s phone. “I hope you don’t mind—I read them. Patty’s fine but she isn’t coming home tonight. She says she’s got a hotel room—there are things she needs to think about. But …” Tom pauses. “She isn’t going to confess, she says. What do you think she means, Jim?”
Jim looks into Tom’s face. He has not seen the younger man for a few years. He tries to keep his expression neutral. “I have no idea, Tom.”
Tom sighs. “Oh, Jim. I know all about Duncan Cobhurn.”
Jim looks Tom in the eye—but he doesn’t feel scared.
Tom sighs again and holds his hands palms up. “Patty is safe from me. I’m not here as a policeman, but I don’t know how safe she actually is. She’s in trouble, Jim.”
“Why?”
“She’s got involved with a nasty piece of work. Do you know who hit you?”
“Didn’t see him. Someone was upstairs, pulling things apart and whistling The Dam Busters.”
“That’ll be the charming Grant Ronson.”
“Who?”
“He’s listed as a private detective, but really he’s an errand boy used for your more unpleasant jobs. He’s been most recently in the employ of Dr. Marcus Keyson.”
“Hang on …” Jim fights the swirling broken thoughts in his head and tries to piece his memory back together. “Patty saw him—he’s a pathologist.”
“He’s a psychopath.”
“She hired him—he was helping her.”
“Helping himself, more likely. Look, he and I have some history and, take it from me: he is not a good guy.”
“And that’s who could be trouble for Patty?”
“He’s trouble for all of us.”
“So why was he ransacking the place here?”
“I think he wanted something you had.”
“Had?”
“I assume he found it.”
“What?”
Tom hesitates; his eyes fall away from Jim’s gaze. “Dani’s diary.”
“There are lots of diaries, she always kept a …” Jim trails off. “You mean her university diary?”
Tom nods.
“But, how did he know about it? You told me you’d wiped all trace of it from the files.” Jim starts to panic.
“I did. The investigating officers never saw it but … I missed something. I never changed the evidence sheet from the crime scene. I mean, nobody ever goes back and looks at those.”
“But this Keyson obviously did.”
“He has the entire file. I don’t know how he got it, but he has. He’s got the original log. All you have to do is compare the two and see the diary was logged in at the crime scene but never made it to the evidence list.”
Jim closes his eyes and desperately thinks back. That day at the morgue, Tom had disappeared to do some paperwork with a hatchet-faced officer. Afterward, they’d waved something in his face to sign. Later Tom gave him a small bag.
“Here. Don’t look now, just take it home. We can’t leave it here for the investigation.”
Jim hadn’t realized what he had at the time. It was only when they were back in London that he looked. There, in the bag, were two small diaries. He’d been excited at first, hoped it might tell him something—even have clues as to who had killed Dani. But of course there was nothing. The diaries only reached the end of that first miserable year. Nothing to do with her death but told of that dreadful time with …
“So he knows all about Seb Merchant?”
Tom nods.
<
br /> “Has he told Patty?” Jim asks, worried.
“I have no idea.”
“Hell,” Jim feels a sharp pain cycle round his head. He tries hard to concentrate again. “So who is this Keyson? What does he want?”
Tom looks across at the older man; he’s worried about his head wound.
“First, let’s give that head some attention. We can talk while I clean it. Do you have iodine?”
“Bathroom—under the sink.”
Tom nods and walks away. He returns shaking his head. “This stuff is five years past its sell-by-date.”
“Wouldn’t worry.”
Tom takes a small cloth and tips the iodine into it and then dabs at Jim’s bloody head. Jim winces but says nothing.
“Marcus Keyson—he worked with us—he was the pathologist allocated to Operation Ares.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Sorry, Jim. I forget you aren’t a copper. Operation Ares is a special task force, a unit within the Serious Crime Division. I head it up—we investigate sexual murder where we think there are multiple victims or there’s some unusual element to the case.”
Jim nods slowly. It was a bigger memorial to Dani than he could imagine.
“You save lives? Punish the wicked?” Jim asks.
“We try.” Tom sees Sarah Penn’s face. The photo from Ibiza and her dead face morph together. Three years dead. She’s waiting for him in the dark somewhere with the others, needing his attention and help. “I try.”
“So he worked with you?” Jim tries to get Tom back on track.
“Yeah … Keyson was our pathologist—a brilliant man. Quite honestly there are two murderers—at least—who we would not have caught without him.”
“So why did he hit me over the head if he’s a good guy?”
