The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel

by P. D. Viner

  Patty could say it gets better. But it doesn’t, time heals nothing.

  “I … I am sorry. For your loss, I—” Patty falters.

  “Don’t, you cannot have the right to apologize. There is only one thing you could do to make it up to me.”

  “What?”

  “Kill yourself. That would do it. I think you should kill yourself, really I do, and I think it would make you happier.”

  “You’re crazy.” Deep down Patty knows it’s her grief talking and she understands the urge to make the pain stop.

  “Maybe I am crazy, honestly I could be,” Audrey tells her. “But it seems very clear to me that I cannot live like this and I’m pretty sure you can’t either. How you have coped for twenty years I can’t imagine. So I think we should die together. A pact.”

  “Audrey, don’t be an idiot.”

  “I think it’s the best way for both of us, but if you won’t then you have to live with what you’ve done—to Duncan and Lorraine and me. If you can live with it, then great. I know I can’t live without Duncan, not now I know that I’m to blame.”

  “Audrey—what are you saying?” Patty hisses. Scared to be too loud.

  “Will you do something for me?” the widow asks.

  “Audrey, think straight—Lorraine—”

  “Say goodbye to her. Tell her I love her.”

  “Audrey!” Patty shouts, forgetting the two men hunting for her.

  “Goodbye.”

  Suddenly the noise of the wind screeches in the phone, then a blare of an airhorn as a truck bellows into the night—a scream of brakes and a sickening thud as the truck strikes Audrey Cobhurn’s body. There is an explosion of sound and the phone goes dead.

  Simultaneously, from outside the market, somewhere on the ring road behind the cathedral, Patty can hear an enormous crushing sound of metal on concrete; almost immediately followed by a cacophony of car horns and car alarms. Patty’s hands start to shake.

  “She’s right here, I heard her,” shouts the unknown man. Then there is the crash as a part of the fence gives way under the crunch of his boot.

  “I’m in,” he yells.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God.” Patty starts to crawl again toward the light. Fighting to put thoughts of Audrey’s death out of her head and concentrate on getting away. The floor is gritty and she feels pieces of glass cut into her left palm, her knees feel shredded. She will have to stand but then she’ll lose the cover.

  “Come out, my little piggy.” The unknown man laughs and then starts to hit the plastic tubs.

  Patty almost screams. She feels the blood soak into her trousers as her knees are cut. She needs to get up and … there’s a doorway up ahead. She can make out a blob of light that spears through it. It looks like it leads to an outside area and maybe to freedom. If she can only … there is a crash to her left, as she sends a tray of CDs spinning to the floor.

  “There you are.” The unknown man screams and heads toward the sound—crashing into a stall himself and sending it flying. Suddenly a line of light shoots out—he’s got a torch. He catches her in the arc of light and her eyes widen in fear.

  “Got you.” He whoops in delight and lunges forward, grabbing at her arm … but the stalls are in the way and she is just out of his reach. He grunts in frustration, bats aside a pile of clothes and forces his way into the aisle directly behind Patty. She had been frozen for a second but now the spell is broken and she runs forward at full pelt.

  There are stairs to her left. She bolts up them, trying to stay out of the beam of light that tries to track her like a searchlight. She has to keep moving. Below her, on the other side, there is another crash as part of the fence falls into the market and Keyson steps inside.

  “Ronson!” Keyson yells. “Where is she?”

  “Up the stairs, she’s gone up to the second level.”

  “Go up after her. I’ll look for another staircase.”

  Patty hears Ronson start to head up the stairs. It’s too dark up here for her to blindly stagger about, but she knows that as soon as he gets up with the torch, she’ll be a sitting duck. There is only one thing to do. She rolls to the top of the stairs and flattens herself as low as she can get. Then as Ronson’s head gets level with her foot, she lashes out, kicking him in the side of the head.

  “Christ …” He flails, trying to grab at her leg as he starts to topple backward. He touches her heel, tries desperately to get a hold on her as he falls back, but he can’t keep his footing and he crashes backward down the stairs, head over heels into a crumpled heap at the bottom. Patty is up and after him, running down and jumping over his body.

  She hopes he’s unconscious but with a roar of anger he is up and on his feet in seconds. She runs as fast as she can, hoping the path ahead is clear. She can see a rectangle of light further on; it must be a door—but where to? She prays it leads outside. She reaches it and—yes, she can see through the gloom to the end of a storage area and there’s a fence she could scale that leads to the open world. She could escape. She takes a breath to ready herself for a sprint and jump, her adrenaline spiking. She can do this. She leaps forward, accelerating as quickly as possible—sees the gap with the fence beyond—seconds away, she speeds up and—

  “Got you.” From nowhere an arm shoots out and grabs her. She tries to spin sideways but it grips on tight, pulling her into a bear hug.

  “You’ve been a bit naughty, ain’t ya.” Grant Ronson laughs. His other arm pulls her around and his hand clamps a cloth over her face. She twists and kicks like a mule, tries to pull her face away, breathe clean air, but his hand stays firmly around her nose and mouth. Slowly her energy begins to wane as the chloroform starts to take effect.

  “Time to sleep,” he says as she turns to deadweight. He swings her onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She drops her phone but he bends down and retrieves it. Then, whistling the theme to The Dam Busters, he carries her outside.

  It’s colder out in the open. Wisps of mist have started to trail through the Market Square. Keyson stands under a streetlamp, a sodium-orange pallor making the bruise above his nose look quite nasty. He stamps his feet, partly due to the cold, partly in annoyance.

  “Here we go, guv.” Ronson gives his boss a broad smile.

  “Phone?”

  He hands Patty’s phone to Keyson, who nods and scrolls through the address book. He finds the name he wants and hits dial. It rings only once.

  “Patty. Thank God, I was so worried about you!” Jim’s voice blasts from the phone. Keyson pulls it back from his ear a little.

  “You will never guess what just happened—a woman jumped off a bridge and landed just in front of us, we had to swerve but a truck hit her. Christ, it was awful. Patty? Patty?”

  Keyson smiles. “Hello, Jim, hope your head’s feeling better.”

  In the car, Jim digs his fingernails into the seat, digging small ovals into the leather. He looks across to Tom and whispers, “It’s Keyson.”

  “Oh hell.” Tom feels a little sick. He looks out of the windscreen at the anarchy in front of him. Two cars have crashed into the middle barrier. One is crushed into the tunnel support, closing the entrance. A trail of blood is smeared from the tunnel at least twenty yards to where the truck dragged the body; the body itself lies like a battered rag doll, its stuffing pulled from it and smeared all around.

  “Where’s my wife?” Jim asks coldly.

  “Wife? Haven’t you been separated for years?”

  “She is still my wife. Where is she, Keyson?”

  “Okay, let’s not split hairs, Mr. Lancing. Your wife is safe. No one is getting hurt, I am not that kind of man.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard exactly what kind of man you are, Dr. Keyson.”

  “From who?”

  “Detective Superintendent Tom Bevans.”

  “Oh, Jim. Honestly, I would take anything he tells you with a pinch of salt. He’s not your friend.”

  “And you are?”

  “Me? No,
‘friend’ is too strong a word—but I am going to tell you some truths, including a particularly juicy one. I am going to tell you who killed your daughter.”

  From somewhere the sound of sirens begins to wail, getting closer. He turns to see the flashing lights—red and white, rotating—making the blood on the road shine like a trail of bright red breadcrumbs leading to hell. In the mirror, just for a split second, Jim thinks he sees Dani frozen in the red stroboscopic light from an ambulance. She waves solemnly, then she is gone.

  Jim strains into the darkness, hoping to catch another glimpse of her but …

  Whack! The truck driver slams into the car.

  “Jesus!” Jim jumps.

  The driver is in complete shock, staggering around in a circle. Jim sees a medic jump out of an ambulance and run toward him.

  “Are you still there, Jim?” Keyson’s voice calls from the phone.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m here. Patty was in Durham, are you still there?” Jim asks Keyson.

  “Yes, old Durham town,” Keyson replies. “Don’t tell me you’re here too.”

  “Yes.”

  “How wonderful. Let’s meet and have a lovely chat about abduction and murder.”

  “Where?” Jim asks coldly, not wanting to get drawn into anger by Keyson’s levity.

  “How about the cathedral. Lovely spot. Begun in 1093 and is in the Norman style with some beautiful Gothic flourishes. I’ve got a pile of guidebooks if you’d like one?”

  Jim looks out of the side window and up to the heavens. He can see the cathedral above them, dominating the skyline of the town.

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Jim tells him.

  “Alone?”

  “I may have DS Bevans with me.”

  “Oh, Jim. That would be perfect. Please bring him.”

  But Jim’s no longer listening. He unclips his seat belt and opens the door.

  “Jim, Jim, where are you going?” Tom asks, but gets no reply. Instead he watches his friend dart across the blocked carriageway and start to climb the hill that leads up to the cathedral.

  “Shit!”

  Tom slides out of the car and slams the door, pocketing the keys as he does so. He looks around wildly for a second. All is pandemonium as more and more emergency vehicles arrive, each one adding another flashing light and wailing siren. He should help out, move the car to the side, but Jim is getting away from him and he can’t let him meet Keyson alone. He looks around. The truck driver is being helped and it is going to take a lot of time to remove the dead woman from the roadway. There is nothing he can do.

  “Damn.” He runs after Jim.

  FORTY

  Wednesday, December 29, 2010

  Above them, at the top of the city, Keyson holds Patty, still unconscious, in his arms and watches Ronson work on opening the cathedral door. It is huge, solid oak reinforced by thick slats and possibly metal rods. Keyson doubts it can be breached but he’s seen Ronson perform some remarkable feats and Ronson has told him he will get them inside. Keyson presses himself against the door, deep into the shadows, and waits. There is a sudden snap and the door shudders on its hinges and arcs forward.

  Ronson catches it as it moves. “There you go,” Ronson says with pride as it swings, wobbling on a shattered hinge. “No alarms, and I can’t see any CCTV neither.” Ronson grins and holds the door for his boss to walk through.

  Keyson enters the enormous structure, looking up, as he does so, to see a parade of saints glowering down at him. Each is suffused with moonlight and looking furious at this intrusion.

  “Gentlemen.” Keyson waves cheerily to them. He walks to the baptismal font and places Patty’s limp body on the cold stone. Then, switching on a torch, he begins to explore. There is something he desperately wants to find. He locates the rose window, an enormous wall of stained glass in the shape of a flower. It orients him to the correct set of pews and he kneels down in the central isle and shines his torch into the rows—examining each pew until he finds what he wants. In the faintest of writing he sees her name.

  DANIELLE LANCING. 1986.

  He sits in the pew trying to imagine her there. It is uncomfortable and drafty sitting, so he kneels and uses a cushion embroidered in 1952 for the Coronation.

  “The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not …” he begins to intone … but there is nothing. Nothing of her to feel. Nothing of anyone to reach out to, in the drafty ancient room. He gets up and walks further into the belly of the cathedral. Now he can give the place his attention. It is magnificent, vaulted ceilings with fingers of wood that worm through stone to hold up the sky. The great rose of stained glass dominating the center of the cathedral. During the day it blazes with light but in the darkness it seems somewhat sinister, a shadow-play of pain and anguish. Keyson likes it.

  Jim walks up the final slope toward the cathedral, his legs like pistons—his eyes ahead. In his chest the feeling of panic is slowly being replaced by the fizzing of anger. Behind him Tom follows, not knowing what to do. His professional wisdom says: stop and call for backup—but this is not professional, it’s personal. He pulls out his phone, sees the time is 3 a.m. He punches in a number and listens to it ring. An answer phone picks up—his own voice.

  “You’ve reached Tom Bevans. Sorry I’m not here at the moment but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Thanks.” Tom smarts a little at the message. Plain Tom Bevans, no DS—in case a woman he lied to is calling.

  “I need to get a life once this is over,” he tells himself.

  The phone beeps once.

  “It’s three a.m. Wednesday, December 29, 2010. I am approaching Durham Cathedral in pursuit of Dr. Marcus Keyson and Grant Ronson, who I believe have abducted Patricia Lancing for the purpose of extortion. I am following her husband, James Lancing, to the ransom drop-off point. If for some reason I …” He stops for a second. “Jane, just get the bastard.”

  He flicks the phone closed and hurries off after Jim. Tom catches up with him just as he is crossing the central lawn that leads directly to the main cathedral door, which stands massive and black in the night. Hung in its center is the sanctuary knocker—a blazing metal sun behind a face with soulless dark eyes. By royal decree those who use it to call for the door to be opened can ask for sanctuary. It was granted even to the guiltiest of souls. Tom reaches his fingers out to touch it.

  “Oh please, sanctuary—for you?” Keyson appears from the shadows.

  “It isn’t even the real thing, it’s a fake,” Tom says a little sadly.

  “Nowhere is safe for a murderer nowadays. Isn’t that right, Tom?” Keyson asks with a smile.

  “Hello, Marcus.” Tom attempts to smile back, but in his tired face it looks forced.

  “Please.” Keyson motions for them to enter as he pushes the door open.

  “Into the cathedral?” Jim asks.

  “Pretty please.”

  They enter and Keyson closes the door behind them.

  Inside it’s mostly dark except for rectangles of moonlight that spill across the floor. The light from the stained glass seems alive, dancing across the flagstones—deep purple, bloodred and undersea blue. Jim looks up and sees the parade of saints who smile down on him.

  “Your daughter loved it in this cathedral, she came often. I think it fitting that this is where we all finally meet to unravel this mystery.” Keyson smiles but both Jim and Tom feel goose bumps spread over their flesh.

  Keyson takes a slim book from his pocket and offers it to Jim. “I do apologize for the way I borrowed this.”

  Jim snatches Dani’s diary back. “Where is my wife?”

  “Toward the back, she’s perfectly safe—Mr. Ronson is with her.”

  Jim gives Keyson a filthy look and leaves the two men. He walks quickly, almost running, though he has to take care; the flagstones are smooth like ice, and he can’t see where they dip and bow from a thousand years of wear. His head is full of the rushing of his blood as he fights the panic that threatens to overwhelm him
. Ahead of him the room stretches forever—the size of a football pitch at least. Jim’s footsteps echo throughout, filling the air like a million insects scuttling through the house of God. As he rushes forward, toward the enormous rose of stained glass that beckons him on, for a second he sees Dani sitting in a pew, her hands linked together in prayer. She turns to look at him; her face is so pained, and then she is gone. Ahead he sees an area fully lit, a room off the main throughway—a chapel. He heads to it.

  He steps inside, amazed to see it isn’t electric light that illuminates the room but more than a hundred small votive candles, which have been lit around a massive sculpture carved from driftwood. It is of a woman who seems to be cut more from pure pain than wood. Her face is long, her lips pursed and her eyes weep. The wood itself seems weathered by a thousand years of sun and sea and salt; the form appears to bear the scars of humanity. At the woman’s feet lies a man, twisted, half on his side; he looks emaciated—stripped of hope and life. Mary, the mother, and Jesus, her murdered child. Jim does not appreciate the theatricality of all this. He walks up to the figures until he stands by Jesus’ head and the mother towers over him, almost double his height. Then he sees her. With her hands tied and mouth taped, sitting directly before the mother and child, is Patty. Grant Ronson stands beside her like some cut-price nightclub bouncer, his hands cupped in front of him. Jim moves to untie her, but Ronson pushes him back.

  “It’s fine, Mr. Ronson. Let him untie her,” Keyson calls out as he and Tom step inside the chapel.

  Ronson steps aside and Jim scrambles forward. He quickly gets the rope undone and pulls the tape off her mouth.

  “Patty. Oh Christ, Patty, I am so glad to see you. I was so worried.” He hugs her and she holds on to him tightly.

  “Jim, I am so sorry to drag you into all this mess.”

  “I don’t care. Just as long as you’re safe and we’re together.”

  She pulls him into her so tight they become a single entity for a moment.