The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel (32 page)

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.

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 hard. 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.

He stands on the threshold of the enemy kingdom and looks up. He’s wearing his uniform, which was great for getting into Bradman’s flat, but makes him a terrible target now.

“Into the valley of death rides the idiot. Cannon to left of him …” Tom holds his hands up, showing his palms.

“I want to see Franco,” he shouts.

There is nothing for a while and then a booming voice calls out, “Strip.” And from all around there are the deep, throaty laughs of bored men.

In ultra-slow motion Tom slides out of his jacket, then unbuttons his shirt and removes it. Then he undoes his belt and trousers—they fall to the floor. He slides his hands into the waistband of his …

“Leave the underpants on. We don’t wanna see your skanky white cock,” a voice calls out.

“I need to see Franco,” Tom shouts back to the unseen voice.

“We’s thought you were auditioning for the Chippendales.” A whole gang of voices laugh and there are the slaps of high-fives.

“I have a proposition for Franco.”

“Some naked white guy gonna propose to Franco!” another voice shouts and a peal of laughter echoes around the block.

“Come on up, Officer Dribble!” shouts the first voice and Tom walks out of his trousers and heads up into the jaws of Franco’s headquarters.

The stairs smell of piss and weed. He takes them two at a time, starting to feel pretty cold.