The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel (35 page)

“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?”

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.

“You are joking? Oh, Dani.”

Father and daughter eat their omelettes in silence.

“The chips were good,” Jim says finally, when both plates are licked clean.

“Tony’s the cook and owner,” she points at the tall, skinny man. “He double cooks them for crispiness. His lasagne’s great too.”

“With chips?”

“Of course—what else do you eat with lasagne?” She smiles.

“I told your mum I’d be gone till Friday. The plan was to do repairs today, then paint tomorrow and touch up any last-minute things Friday morning before going home.”

“Duncan’s gone. I told him I’d call tomorrow … maybe we could …”

“Decorate together?”

She nods and smiles.