The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel (36 page)

He remembers the fun they had. There was no more talk of Duncan and there was no more talk of Seb Merchant. They listened to the radio and worked. Mostly Radio 1, but they switched to local stations to avoid Dave Lee Travis. When they were tired, they went out for food and beers, and in the evening they listened to John Peel. It was the last of the good times. After that, there was only that awful Christmas and then …

Monday, December 20, 2010

“Dani. Please, let’s go inside. I’m freezing.”

“Not until you tell me what happened to Duncan.”

“He …” Jim shakes his head. “Could he have been responsible for your death?”

“No.” Her eyes flash. Jim has not seen her angry once in the last twelve years—but she is now. The paleness of her skin is burned away as the anger rises.

“He wanted to marry me, Dad. You know that.”

Jim feels sick to his stomach. So many secrets, so much unsaid. “I never told your mum about him. I hoped it would end, that you’d realize he was too old for you.”

“I loved him.”

“He …” Jim feels shame creep in on top of the cold. “He was the prime suspect in your murder.”

“He wouldn’t …”

“The police didn’t realize you were … lovers.”

The snow starts again, falling into Jim’s hair—the flakes drift through Dani.

“Samples were taken—when you died.”

“From me?”

“Yes. The man left … anyway, they couldn’t test the samples then. They can now.”

“The man who …”

“… could be found. Yes. That’s what your mum was trying to do. She bribed a man to get the samples and then …” Jim stops. He is shaking. “She needed to test them against the prime suspect.”

“Duncan?”

“She tied him up …” He doesn’t need to finish—Dani can see where he’s headed.

“Oh my God!”

“Dani.”

“Mum killed him.”

“She was doing it for you.”

“Mum killed him.”

“She didn’t know …”

“She didn’t know he wanted to marry me,” Dani says in the smallest voice. She looks at her father, so full of sadness. Then she fades.

“Dani,” he calls, “Dani, don’t go. Please come back. Dani!” But he knows it’s futile. “Dani.”

She looks at herself in the mirror, remembering the excitement she felt seeing his blood smeared over her face—like a mask, a superhero’s mask. The Red Revenger—when was that, two days ago? Now there is none of that hope, none of that energy. She flew too close to the sun and fell. She has failed.

In the bedroom she stands and watches him sleep. Jim, the white knight who came to save her. What mess has she gotten him into now? What further misery will she pile on his head? She’d like to lie back down, snuggle into him, let him protect her, just for a day. Or two. But no. He looks so innocent lying there. He looks like Dani. She has failed them both. She slides down
the wall, her legs suddenly jelly-like. It should all be over now. Roberta was supposed to confirm his guilt and then—armed with that proof—she was to take her revenge. End his life as he ended Dani’s. And then … then Patty was to leave his stinking corpse, go home, finish the letter on her computer—the story of his crime and punishment. Then … then … then … she can’t even say it to herself. But now? Oh Christ—it breaks on her like a tsunami—she has killed an innocent man. She is as bad as Dani’s killer. She knows there is only one thing she can do, but … Dani will never be revenged. Never.

“Jim. Jim.” A hand shakes his shoulder. “It’s five in the afternoon. I thought I’d better wake you.”

He rolls over, opens his eyes—it’s all a bit blurry and dark.

“Five?” He can’t believe what she said. Something’s wrong—and then he realizes the problem: he slept well. No nightmare.

“When did you fall asleep?” she asks.

“I … I don’t know. I went downstairs to look for coffee.”

“Did you find any?”

“None that was fit for human consumption.”

“Oh well, if you’re going to be picky …” She leaves the room.

He remembers the morning: finding the newspaper, seeing Duncan Cobhurn’s picture. Dani’s pain. He rolls over and walks downstairs.

He finds her in the lounge—she is staring out the window. “Is this the man you killed?” He holds the newspaper—the same photograph Dani saw.

Patty nods. “An innocent man.” Her eyes hollow out with the memory of his death—bound and gagged, blood oozing from his hand.

Jim shakes his head. “Maybe he wasn’t so innocent.”

“I had his DNA matched with the killer’s—not the same.” She crosses her arms across her chest. “Last night you were great, when I needed you …” She stops. He can see how hard she’s trying to keep herself together.

“Patty, we can—”

“I’m a murderer. I need to call the police and confess.”

“Patty?”

“Jim. He has a wife. Can you imagine how our lives would be different if the police had found the man who killed Dani? If we hadn’t had all that worry—not knowing why. All that time I searched …”

“Dani’s death wasn’t an accident—this was.”

“Was it?” Patty asks, looking frightened. “I almost slit his throat there in the chair. I tied him, cut him and left him with no water or food—pumped up to the gills with horse tranquilizer. How does that sound like an accident?”

“I …” The brutality of Patty’s words stops him short. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I just don’t want to lose you again.”

“Jim.” Her eyes flare. She wants to tell him he lost her twenty years ago. Last night was just an echo of something long dead.

“Patty, don’t decide now. Just spend the day with me.”

She can’t say no, it’s what she wants more than anything in the world.

Jim showers first, then Patty. She stays in that stream until the hot water is exhausted. How can a person feel so happy and so sad, all in the same moment? She loves Jim, she has throughout the last forty years, and she can have him back. But at what cost?

When she gets downstairs, Jim is in the kitchen and the room is
filled with mouth-watering smells. He’s run out to the shops, bought a pile of newspapers, fresh coffee and a coffee maker, eggs, bread and cheese. There are these tiny little tomatoes and olives with a box of salad leaves, plus little pre-cooked potatoes with basil. It all looks very year-in-Provence-y. He has the plates warming in the oven like Patty’s mum always did when entertaining guests. Posh.

“Can I do something?”

He shakes his head. “Just sit down.”

“Where? I don’t have a dining table.”

She goes to her bookcase and pulls out two large coffee-table books,
A Pictorial Journey Around the Galapagos Islands
and
The Bloody Monks
.

“We can use these as trays.”

Patty watches as he efficiently pulls plates from the oven, flips an omelette and slices it in two. Molten cheese oozes from the wound. He scatters some leaves on the plate and spoons quartered tomatoes, olives and pesto-covered potatoes on the leaves.

“That looks like a painting,” she says, a little awed. “My stomach is growling.”

He shrugs. “Let’s hope it tastes okay.”

As soon as the plate is in Patty’s hands, she tears into the food. She eats ravenously.

Jim watches, amazed. “There’s no more, but I could knock some up quickly.”

“Toast. I really want some toast. Is there any butter?”

He nods and starts to rise.

“No, eat yours. I can make toast.” But even as she says it, she wonders if she actually can. She hasn’t made it in more than twenty years, but surely it’s something you don’t forget.

She walks into the kitchen and stops dead. She has no idea if
she has a toaster. She assumes she doesn’t but looks around, just in case. There’s a sliced loaf on the side, another of Jim’s purchases, and she pulls out two slices and puts them under the grill. The oven came with the house and she has barely used it—just the hob. For years she has literally lived on tea and sandwiches or soup bought from Marks and Spencer. She can’t remember the last time she was hungry—really hungry—craving sustenance. Jim walks into the kitchen to see her finish her fourth round of toast and popping two more under the grill.

“I can’t stop.” She laughs, as tears run down her cheeks. “I can taste it too,” she says with astonishment. “It tastes good. Better than good. It tastes, I don’t remember the last time I actually tasted something.”

He says nothing, but pours himself more coffee and returns to the living room. She eats four more rounds of toast before leaving the kitchen to find him. He sits there, sipping coffee and scouring the newspapers for news of Duncan Cobhurn’s murder.

Patty pulls the paper from his hands and slips onto his lap. She takes his head in her hands—there is a symmetry between this and Duncan Cobhurn—she held his head like this, but then his glassy eyes didn’t look back. Now Jim’s eyes brim with hope and love and sadness and … and … she kisses him.

“Jim, the funeral is next Tuesday. I need to go.”

“No. Please, it’s crazy.”

“A whole week away. I’ll see her, see his friends and family and … decide.”

Decide whether to confess. It means she loses all this. Loses Jim, and any chance of justice for Dani.