The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel (5 page)

At this time of the morning, before natural light begins to spill through the glass, it feels oppressive. A city of paper, dark and shadowy. Except for one desk that blazes in the very center of the web. This is where the graveyard shift works, or more likely dozes, while they wait for information on breaking crime. Mostly they file reports for later attention by the day shift, but sometimes they need some poor bugger woken up and dispatched to some drafty wasteland to look at a body. Tonight they had just passed on a run-of-the-mill missing person’s report … but that had made Tom head directly there, not passing go and not collecting £200.

Tom looks at his watch: 5:38. In under an hour the graveyard shift will be over and the morning staff will start to arrive—he has to move. He can feel his stomach spasm; he’s the boss, he should be beyond reproach. What he’s about to do is misconduct at best. He vowed to himself, twenty years ago, that he would be straight, that his conduct would be whiter than white, that he would never do anything that he knew was wrong. Not again. Not since … That was why he was the youngest special-operations superintendent in the Metropolitan Police; that was why he had the loyalty of his team. And will he jeopardize that now—for her? For Dani? Of course he will.

He takes a deep breath and swings the door open, making straight for the only officer—Eddie Matthews. Fat Eddie. As he walks toward Eddie, Tom can see from the way he slumps sideways that he’s asleep. He comes level without disturbing him, then slaps him hard on the shoulder. The big man jumps like he’s been electrocuted.

“What the fu—Guv? What are you doin’ ’ere?”

“No peace for the wicked, Eddie.” With a Cheshire cat smile, Tom sits on the desk and looks the big man up and down. “Honestly, Eddie, have you got a shirt that isn’t covered in Pot Noodle and tomato sauce? You look like you’re bloody homeless.”

“Sorry, guv, I’ll—” Eddie looks like he might cry for a second and then hauls himself out of his chair and shambles off toward the gents.

Tom watches him go and feels a pang of guilt. It was a cruel thing to say. The reason Matthews had been given the graveyard shift was because his wife had kicked him out and he actually was homeless. A WPC had found him sleeping rough one night and called Tom rather than move him on or arrest him. Now Matthews had a rollaway bed under his desk, a corner of the gents had his suitcase in it and a mug with a razor and toothbrush. As long as no one had to see him with his shirt off and he didn’t smell, everyone was pretty pleased to have an officer permanently on nights.

Tom watches the big frame amble into the gents and then quickly pulls out Eddie’s chair and sits at the desk. Any tracing request needs to come from Matthews’s computer; that would make everything look normal. If Tom did anything from his own computer or accessed any of the Serious Crime Squad’s PCs there would be trouble. Of course, he’s the boss and he knows Matthews’s username, Fat Eddie. But he doesn’t have his password. It takes just one guess. Rachel. Eddie’s wife’s name, poor bastard.

It takes a few seconds to open up all the information on Duncan Cobhurn, then he copies it into the management pensions file on another server—a report so boring nobody has accessed it in six months—closes down the file and logs out.

He slides the chair back and swings himself onto the desk. Then he waits for the gents door to open. It takes about a minute, then, as Eddie appears, Tom opens his desk and takes out a Picnic bar.

“Guv!” Eddie wails.

Tom smiles broadly and takes a big bite.

“That’s me last one.”

“I’m saving you from yourself, Eddie.”

“I don’t need saving.” Eddie approaches his desk, sullenly reaches into another drawer and pulls out a Snickers.

“Last one?”

“Last bloody Picnic, I love those. I’ve still got Snickers, Mars and a couple of Lion bars.”

Tom shakes his head. “See ya, Eddie.”

Tom starts to walk off but Eddie asks, “Didn’t ya want something, guv?”

He calls back over his shoulder, “Just some sugar, Eddie. Cheers.”

Back in his own office Tom opens the pension file and cuts the missing person report from it. He excises any trace of it and saves it in his personal documents on his desktop. Then he opens it and reads quickly but carefully.

“Christ!” Tom’s face drains of all color as he reads the report. Something was happening after all this time. He needs to see them again, Jim and Patty. They will have to talk about what happened twenty years ago.

Tom opens his drawer, then the safe, and fishes the diary out once again. He reads, though he probably could recite the page from memory.

October 3, 1985

Tom said today he is applying for Cambridge too. Probably King’s to read literature. I’m sure we’ll both get the results we need, but is he going there because of me? I don’t know. I love him, of course I do—he’s brilliant. My best friend and he’s been so amazing the last year. There is no way I would have held it together without him but … what if he suggests we get a flat together? In one sense
it would be great but in another, I don’t know. He wants more. What do I want? I wish I could ask Dad about it but really I think his head would explode if I talk love and sex. I’ll ask Izzy, but she has a bit of a blind spot when it comes to Tom. I know he’s the best friend in the world, but …

Saturday, December 18, 2010

It’s 6 a.m. Still a couple of hours before the sun will be up and even then it will probably be pathetic, wishy-washy gray light like dishwater. They have been watching snow swirl for a while and playing games. I Spy fizzled out quickly, but naming films and books with heavy snow scenes lasted quite some time.

“I need a coffee,” Jim finally tells his daughter.

She starts to lift herself out of the chair.

“No, stay here and watch the snow.” He turns away before he can see her face. He just feels like he needs some time on his own.

Three measured spoons into the grinder, top on, a triple tap on the side to make sure all the beans are in the center and then he presses the button and counts to thirty before the beans are ground. It’s all a little OCD. He tips the coffee into the pot, the roasted scent swirling around the room. He pours the almost boiling water on (starting the little timer on the fridge) and watches the black mass fizz and bubble as a creamy skin forms on top. He slowly stirs the pot with a chopstick. Why is Patty back in his thoughts? From somewhere deep down in his body he feels a sense of dread start to build again, to … The beep of the timer pulls him back to earth and he plunges the coffee. He pours and sips. The black tar catches in his throat, acrid and syrupy, and sits uneasily on his empty stomach. Maybe a piece of toast would
make him feel better. He slices himself a thick piece and puts it under the grill. The echo of her voice plays through his head. Urgent, desperate and needy. His heart begins to race and his chest tightens.

“Dad.” Dani is next to him. “Just breathe.”

He immediately starts to calm. Dani has always been able to cheer him and calm him. That’s why he needs her. Why they need each other.

“Dad. Dad, the toast’s on fire.”

“Oh hell.” He pulls the grill pan out and dumps the blazing slice into the sink. Dani doubles up laughing.

“It’s not funny.”

“It is, it so is.”

He turns the taps on full and the blackened bread disintegrates and washes down the plughole.

“Bit of luck the smoke alarms don’t work anymore.”

The kitchen smells bitter and smoky. It reminds Jim of a Bonfire Night from many years ago. He closes his eyes and can see Dani—she must be about six or seven. That night he nailed Catherine wheels all along the outside wall and made a big production out of lighting the first one, which spun and shot vicious sparks everywhere. He’d made a mistake; the fireworks were much too close, the sparks from the first hit the next and the next. Suddenly they were all alight. Spinning, squealing and roaring until one of them shot off the wall and landed in the bin, setting it ablaze. The next-door neighbors called the fire brigade, thinking it might spread. Of course, by the time the firemen arrived it was out and they were pretty annoyed at being called to something so minor on the busiest night of the year. He was really embarrassed but Dani sat there in silence, her face illuminated first by the sparks and flames, then by the flashing blue lights of the fire engine, all the time smiling so
broadly. When it had all finished and the grumbling firemen had left, she said, “Do it again, Daddy.”

“Do you ever talk to your mother?” he asks. It suddenly seems such an obvious question but he’s never asked it before.

Dani scowls. For a second he’s scared she doesn’t know who he’s talking about—has she forgotten her mother? Then she shakes her head. “No,” she answers sadly. “You miss her?”

Jim can only nod. Miss is such a plain little word to describe how he feels. And after his nightmare he can’t shake the sense that something awful has happened.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

As soundlessly as possible, Patty opens the door and cranes her head out, first left and then right. Empty. She steps out into the hallway, pulls the door closed and slips the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign onto the handle. She peels off the gloves and slips them inside her bag, then the shower cap. She hopes she looks normal once again. She draws a deep breath into her lungs and holds it there. She will succeed. She releases the breath and walks to the service lift. She almost uses her bare finger to call the lift, but stops herself just in time.

“Think, Patty. Think.”

She pulls a rolled-up glove from the bag and pokes the button through it. The lift arrives quickly and she takes it down to the lower depths.

The door opens and she strides out, trying to look as confident and non-kidnapperry as possible. The effect is immediately ruined as she jumps out of her skin at the explosion of sound her heels make on the concrete.

“Christ.” She stands shaking for a full minute before she can pull herself together again.

She’s lucky. There is no one to hear or see her. The car park has no CCTV; this was one of the factors that made her choose this particular hotel. She slips off her shoes and walks to her car.
She opens the driver’s door and slides in. Then she locks herself inside. It’s not something she would normally do, but this morning it makes her feel safer. She turns the engine over, wincing a little at how loud it seems, and then she slowly drives up the ramp and out into the street.

Slide.

“Fuck.”

She loses control. The top of the ramp is sheet ice, the wheels slew to the left and the brake does nothing. The nose of the car hits the wall and she hears the crack of glass. She turns the wheel slowly and bites down on the accelerator. The wheels spin but don’t catch.

“Fuck.” She floors the accelerator, the car pitches forward, she brakes hard and the car slides into the street completely out of control and veers sideways into a parked car. She closes her eyes tight as metal crunches into metal.

She sits for a few seconds while her racing heart slows a little. She tries the clutch again, slowly, until it bites and the car creeps forward. Okay. She slowly pulls into the middle of the road and … there’s a snowman. Where the hell did it come from? It has a carrot for a nose and lumps of coal for eyes. Where did someone get coal?

Past Frosty, illuminated in small pools of yellow streetlight, she can see bank after bank of snow—it looks like Narnia. There’s no moon, just oppressive cloud covering the sky. This was never part of the plan. She slowly lets the clutch bite and pushes forward, nudging the snowman in the tummy and then collapsing him. The head lands with a bump on the bonnet of the car and looks at her sadly, before it rolls off as the car swings … steer, steer … the wheels won’t do what she wants and again she lurches into the curb. Crunch.

From somewhere she can hear the clatter of grit being shot at high speed, pinging off metal and concrete. She feels panic building.

“Shit shit shit shit oh shit. Patricia, breathe.”

She has driven this route three times over the last six weeks, each time obeying the speed limit, and it has taken her forty minutes. But today?

“Do not have a panic attack, Patricia. Do not. You have time, you have hours.”

She has no idea if the streets are passable. All she can hear echoing in her head is Dustin Hoffman whining, “I’m an excellent driver.”