The Sad Man (8 page)

‘What the fuck do you want Bevans?’

Tom hands him a file. ‘This is the killer.’

After leaving Sophie Brindley in the early afternoon, Tom had spent the rest of the day finding the accidental death reports on Jennifer Brindley from 1971. They corroborated everything Sophie had said. Then he found the report of the driver’s suicide three weeks after the accident, and finally he found reference to her son: George Albert Fforde-Merrison. A hunch had driven him onwards to find out that, despite his father being alive, George had been placed in care after his mother’s death. From there it had been easy to find the documents committing the boy to a psychiatric hospital. He was institutionalised a month after his mother’s suicide. But after that George disappeared. In fact, the last note on his file, from his doctor at the asylum, said he thought George Fforde-Merrison planned to go to Europe. ‘He talked about Belgium.’ The doctor wrote. That was in March 1980.

Drake eyes the folder Tom has given him with suspicion. Then with a sigh, he walks inside the house and along the hallway. Tom hesitates for a second and then follows him, pulling the front door closed. Drake stops at a door and goes inside, it is the kitchen. He pulls a tray of mini pies from the oven and then sits at the table and begins to read. Tom looks
around the room – he could get his whole flat in this kitchen. From somewhere the sound of laughter bubbles up and Mrs Drake walks into her kitchen, the laughter trailing behind her. She gives Tom a perfect hostess smile. ‘Can I get you a glass of something?’

Drake calls out to his wife without looking up. ‘Don’t bother with him, he’s staff – and that might only be for another day or two.’

She smiles again at Tom, then opens the enormous fridge in the corner and seems to climb inside. Her husband continues to read – he goes over the cover sheet in detail then flicks through the rest of the report. When he’s done he throws it back towards Tom. ‘George Albert Fforde-Merrison.’ He says the name with distaste. ‘Born 1959 – missing presumed dead. Is this it?’

‘Charlie Brindley-Black was a dead ringer for her aunt who was killed by George Ffor—’

‘Oh, fuck me sideways, Bevans.’

‘Language, darling.’ Drake’s wife calls out, with an icy echo from deep inside the fridge. She emerges with a handful of cheeses. ‘I’m about to serve the cheese tray, are you going to be much longer?’

‘No. I’m not, am I,
Sergeant
Bevans?’

‘Good.’ She says as she walks back to her guests. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Drake waits until she has gone and then hisses at his junior officer. ‘Jennifer Brindley was killed in a road accident at the age of nineteen. At the scene was a child—’

‘The accident was caused by a carpet which was on the roof of one car. It became unattached and flew off from an overhead slip road and onto a motorway. It struck Jennifer
Brindley’s car – embedded itself in the passenger seat and flung her through the windscreen. She died from her injuries – a shard of glass ripped her stomach open.’

‘Christ, Bevans.’ He shakes his head. ‘You come to my house on a Sunday evening, drag me out of a dinner party …’

‘Sir—’

‘… from a dinner party congratulating my son on a new job, to listen to this shit. This isn’t policing. Bevans. I am very disappointed. I will talk to you tomorrow.’

‘I won’t be in the office tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m going to Amsterdam to question a witness.’

‘Not on my fucking budget you’re not. I want to see you in my office tomorrow at 9 a.m., or don’t fucking bother to come in ever again.’

‘Goodbye, sir. I will tender my resignation on Tuesday.’

‘Well, you better post it because you are not setting a foot inside my fucking unit.’

Tom takes the file and leaves. He looks at his watch as he walks down the street. It is 10 p.m. His flight is in eight hours.

Monday 17 October 1999

It is an open prison, fifty kilometres from Amsterdam. It is specifically used for white-collar crime – fraud and embezzlement are its speciality. It reminds Tom of an up-market care home designed by IKEA. Everywhere there are units, shelves and pull-out drawers. It’s nothing like the cramped Victorian monstrosities he’s used to at home. The area for waiting is white and kidney-shaped. It has recessed lighting and a free-to-use espresso machine. Tom makes himself one and paces around. On the table are glossy magazines – from this month, not eight years out of date like they would be in England. He isn’t in Kansas any more, or Greenwich. He’s in the Netherlands, for the first time. He should be celebrating this rare trip overseas – but he can’t. He looks at his watch for the thousandth time this morning.

‘Come on,’ he says through gritted teeth.

‘Take it easy. We always talked about travelling – here we are. Let’s celebrate.’

‘There’s too much at stake, Dani.’

Today, Tom wears his uniform and looks professional. His hair is Brylcreemed and he shaved in the airport, just before taking a cab to the prison. He carries his warrant card and has signed in as DI Bevans. He trusts to luck that no one will call the department and check he is who he says he is. At three that morning he had been at his desk sending confirmation emails – luckily Drake hadn’t leapt into action and rescinded his access. Tom hadn’t thought
he would. Tom also put his expenses claim into the system and filed it for Friday’s date. He wasn’t keen on being £300 out of pocket on this kamikaze mission.

‘Vig Berends.’ The prison governor introduces himself, holding out his hand and the two men shake. ‘I will take you to Mr Meyer – please forgive my poor English.’ He says, his language perfect. ‘Follow me.’ The two men walk down a long, well-lit corridor that has prisoner artwork all along one side. Berends points to the art as they walk. ‘Here we believe in rehabilitation and that art is the perfect way to calm the mind and reflect upon one’s past misdemeanours.’

‘Impressive,’ Tom murmurs unconvincingly.

They reach a gate and are waved through by a bored-looking guard. ‘Maarten Meyer has been an exemplary prisoner,’ the governor continues. ‘He was already an artist when he arrived here and we have allowed him to sculpt – which he has taken to with a real passion.’

They arrive at a communal area, a large room with tables and sofas. There is a coffee machine in the corner and fresh pastries on a counter. A few men sit around playing cards and one sits alone looking out of the window. The governor points to him and tells Tom that is Maarten Meyer. Tom thanks him and walks over.

‘Mr Meyer.’ Tom holds out his hand to the man who sits staring out of the window. ‘I am Detective Inspector Bevans of the Metropolitan Police, I would like to talk to you.’ Meyer, unresponsive, continues to look out of the window. ‘You are under no obligation to help me but I would be grateful if you would answer a few questions. It is a case of murder. The questions I have for you go back a long time, to 1980 and 1981.’

Meyer slowly looks up into Tom’s face. He is an old man, bald except for a few strands of ratty grey-brown fibre around the ears. His face is mahogany with sun. Tom can’t tell if he has heard a word.

‘The man I am looking for killed three women in 1980 and 1981 and just recently killed again.’

Meyer gives out a raspy breath and the leather creases around the eyes. His English is rusty but Tom understands him. ‘So long, so many years between. I thought it had worked, that the beast was safe. I did my best.’

Tom sits down beside him. The old man bows his head. Tom takes a picture of Charlie from his pocket – it shows her head, nothing of the knot of blood. ‘This is the girl who was killed a few days ago.’ Meyer keeps his head bowed. ‘Please look at it.’ Slowly he pulls his head up and looks at the image.

‘It is the same. The same as all those years ago.’

‘Will you tell me what happened?’

‘I did nothing wrong. I helped to keep women safe.’

Tom keeps any anger from his voice. He looks deeply into the old man’s face. ‘I know that, you tried to help. I think you made a man a very special doll. A doll you hoped would keep him from hurting another woman.’

‘He came to me in tears, desperate – he said he had killed, that he couldn’t help himself. That if I did not help him he would end his life. I was scared …’

‘He threatened you?’

‘No. Not threatened me …’ he pauses and a far-away look fills the old face. ‘My son took his own life.’

‘I see.’ And he does. Tom Bevans knows about the need to try and save another life, any life. He understands atonement. ‘Please, tell me about your meeting with – George?’

The old man nods. ‘Yes, George, that was his name. He came to me. I lived in a building in Amsterdam, a run-down apartment block. In it many prostitutes worked. One night this young man pounded on my door, he took my hand and led me up two flights of stairs. There I saw the poor girl. I had said hello to her on the stairs once or twice. I didn’t even know her name. She was dead. He begged me to help him stop, said he must not kill again. He knew who I was, what skills I had and he asked me to make him a lover. A woman with silver-blond hair and golden eyes. He wanted to be free.’

‘Free?’

‘Yes a freedom, without the past dragging him down to a kind of hell. Without desire for this woman crippling him. He wanted to be set free.’

‘And you made him this …’

‘Lover. Yes. I made her for him.’

‘Knowing what he had done?’

‘Believing he wanted to be something else. Something better.’

‘How long did it take?’

‘A few days. Most of the time he was there, watching – advising, commenting on the skin tone, the hair colouring.’

Tom pauses, his brain racing. He had been right, these cases all tied up, everything led to George Fforde-Merrison.

‘Can you describe him for me, physically?’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘What do you remember most about him?’

Pause. ‘He had the most beautiful penis I had ever seen.’

Tom knows that description won’t make it into his case notes.

‘His name – George Fforde-Merrison?’

‘No. No that was not the name he used. It was …’ The old man dredges his memory. ‘Larkshead – that was it, George Larkshead.’

Tuesday 18 October 1999

Watery sun kisses Tom’s cheek as he sits in the grounds of the chapel. He wears his dress uniform – the creases are immaculate. He picks up his coffee cup from the side of the bench and finishes the final bitter dregs. He did not sleep last night. After he left Maarten Meyer he rushed back to Schiphol and paid an extra £150 to get an earlier flight home. From Heathrow he called Drake, but the man wouldn’t accept his call. It’s funny, last night in Terminal Three at Heathrow Airport, Tom Bevans had been the angriest he had ever been. He had screamed into the phone, he had kicked at a wall, he had bellowed in rage and frustration. Then he had made another phone call and taken a cab to New Scotland Yard. He had crossed the line from team player to … what? Drake and Ashe would say team wrecker, snitch, nark—

‘Whistle-blower?’ asks Dani.

‘Not sure,’ he thinks. Except, at 10.a.m., sitting in the chapel grounds and waiting for the Brindley-Black family he is calm and focused – a different man.

He is an hour early, there is another funeral happening now. He watches a single figure who also sits on a bench outside the chapel. She wears a blue fleece coat and carries a two-litre bottle of Coke. There seems something awfully sad about her. Milling around the doors are about a hundred people, all waiting to go inside to pay their respects. Tom is amazed at some of the outfits – so many men are in mismatched grey and blue suits. Many women do wear black, but a lot have inappropriate cocktail dresses that come just below the underwear line and squeeze their boobs up and out. It looks like a parody of a funeral. He
wonders who it can be for. A tall man dressed in black mourning dress appears and ushers them into the chapel, just as the hearse rounds the corner. It parks and the pallbearers get out. One of them walks over to the woman sitting alone and kisses her on the top of the head. Then he returns to the others and gently they lift the casket and bear it inside. The woman waiting makes no move to follow. She continues to sit in silent vigil. Who is she? Tom wonders if she is an estranged partner – a lost sister – the black sheep returned. He will never know.

He looks at his watch. The memorial for Charlie Brindley-Black is at 11 a.m. He is early, in part because he needs to snatch just an hour of peace before the final storm crashes down – and also because he thinks George Larkshead may make an appearance.

He sits and listens to the service going on inside, he can’t hear the priest talk but he hears the congregation intone the Lord’s Prayer and later they sing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. The music they exit to is sung by Matt Monroe. Tom recognises his voice as he was one of his mum’s favourites. As one group of grieving people leave, another mourning tribe arrives. They have no casket, the body is yet to be released – there is no hearse and no funeral director. Tom can see Valerie at the centre, heavily supported by her sister and next to her …

‘Christ.’ Tom’s breathing stops. A beautiful, beautiful woman with gold eyes and light hair. She looks so like Charlie and her aunt.
Peas in a pod
, Sophie Brindley had said, Helena and Lucy and Charlie. Tom hadn’t made the connection before –
physical
peas in a pod, she looks just like Charlie. One. There is one of Sophie’s children there – Helena or Lucy – but where is the other? Tom feels his heart start to race and walks towards them. Valerie sees him and raises her hand to him. Sophie sees her sister’s movement and follows
her line of sight. She smiles at Tom … but then the expression on her face freezes. Sophie Brindley looks suddenly scared.

‘Why are you here, DI Bevans?’ she calls to him as he walks forward.

‘You said I should—’

‘But your sergeant telephoned before we left. He said you would be around in a minute to collect the book with the photograph – the one of Jennifer.’

‘I never …’

‘Lucy stayed behind to give it to you.’