The Sad Man (3 page)

‘I’d rather have a fork,’ Dani-in-his-head tells him.

It was something he had done years before: laid her a place at the table, generally on holidays – Christmas and her birthday, always St Valentine’s Day and on the anniversary of her death. This year it had
been ten years: 7 February 1989. That was the day her body had been found. On the tenth anniversary he had taken a day’s leave and done a tour – a ghost walk – of all the spots that had been special to them. He walked through Greenwich Park and up to the Observatory. He found their tree and traced their initials in the wood for the thousandth time, sixteen years since they carved them. He walked over to the old school – he almost went in but stopped himself. He watched through the gates, saw the playground – all so different. Then he went to her house. The Lancing’s family home. He knocked on the door and Jim, her father, opened it. He looked older, especially around the eyes. Tears will do that to you. But when he saw Tom he smiled that old smile and it felt like … home.

Together the two of them went to the garden of remembrance and sat with her. Dani’s two men. Jim took yellow roses, like every year, and Tom read from Keats. Then they went for a curry and Jim told Tom about being alone – totally alone since his wife Patty had left him. More damage from Dani’s murder. It had just taken longer for the wound in his marriage to bleed away the last traces of love and hope. He had lost both of his women. Dani and Patty. There, much to the embarrassment of the Indian waiters, both men wept. Neither admitted to the other that they spoke to Dani every day. That night Tom laid his nan’s Formica table for two, the first time he had done it in three or four years. It made him feel close to her again, so he has done it every night since. Maybe when the new millennium rolls on he will change. Put away the things of the past and move on. Perhaps. He takes a book, the cover says:
Private. Do not read.
He opens it on the table next to him as he eats. He reads:

Monday 14 June 1982

I flew. 800M champion and school record. They are going to check and see if it is a county record too. It was amazing, I left everyone for dead. After there was a party in Islington. I knew Dad was going to the race and was going to give me a lift home, but I couldn’t go – not after the buzz of winning. It was cool, he understands. I don’t think he’ll tell Mum, at least not for a week and then it’ll be all just a memory. The party was good – the muscle boys and jocks couldn’t do enough for me. I know what they want – and they might get a little something – but I’m not stupid. There was something strange though. Tom Bevans turned up – all pale and thin with those piercing eyes. I know Izzy thinks a lot of him but I’m not sure, he is too intense and all that romantic poet shit is a bit much. But he had come to tell me Dad was worried about me. It was nice of him … I think. We danced, him and Izzy and me. It was Siouxsie and the Banshees – ‘Spellbound’. He had some good moves. I love Siouxsie Sioux. If I had to do a girl it would be her.

Tom opens up his DI’s handbook to read-up on the responsibilities of being a detective inspector. This is his dream. He feels so proud, suddenly he wants to tell someone – but who? The only person he can think of to call is Jim. His almost dad, but really? Really?

‘Why no one else? Why no other girl?’ Dani asks.

There had been a few girls – most of them one-night stands. The one-night stands were girls who looked like Dani. The few others …

‘They never made the grade did they?’ Danni-in-his-head asks. ‘Couldn’t compare.’

No. No they couldn’t. The one who almost did was Jane. She was blond, tiny – worked at an art supplier. She painted. It lasted six months. She hadn’t realised for the
longest time. Everyone closes their eyes when they kiss, don’t they, but in bed he closed his eyes as they made love. Even in the dark.

‘Look at me,’ she asked. ‘Look at me,’ she pleaded. ‘Look at me,’ she begged. ‘Look at me,’ she demanded. But he couldn’t – in his mind he was making love to Dani. ‘Look at me leave,’ she finally said, tearfully, as she left.

‘Was I good?’ Dani asks. He is quiet. He doesn’t call Jim.

It is 1.25 a.m.

‘Oh … fuck.’

From somewhere far off there is a giggle. Tom pulls the duvet from himself and strips off his pyjamas. They are sticky. There are fleeting images of Dani and Siouxsie Sioux naked.

‘Jesus Christ.’

A wet dream. He feels like a boy, yet he is supposed to be a man.
A fucking liability
echoes through his head. He goes to the shower and stands until the hot water runs out and then he stands some more in the freezing torrent.

He makes strong coffee, pouring it into his
World’s Greatest Dad
mug. At 4 a.m. the phone rings.

‘We have a positive match for the DNA in Chelsea Taylor’s mouth.’ Sergeant Patterson tells him.

‘That is fantastic. Anybody she knew?’

‘No. Some shoe salesman from Bristol. We’re gonna get the locals to pick him up in an hour.’

Tom’s relieved her poor mother has nothing else to mourn, he had feared she would have the added trauma of someone she knew being arrested for the crime.

‘Get Bristol to check their dead list, see if he’s done the same to any girls there.’

‘On it.’

‘So why did you call?’

‘You’re the boss.’

Tom looks at his watch. He is the boss now.

‘So?’

‘Something came in. Something really weird.’

Thursday 14 October 1999

‘Are you ready?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘You have waited a long time.’

‘Yes.’

‘Ever since you saw me.’

‘Ever since.’

‘I was your first.’

‘You were my first in so many ways.’

‘You loved me?’

‘You know I did, from the age of five.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘That I was your first. Your first dead girl.’

‘Oh, Dani.’

5 a.m. Everything moves in slow motion as he walks inside. His brain is in overdrive, trying to see every single thing. It is an art gallery, a huge space. Almost one complete wall – the showroom window – is glass, but a screen has been stretched across so no one can look in from the street. Tom doesn’t know if that was there already or if his men arranged it. One wall is uncovered red brick, the other two have been plastered and painted white. A lighting grid hangs down from a third of the ceiling and other lights extend from the walls like tendrils. It is very modern. The floor is wood. There is a staircase in one corner that leads to some kind of mezzanine or loft space. It is a magnificent room, perfect for art. A space to show off one’s creativity, one’s élan … the hair at the back of Tom’s neck stands to attention. This is already feeling bad; this is no Chelsea Taylor. This is no idiot leaving his DNA, the equivalent of a signed confession. This is a showman’s murder.

Tom stands in the doorway, drinking in the view – first impressions are important. He will never get to do this again, never walk into his first crime scene as the boss. He needs to get this right. He breathes deep and walks forwards, his brain logging the position of every article in the room – the textures of the walls and floors, colours and shapes – each and every sensation bombards his brain as synapses flare and explode. He is a camera, a recorder, a human computer, and an analyst. Patterson is there to greet him, he holds out a bag. Tom takes it and snaps latex gloves onto his hands, puts something like a shower cap over his head and bags onto his shoes.

The body is in the centre of the room. Tom has no measuring tape but he reckons it is dead bang in the middle. He will ask someone to check – it is no coincidence. He looks up, there is a skylight directly above the body. Perhaps the position has been chosen so the killer can see the moon. Too early to speculate.
Don’t try too hard, Tom
, he tells himself.

The SOCO team have cleared a path, an indirect line to the body. The least likely to contain forensic evidence – that is the way they approach the victim and to get to her they first search it inch by inch. He follows that same path. There is the tang of vomit in the air, courtesy of the first policeman on the scene, who is now sitting in a car with a bottle of water, his uniform speckled with flecks of his dinner from last night. The vomit has been covered with a bucket, but it’s still there – can’t be cleaned up, not yet, the room is a crime scene. Tom finally reaches her, as if he has fought his way through a labyrinth or descended into hell to reach Persephone. Her eyes are open – they are the most incredible colour, almost golden.

‘Dark they were and golden eyed,’ Tom whispers to himself.

‘Were my eyes open?’ Dani asks.

‘No. No, you could have been asleep.’

She is young, twenty-ish. Her hair is white – no, silver, and it is obviously dyed but high-quality professional work. No roots – it looks like silver leaf. She is the most striking woman he has ever seen, not beautiful, he doesn’t think that but striking. Head-turning. Her skin is pale, her mouth incredibly full – she looks about five foot ten inches tall. She is slim – salad and workout slim, toned. Catwalk model is his first thought:
shit!
He hopes she isn’t famous. He can do without that kind of pressure on his first case in charge.

‘Any ID?’ Tom calls out to anyone around.

‘Nothing yet. No bag, no coat. No phone,’ someone answers, Tom doesn’t know who. His eyes are still latched onto the girl’s.

She is naked. He would describe her skin as alabaster. There is no bruising and only one wound. It killed her, Tom knows that, even without a coroner’s report. She has been cut.
An incredibly sharp blade, possibly a scalpel, has sliced her belly – Davy Jones’ locker deep – and she has bled dry. But none of the blood is on her skin – he doesn’t understand. The blood has pooled around her, beneath her, but Sergeant Patterson was right. It is weird. He looks lower. She is shaved between her legs and … Tom moves his eyes back up her body. He hopes she can be covered soon. It is unbearably undignified.

‘Sir.’ Patterson stands beside him.

‘I see what you mean.’

‘Wait … you need to go up the stairs.’

Tom follows Patterson’s finger and sees a wooden staircase that leads to a loft-area that covers approximately half of the total room. He nods and follows the SOCO labyrinth back out to the main part of the room and he heads to the staircase. Without looking back he climbs to the top, then swings around and—

‘Christ.’

The blood is not merely a pool around the body – it makes a shape.

‘Are they wings?’ Dani-in-his-head asks.

‘I don’t know, but …’ It is not a natural pattern, it’s clearly a man-made construct. All acting DI Tom Bevans can do is stand there and feel very very scared.

He walks to the thin rail that runs around the edge of the loft. He calls out to the entire room: ‘Listen to me. I don’t want to read about any weirdness in the newspapers tomorrow. No butterfly wing killer, no platinum-blonde killed. We answer any question like we would normally: the bare minimum. If I see crucial facts leaked I will call in internal affairs and they
will find who did it and make an example of them. Don’t think because this is my first case you can push me. Okay. Patterson get up here.’

He slowly climbs the stairs. Tom can’t tell if he is tired or already fed-up with his new boss.

‘We need to know who this girl is, we need a name quickly. We also need to check with every other force – have they seen anything like this before. Check with Interpol too, and the FBI. Ask them to look for silver- or platinum-blondes, the belly sliced open and—’

‘The wings?’

Tom nods. ‘Wings.’

Around him there are five or six of the SOCO team, looking like spacemen in their non-contamination suits. They gather evidence, bag and tag any hair, fabric, dust – anything they find. That is police work: collecting and analysing. The more anal you are, the better you were at a crime scene. Then, around the edges of the room, there are another seven or eight uniformed men and women – all on phones – calling other units and other police forces; checking and cross-checking for any similar crimes or reports of violence. Outside the crime scene, another six officers are going door to door, taking statements and ascertaining alibis. All of this is to be recorded, all tested to see if it holds water. Any slight crack will be stretched and pulled apart. This is modern policing. And at the top of the pyramid is Tom. The thought makes him a little light-headed and he has thought he should just shout stop! This must be a joke – this isn’t a case, it’s an episode of
The X Files
. It isn’t real life.

It is five hours before the SOCOs are ready to remove the body. 10 a.m. All that time Tom waits, watching her eyes and tracing the pattern of blood that emanates from her belly. He takes a sketch pad from someone and draws the pattern – but he hasn’t quite got it until
the body is removed. The girl was placed on fibreglass rests to raise her from the floor. They fit perfectly and must have been made for the purpose. That allowed the blood to drain from the body and accounts for why there is none on her. The SOCO team had to bring in a small crane to lift the body and leave the fibreglass in place. Once she was gone they could see how the killer had created a pattern in the floor.

‘I think it’s a lark’s head knot,’ the SOCO team leader tells Tom.

‘How do you know?’

‘Cubs, scouts and sea cadets. I had two badges for knots.’

‘How did he do it?’

‘The shape was carved into the wooden floor. He – assuming it was a he – was very careful and incredibly precise. This isn’t some weekend DIY guy; he must have had a specialist tool, probably a rounded sculpting knife, and a steady and practised hand. It’s a tongue-and-groove floor but whenever he crosses a board he has used some sort of sealant to make sure the groove doesn’t bleed …’ He stops, realising how inappropriate that word is.

‘So he carves the shape of a knot into the floor?’ Tom asks. ‘That must have taken bloody ages?’

‘No idea.’

‘Then he places fibreglass …what – legs, rests – some kind of support under her body to hold it off the floor?’