The Sad Man (7 page)

He goes through his thinking once more. Is this a credible chain of events, or just wishful thinking? He opens the case files again and looks at the sections he’s underlined. The three cases that Interpol dug up from 1980–1981. The first was from September 1980 and took place in Brussels: Dominique Duchelle, who was well known to the police as a dominatrix and had her own dungeon. She was found tied to what the police on the scene described as a crucifix – though from crime-scene photos Tom thinks it was the sexual apparatus that she used to tie men to and whip them. She had been lashed to it and a lark’s head knot carved into her chest while she was conscious. Blood splatter showed this. Then she was stabbed. The knife entered the left side of her abdomen and then was pulled right, slicing the belly and leading to fatal blood loss. It would have been quick. The blood then ran from the wound and pooled on the floor. Under analysis it was found to have been mixed with semen. Presumably the killer’s, though she had not been sexually abused. This led the police to decide the killer masturbated while the woman died. As an after-thought the notes add that she was wearing a silver wig that none of her friends had ever seen before.

Case two was a month later. Again she was a known prostitute, Gretta Sussmann, aged twenty-three. She was killed in the flat she used for business. This time she was found tied to the floor. Again she wore a silver wig, and again the wound to the belly was a deep horizontal cut. This time both facts were written up in the main notes and it was linked to the
killing the previous month. The lark’s head pattern was carved post-mortem. No trace of semen was found near the body – but a plastic apron and underpants with semen on them were found in a public rubbish bin on the corner of the street.

Tom feels sick. He can see that despite so many avenues of investigation, the police did almost nothing to find the man who killed these three women. These three prostitutes…
hardly worth the effort
, he imagines the police thought back then. It makes him so angry. A tear run down his cheeks. There is nobody to champion the dead girls – except him. He will find the man who did this.

‘For me?’ Dani asks.

‘For you, for them, but mostly …’

‘For yourself.’

The final case was April 1981 and was in Amsterdam. The scenario was basically the same, a prostitute, name unknown, was killed by a knife wound to the stomach and bled to death. The difference here was that her hair was silver white. It was assessed to have been dyed like that for many months prior to death. The knot symbol had been carved into her post-mortem. No semen was discovered at the site but…

‘The contents of her flat. The list said:
silicone adhesive and latex/silicone lubricant
– that was why you went to see Finn?’ Dani asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Because you had considered …’

‘You know what I thought, Dani, you’re in my head.’

‘I don’t peek. Your thoughts are your own.’

Tom laughs wryly. It was exactly these two items that sent him to see Finn. ‘I thought he might have used a rubber vagina. It was a natural progression from masturbating into his underpants.’

‘A hunch? Or …’

The truth is that he already knew about ‘real dolls’, he had seen a short film and visited the website. Once, in the wee small hours of a lonely morning, he had thought they could make him Dani. A Dani he could touch, caress – he had imagined kissing her and making love to her – so desperately wanting her to be real. He shudders at the thought now.

‘Lonely?’ she asks.

He sighs. ‘So lonely.’

The phone rings. It is almost midnight.

‘Detective Inspector Tom Bevans.’

‘I said I would call you back when we found him.’ The Interpol officer sounds tired but elated.

‘He’s alive?’

‘Oh yes. He’s in prison for fraud – has been for the last seven years. I have the telephone number of the prison for you.’

Sunday 17 October 1999

Tom has to wait until after church to speak to the prison governor, who is a god-fearing man. While he waits he calls British Airways and checks flights to Schiphol airport. He books one for 6 a.m. the next morning with a return at 8 p.m. the same day. He has no idea if Drake will pay for the ticket but he knows he needs to go. Finally he speaks to the governor, who sounds like he is chewing a sandwich, but he agrees to let Tom talk to Meyer the next day.

‘I want to ask him about a man he may have met in 1980 or ’81. Is there any chance Mr Meyer might recall that far back?’ Tom asks, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.

‘Detective Inspector Bevans. If Maarten Meyer met a man in connection with his work, he will remember him. His memory is astonishing.’

Tom sees the day stretch out before him. He has never liked Sundays, they were always so boring when he was a child. Usually he would wake at six and know his parents would sleep until noon at least – both with dreadful hangovers. The living room was normally dark and full of empty bottles and ashtrays that stank. TV was not allowed until his parents were up and he was not allowed to leave the flat until then. He would read, that was his way to escape. At about 2 p.m. when at least his mum was awake, they would walk over to his grandmother’s for lunch. It would be roast chicken or roast pork. Either way the meat was dry, the potatoes like bullets and the vegetables had been boiling since Tuesday. Only the gravy was edible. Sometimes he dreamt of that gravy. After lunch everyone but him would
fall asleep and he would have to watch the television, which was mostly boring except
The High Chaparral
. He drew the line at
Last of the Summer Wine
and would rather sit in the kitchen, at his nan’s Formica table reading the local newspaper. At about 7 p.m. they would have tea. He would make a grilled sandwich of tinned sardines, cold baked beans and cheese. Then they’d go home and his parents would start to drink again. Sunday bloody Sunday.

He walks into the park and over to the Observatory. He remembers lying on the grass there years before, what eighteen years ago? Observing the skies with Dani and Izzy. There was supposed to be a meteor shower. It was a bust though – the cloud was too heavy and the three of them just lay there and talked about the future, what they would like to be when they were grown. Izzy wanted to travel the world, maybe as a wildlife photographer. Dani was still running then and wanted to be an international athlete. Tom remembers his mind going blank, all he wanted to say was –
I’ll tag along with you
. But he couldn’t. Instead he mumbled something about international aid – it sounded good and kind and laudable. He hadn’t meant it; his head had been full of Dani.

Here, in the present, he lies down in the grass and looks up at the clouds that skit above him. What would he tell the young Tom, if he could go back in time? He thinks hard, but doesn’t know what he would say. His imagination has entropied – that was what twelve years in the police did for you. Fact after fact after fact. Then he remembers: just as they were about to leave, the sky cleared and they saw a meteor fizz by. Then another, and another, all in CinemaScope. The shooting stars were all they could see.

He lies there for an hour. It is 2 p.m. and he realises he is quite depressed. Without work to keep his mind occupied he drifts into the past and seeks memories of her. He needs to stay in the present.
Be here now
, he tells himself.

‘Yeah, right,’ Dani-in-his-head laughs.

He walks to Valerie Brindley-Black’s house. A question is forming in his head but he can’t quite grasp its tail. It takes an hour to get there and as he walks, he thinks about Charlie and the knot of blood. On arrival he rings the doorbell. As it opens he begins to greet her.

‘Mrs Brindley-Bl …’ He trails off. The woman at the door looks like Valerie but it is not her.

‘Can I help you?’ she asks, her voice soft.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Bevans. Is … your sister here?’ He instinctively knows this is the woman she went to when her husband died of cancer. Sophie Brindley.

‘She’s asleep. Sedated. I don’t think I could wake her even if I wanted to.’

Tom nods, he understands. He is reminded of Patty, Dani’s mother. She was a crime journalist, prided herself that she had seen the very worst of human vice and corruption and still remained distanced enough to document it – until it was her own child. In those first days after the terrible news, she was out cold – zombified by drugs. Later, when she was back to normal, she was disgusted with herself, disgusted that she gave in to the darkness at the most important time to find the killer. She has blamed herself ever since for the fact that the killer was never found. Tom hopes Valerie never feels such regret.

‘Please tell your sister I called.’

‘Is there some news?’

‘No, no news.’

She slowly nods her head, to show she understands the import of what he had just said. ‘I am going to stay with my sister until …’

‘Good. That’s kind of you. I am sure she appreciates that.’

‘My children will be here soon too. They were very close to Charlie.’

‘Where are they coming from?’

‘Overseas. Helena, the older one lives in Tanzania and Lucy in Nicaragua. They both work for small charities.’

‘You must miss them.’

‘Of course,’ she laughs to herself. ‘But then I tell myself what a brilliant job I did raising two such extraordinary people.’

He smiles. ‘That’s a good way to look at it.’

‘The three of them were close, like peas in a pod when they were children.’ Her face crumples a little.

‘I’d like to talk to them at some point about Charlie. Do you know if they kept in touch, maybe email?’

‘Birthdays, Christmas – maybe more, I don’t know. They will be here for a few days, you could ask them. Unfortunately they can’t stay long.’

He nods. ‘I’ll call to make an appointment.’

‘There is a memorial service on Tuesday. Just small, so that they can be present. We don’t know when …’ a spasm of grief runs through her ‘ … the body will be released. I am sure Valerie would …’

‘Thank you.’ The two of them stand in silence for a few seconds. ‘I should go.’ He turns and is about to walk away, when he realises what sits in his pocket. He pulls out the
small, paperback copy of
On the Road
. Inside is the Polaroid he found at Charlie’s flat. He turns back to the door.

‘I found this in Charlie’s things.’ He hands the book to her, the photo pokes out a little. ‘Inside is a photograph of her taken in the last couple of days – it is a little intimate. I thought it should go back to Mrs Brindley-Black. Could you?’

‘Intimate?’

‘Nothing really embarrassing – just a private photo. I thought Valerie would like to keep it, rather than it go into the evidence file.’ Tom squirms a little.

‘That is a rare kindness in today’s world,’ she opens the book and looks at the photograph. A cloud sweeps her face. Tom sees her hand shake a little.

‘What is wr—’

‘This isn’t my niece.’

‘Not Charlie?’

‘No, this is my sister. This is Jennifer, my elder sister. This picture is almost thirty years old.’

Tom feels the ground beneath his feet shift a little.

‘Valerie said she only had one sister.’

‘Only one alive. Our elder sister is dead – killed when she was nineteen.’

‘And this is her.’

‘Yes.’

‘Her hair?’

‘Was the most striking silver white. It was so beautiful.’

‘Did you know your niece dyed her hair, exactly like this, two days before she died?’

‘No. No, nobody said that.’

‘How did your sister die?’

After a significant pause, she says, ‘She was killed by a rug.’

‘A rug?’ he asks.

She nods, almost apologetically. ‘It was a horrible accident.’ She stops. Evidently, the memories have been locked away for so long they are difficult to recover.

‘What happened? Are you okay to—’

‘She was driving home, she’d gone to see a band … T-Rex, they were playing at some festival. She was in love with Marc Bolan. It was a week before Christmas. She had slept on a friend’s sofa after the gig and got up early the next morning to drive home. Such a long way, and we told her to be careful. She was – she was a good girl.’ Sophie is lost in the memories of her sister for a minute. Tom waits patiently for her to come back to the present. ‘But sometimes you can’t be careful enough can you – some things just come out of the blue, out of nowhere. How can you be safe all the time?’

Tom holds her eyes, he doesn’t blink. The pain in his face loosens her tongue and thirty-year-old tears return and run down her cheeks.

‘She was on the motorway – nothing ahead of her, clear for miles. But a car was driving on an overpass, a slip road that led onto the motorway. A woman was driving fast and
a deer ran out in front of her … she swerved and a large rolled rug on her roof came loose and flew into the air.’ Tom sees her face shift as the memories flood over her. He can see that, even though she wasn’t there, she imagines its trajectory; sees her sister in the little car, oblivious to her impending death – singing, happy to have seen her beloved Marc Bolan. The carpet arcs through the heavens – coming closer and closer until it smashes through the windscreen and … ‘It was a dreadful tragedy all round. The woman who caused the accident had a breakdown, the guilt of it all. She hanged herself a few weeks later.’

‘Was there anyone else there?’

‘The woman’s son was in the car. No more than a boy.’

‘Do you remember their names?’

‘She was Anna … Anna something. And the boy, what was his name?’ Tom watches her try to prise the name from her memory. ‘Oh, this is dreadful. I can still see his quivering lip, his tears. But his name …’ Then her face clears as it seems to come to her. ‘George. The boy’s name was George.’

‘The surname?’

She shakes her head. ‘I can’t remember. Isn’t that awful? I just can’t recall it.’

It is 9pm. Tom stands on the threshold and breathes. This is crossing a line, he knows that. Drake will not be happy with one of his officers calling unannounced at his home, but Tom is running out of time. He can see that something is happening this evening, lights blaze from every window and the drive and street around the house are packed with cars. With a slightly shaking hand he reaches out to the doorbell and touches it. Somewhere, deep inside the large
house, a bell rings. He waits for a few minutes and the door is pulled open with great gusto. Standing there with a huge smile on his face and wearing a pink apron that says
you are my cupcake
is Chief Superintendent Drake. The smile dies on his lips as he sees it is Tom standing there.