The Sad Man Read online

  ‘I apologise,’ he says as he wipes. ‘I was with a family this morning. Sir.’

  The sir is an afterthought. Tom has little respect for the man sitting before him – he is a political policeman. He plays golf with the mayor and hosts charity events for the local MP’s wife. He surrounds himself with policeman who think like he does and who don’t rock the boat. Tom hands back the wipes. They go back into the drawer. Tom looks at Drake’s uniform, crisp and clean. His hair, cut army-short, is like steel wool filed down. His cheeks and chin look polished. If Tom felt his own he would feel stubble; even ten minutes after shaving he feels stubble.

  Drake sneers a little. ‘That’s a bit better, I suppose. Sit down, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sir.’ Tom sits, one leg crossed over the other. As he does so he sees he has mismatched socks. He uncrosses them quickly.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Drake starts, looking down at a pile of notes on his desk. ‘You passed both parts of your DI exam – the law part you’ve had for …’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘And you passed the practical and field assessment six months ago.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tom’s face clouds over.

  ‘You applied immediately for promotion to detective inspector?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Drake smiles his snake charmer’s smile. ‘DI Ashe and myself have turned down your application.’

  ‘Three times.’

  ‘Three times exactly. Do you know why?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘How did that make you feel?’

  ‘I don’t underst—’

  ‘Bollocks, Bevans. You pass both parts of the exam, the law section with the highest score this department has ever gained. You should have got automatic promotion, but you didn’t. Doesn’t that make your blood boil?’

  ‘No.’

  Drake looks at him for a few seconds, clearly trying to gauge what lies behind the mask.

  ‘Sad Man? That’s what they call you isn’t it?’

  He sighs a little. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You lost your childhood sweetheart – murdered, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Childhood sweetheart?’ Dani-in-his-head laughs.

  ‘Yes.’ Tom fights to keep his voice neutral, controlled. He can feel the tears start to form. Breathe. He does not want to cry in front of a senior officer. ‘She was abducted and murdered.’

  ‘So you dedicate your life to help other victims like her?’

  ‘Nothing like that, I had chosen the police force bef—’

  ‘Do you have outside interests, Bevans? Outside the force, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t see the relevance.’

  ‘I play golf. I used to do battle re-enactments, Wars of the Roses was my favourite. I was Warwick, the Kingmaker. Military history serves the modern policeman well – you should remember that.’

  ‘I will, sir.’ He won’t.

  ‘DI Ashe recommended you be kept as a sergeant for two reasons. The first: because he felt you were the best family liaison officer he has ever seen – and I agreed with him.’

  ‘The second?’ Tom asks, his throat tight with a growing resentment.

  ‘He said that you had little ability to lead a team, that you were an outsider, that the empathy you seemed to show by the bucketful to the families, even scumbags, was totally lacking towards your fellow officers. Does that seem like a fair assessment?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Maybe a bit unfair, let me turn the question around. DI Ashe – what do you think about him as a leader of men?’

  Tom considers this for a second. ‘I think he fosters a familiarity, a camaraderie within his team. Most of the team are loyal to him.’ Tom also knows DI Ashe likes to frequent strip clubs and get hand-jobs from teenage prostitutes in return for not arresting them. He says nothing of that.

  ‘Familiarity. That’s a strange word to use, Sergeant Bevans.’ Drake drums his fingers on the desk. ‘I’d say he builds a team – I would also say that loyalty is bloody important.’

  Tom feels his jaw tighten. He doesn’t believe you build loyalty by going to the pub: leadership is not the same as being liked. ‘I appreciate DI Ashe’s qualities of leadership, Ch—’

  ‘Liar. I can see it in your face. You don’t rate Ashe as a DI. And it’s mutual.’

  ‘Sir.’ It creeps like a condemnation from Tom’s mouth.

  ‘Bloody hell, Bevans, you’re an excellent family officer, a seriously good evidence analyst, a ferret up a drainpipe where it comes to finding the flaws in some bastard’s alibi – but a fucking liability as a senior copper.’

  ‘I think you’ll find—’

  ‘Lia-fucking-bility. Bevans, you are not the sort of man I trust at the top level. Do you know what it means to lead men? Do you have any idea what you need to do to be a DI, let alone run a CID team? Run a unit without enough people or resources – where half of the staff are depressed and the other half are too stupid to know they should be? Where you see guilty men – men you know are villains – walk free every day because you can’t make something stick? Where colleagues hate each other or are fucking each other, or both? Where every day is a juggling act and there is pressure from the top to catch more villains – and to do it more cheaply, more quickly? A good copper these days isn’t Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. He’s an accountant, a ringmaster and an organiser. And he has to know when to lick arse and when to stick the knife in.’

  Tom stays silent but his jaw clamps tight.

  ‘And you know what I think of you? I think you’re a bleeding heart in a uniform. You think a copper is some kind of superhero or a knight on a fucking white charger. You are an idealist. I hate idealists. They’re messy.’

  ‘White knight? Oh, he doesn’t know you very well, does he?’ Dani-in-his-head whispers.

  Tom feels battered. He should resign here and now, he could—

  ‘But needs must and you’re the best I’ve got. I want you to go home, get some sleep and be here at the crack of dawn. You’ll be acting DI.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What part didn’t you understand, lad? Ashe isn’t here, Bennett is an idiot and maybe you can make the grade. Maybe, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Sir, I will—’

  ‘I’ll do the paperwork now; you’ll get the pips in a few days. It’s no more money and longer hours – none of which you will get as overtime, not any more. You will coordinate blue team and report directly to me. No Miss Marple shit like hunches or clues. You and all your team goes by the book: tag and bag evidence; chase down alibis; check friends, family and neighbours. Good and proper policing and we clean ’em up or hang ’em out to dry. At 9 a.m. tomorrow I will introduce you to the floor as acting DI. You need to be aware that DI Bennett will fucking hate you—’

  ‘He does already.’

  ‘No difference, then. Go home, get some sleep – because you won’t get any more for the next month – and be back here in the morning. Congratulations, acting DI Bevans.’ They stand and shake hands. The older man’s hand is weak. Tom grips it firmly and nods slowly.

  ‘What’s wrong with DI Ashe, sir?’

  ‘Bloody idiot fell down the stairs. Probably pissed, and he broke his – oh, I can’t say it without laughing. The bottom of his spine.’

  ‘Coccyx?’

  Chief Superintendent Drake sniggers like a schoolboy. ‘Coccyx – yeah.’

  Three

  Wednesday 13 October 1999

  On the way home Tom buys a portion of chips and a giant pickled onion. Cliché. The single cop who eats take-away every night in front of the TV. At home he goes to the kitchen and pulls out a wok, drizzles in some sesame oil and fish sauce and throws in onions, mushrooms, chillies and some strips of chicken. A few minutes on a high heat, then he throws the chips in with some soy sauce, lemongrass and ginger. At the last moment he stirs in fresh coriander. The pickled onion is the salad.

  His dining table is red and white squared Formica – it was his nan’s. It has two hin
ged leaves that can be raised to make a table for four, six at a squeeze. Otherwise it seats two and the leaves bang against your knees. There is a gouge in it where his dad stuck a carving knife in one day. His dad had been holding Tom’s head down on the table at the time, the knife stabbed the Formica close to his nose. His dad was drunk. Incredibly contrite the next morning, of course. Tom loves the table. He pours himself a glass of fizzy water (pauper’s champagne) and eats his fine-dining take-away. He uses chopsticks, practising for the big holiday he plans to take in China. Someday. Across from him is a second placemat and pair of chopsticks. Stupid.

  ‘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.’

  Four

  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.