The Sad Man
Page 11
Truth? He thinks. It has nothing to do with truth, or admitting anything. He knows why he’d been drawn to this woman. He knows why some women draw his eye and not others. Why he’d turned down at least two women who could have made him happy, who could have loved him. The truth was because he was in love. Still in love after all these years.
And that photo on the website had been so like her. So like Dani. He had made the date, wanting to see her smile again. Except in real life he didn’t see Dani’s smile. Instead there was a thin half-smile, darting across her lips like an apology, and she dipped her head to hide how tall she was. Her voice had grated on him from the start too – rough sloppy diction – you know, you know like. But dinner had been fine. At the end they had walked to the Tube and she’d leant into him and kissed him. He felt her small breasts push into his chest and a flick of her tongue brush his lips. She called him the next day and they had agreed to meet again. She invited him to dinner at her place. Stupid. Her place – it was obvious where that was heading. Stupid to go to bed with her. Out of her clothes she was so unlike Dani. She had tattoos, which he hated. From the start she apologised for everything. Sorry for her M&S knickers, the sheets, the children down the hall, her inexperience, how cold her hands were. ‘Next time it will be perfect,’ she whispered in his ear as he pushed himself into her.
Afterwards she went to the toilet. He imagined her in there, crying for her lost life and the desperate compromises she’d been forced to make. He had to get out of the house. When she returned with minty breath, he told her he had to leave, still had a test to prepare for Year Four. He saw her flinch as he lied to her – clearly she was a woman who’d heard a lot of lies and had good radar for them – but he couldn’t bear to snuggle up with her and talk about the future. It actually made it worse that she looked like Dani. Only skin deep though. He smiles at the thought of Dani and his cheeks tighten and ache. His eyes have little frozen lakes in the corners.
It wasn’t his first lie to this woman either. His profile on the dating site says he’s a teacher of history at an under-performing comprehensive. He never tells anyone he’s a policeman. Even those few people close enough to him to know he works for the police don’t know exactly what he does. Only a few other high-ranking officers know he heads a special unit, and that he looks into the eyes of dead girls and promises them he will try to find the men responsible. And he tries. He tries. Detective Superintendent Thomas Bevans. The Sad Man.
He walks, feeling the snow give way under his feet.
‘I should’ve put a bet on a white Christmas – the odds will be useless now,’ he tells the trees.
He loves the silence. Of course, at almost 4 a.m. on a Saturday morning, it is going to be pretty quiet – but the deadening effect of the snow and the low cloud has removed all trace of the world. No music of the spheres. He stops and closes his eyes. He’s a boy again, remembering the first time the silence descended, a truly white Christmas. 1976.
He was eight and pretty sure he’d never seen snow before – not real snow that settles on the ground. But he remembers the rush of excitement that morning, like man had landed on Mars or something. The road outside their flat was amazing. Nothing had driven through it, not even a bike. Pure. Virgin. White. He ran out. His mum was still asleep and he ran and ran through the snow, then turned to see his tracks – the only human being on earth. Until he got to the park. And there she was. He remembers thinking ‘What the bloody hell is she wearing?’ She was in a white nightdress, flimsy and sheer. He could see the curves of her body beneath it – but is that just wishful remembering? No, she was fully clothed underneath, with a big sailor’s jumper. She wore the nightdress over the top. She was lying in the snow waving her arms. He saw her and hid in some bushes, watching. She lay there for a while and then got up and walked away – her dark hair streaked with snow. He waited until she was out of sight and walked over to where she’d lain. There was an angel in the snow.
Christ, even at eight years old, she had done something to him. Danielle Lancing, the girl he loved. Loves.
As memories of her flit through his mind he feels a shiver run through him as if somebody is dancing on his grave. But it’s just the vibration of his mobile on silent. He pulls it out and reads the short message, a missing person report. Normally he wouldn’t be notified unless it was a high-profile victim. This isn’t, just a Durham businessman who’d been reported missing by his wife. But the name is one that he’d recently added to a high-security alert list: Duncan Cobhurn. And the memory slots into place – the woman he thought he saw in the swirling snow on the bridge, Patricia Lancing. Dani’s mother. He feels lost.
‘Christ.’
He turns to head back the way he’s come. He begins to run.
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