The Sad Man. A Dani Lancing Story

The Sad Man Part Three

Five

Friday 15 October 1999

12.01 a.m. Tom has spread page after page of drawings across the dining table. Knots – specifically the lark’s head, otherwise known as the cow hitch. It is around two thousand years old. It is the perfect knot for attaching an article to a pole or tying down furniture to transport. He knows all this because he stopped in on a neighbour before coming home, a local bore who runs a second-hand bookshop. A man Tom would normally avoid, but who opened up the store for him and – bingo! He had two books on tying knots, hence all the history. For the last four hours Tom has been reading about the knot, tying them, sketching them and searching databases for any sexual meaning or reference. It has certainly passed the time, but he still has no idea why the killer carved a knot of blood into the floor.

            ‘Maybe it’s a red herring. A McGuffin,’ Dani-in-his-head suggests.

            ‘This is real life not the movies. No, it must mean something. It must give him something.’

            ‘You’re sure it’s a him?’

            ‘Oh yes. This is the work of a peacock. It’s showy.’

            ‘This is no peahen?’

            ‘No.’ He yawns.

            ‘You need some sleep,’ she says softly.

            ‘Probably.’

            ‘I could sing you a lullaby?’

            ‘I would like that.’

            ‘Good.’

He lies in bed and watches shadows slide and storm on the ceiling above him. He leaves his curtains open – has done for most of his adult life. He likes to be woken by the daylight and some mornings he wakes before dawn and walks into Greenwich Park to see the new day begin. On other occasions he has spent all night in the park, in a sleeping bag to wake with the dawn. It is a little rite he began many years ago, for Dani. And he still does it sometimes. To remember her.

            ‘You will never forget me,’ she whispers.

            ‘No. Never.’

He lies awake and thinks about the ride in the car to the morgue with Valerie Brindley-Black. He has arranged to see her tomorrow afternoon, to interview her formally but—

            ‘Her brain will be fried,’ Dani laughs. ‘They are gonna sedate her up the wazoo and back.’

He knows she’s right. Valerie Brindley-Black wasn’t going to be able to help now, not for days, maybe weeks. But in the car today, before she saw her daughter’s body and still held out hope, she said a number of things that Tom cannot forget. He keeps turning them over in his mind.

She looks as if she has aged a decade in ten minutes. Her hand in his feels like a small bird, heart racing and delicate bones that can fold and snap in an instant – just the lightest of pressure. She looks out through the side window as life whooshes by. Tom can see what she’s thinking, as if it’s written on the glass: Please let my daughter’s life not have rocketed to the end.

            ‘When did you last see your daughter?’

            ‘Tuesday afternoon – near the end of the day. I was away all yesterday seeing an artist – sound sculptures. He records elderly dentists. He lives in York, I took the train.’