The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel (17 page)

She knocks. The door is opened by a stunning young woman, petite with auburn hair cut into a bob and, refreshingly, no make-up. She smiles. “Mrs. Lancing?”

Patty nods. Doesn’t correct her, not trusting her own voice.

“Please take a seat. Dr. Keyson will be with you soon.”

She indicates a row of four chairs with a wave, then turns to walk back to her desk. Her hip drops, as if she has been hit, then rights itself and she drags her foot forward. It is the worst limp Patty has ever seen—she immediately feels sympathy for her—then catches herself. “Stupid,” she thinks. “She doesn’t need sympathy from the likes of me.”

Patty walks to the seat furthest from the receptionist and scans the room. It is nothing like she’d expected; it looks more like a high-end psychiatrist’s office. Two pieces of large expressionist art dominate the room as well as four smaller contemporary sculptures. In front of the chairs is a low-slung coffee table, which, thankfully, does not have nine-month-old gossip magazines resting on it. Instead there are gallery catalogues, most in English, but some in Spanish and French. In the corner is a crate full of children’s toys. Patty wonders who brings a child to an appointment like this. Apart from the entrance, there are two other doors. On the walls there are a few small, delicate drawings and a series of framed diplomas, which mostly hang above the pretty girl’s desk, highlighting that Marcus Keyson is indeed an accomplished doctor of forensic sciences. She wonders why he is here, in this run-down building. She had seen his name mentioned in two or three of the articles in the journals she has been devouring. In each one he was lashing out at the police,
saying that they missed too much evidence, that they did not have the proper training needed to keep a crime scene clean. She had googled him. It was obvious that he had been a shining star in the firmament of forensic investigation, but something had happened and, like Icarus, he had tumbled down to earth. She couldn’t find what but did discover that he acted as an independent investigator on forensic assessment of evidence and DNA. His website said he had strong links to the Metropolitan Police and that total privacy was assured. Free initial consultation. So she had called.

“Can I get you a tea? Or coffee?” the receptionist asks.

“No. No, thanks … actually, yes, yes, I would like a tea. Black, black, please.”

“Of course.”

The girl leaves her desk and limps toward one of the mystery doors. It must be a kitchen, or at least a room with a kettle. Patty doesn’t really want the tea, but she needs something to do with her hands, to quell the tremor that is beginning to build. In her pocket she feels the weight of her medication. She could take two small white pills, which would control the shaking but it would dull her too. And that is not acceptable; she needs to be sharp.

After a few minutes the girl returns with a tray. On it are three mugs, a small dish of sugar sachets and a plate of biscuits, fancy ones coated in Belgian chocolate. Two of the mugs are stylish Pantone designs, the third is a beaten-up old thing, its surface pitted by a thousand buffets in a dishwasher. But you can still see the faded legend:
WORLD
’
S FAVORITE DAD
. The girl puts the tray down and takes one biscuit and the
DAD
mug and walks to the third door and knocks. There is a muffled response and she enters. Patty takes the mug of black tea into her hands and holds it. It’s been made from real tea and not a bag; a few specks of leaf swirl in the depths as the undertow forces them to the top, only to drag them down
once more. Her shakes are almost under control. She closes her eyes and visualizes them fading. “I am not solid; I am not rigid. I am liquid; I am air. I am—”

The door opens and the receptionist limps out. “Dr. Keyson can see you now.”

“—I am blood.”

Patty rises from the chair and walks slowly, keeping herself steady. The pretty receptionist smiles and touches her arm, just for a second.

Marcus Keyson is sitting on the edge of his desk, his coffee mug wrapped in a bear paw of a hand. He smiles and stands to greet Patty. He’s tall, about six foot five. Late thirties, early forties, which Patty finds amazing, given the diplomas liberally covering the walls in the outer office. He has strawberry-blond hair, very expensively styled, with eyebrows that seem almost white. His skin is tanned and slightly ruddy. He wears white linen suit trousers and a long shirt with a granddad collar. No tie. No jacket. No shoes. He has bare feet. He has bare feet. Patty stops dead, thinking she’s come to the wrong place—this is some new-age therapist who’s gonna yin her yang.

“I think there might be some mistake,” Patty starts.

“Marcus Keyson. Forensic investigations. This is the right place, Mrs. Lancing.” He stretches out a hand to her and with it, guides her, like they’re dancing, to a chair. Then he sits back on the corner of his desk and looks questioningly at her. He says nothing.

“Dr. Keyson—”

“Marcus.” He smiles, then nods for her to continue.

“Dr. Keyson, your website details a specialism in forensic assessment.”

“That’s right. How’s your tea?” he asks with an open smile and sympathetic eyes.

“Erm. Okay.”

There is silence. Patty can feel a cold invade her chest. She needs to get out and starts to rise. But he’s quicker. He puts his hand gently on her shoulder and presses her down firmly.

“Would you like to tell me about your …?”

“Dr. Keyson.” She closes her eyes. She has stood and looked into the chasm so often … she leaps.

“My daughter was kidnapped, raped and murdered.” Just facts, headlines, nothing of Dani. He remains silent. “Good,” she thinks, “there’s no poor you.” She has been hollowed out by poor you. He stays silent, his eyes coolly assessing her.

“When did this happen?”

“She was found in February 1989. She had been missing for three weeks. There were no leads and no one was ever arrested.”

“I’m sorry, there is nothing I can do for you. 1989.” He says the date like it is the dark ages.

“I fully understand the—”

“1989.” He stands, dismissing her. She does not catch his eye; instead she begins her story.

“I was visited by the police a few days ago. My daughter’s case falls into some criteria for reopening her file.”

He flicks his eyes to the clock behind her head, makes some internal calculation and nods slowly. “Yes, cold cases are being reviewed systematically.” He stops and looks like he’s choosing his words carefully. “It’s purely evidence-based, so that would indicate that there was some kind of sample taken at the time.”

“Exactly.” She fishes in her pocket, pulls out a notebook and reads from it: “Fluid samples taken and clothing samples retained.” She closes the book again. “That’s what he said, but it
made no sense. I saw the notes, back then, and I was sure there were no—”

“A police officer told you all this?”

She nods.

“I’m surprised they were so … candid.”

“I was insistent.”

He looks at her, and his brow furrows. “Not a good sign,” Patty thinks.

“I still don’t think I can be of any help, Mrs. Lancing.”

Patty can feel the shake. A vibration runs through her and down the chair to the floor. She clenches her hands and feels the nails cut into her palm, but they are too bitten-down to draw blood.

“Could I have a glass of water, please?”

He looks as if he is about to say no, then nods and leaves the room. Her head swims as though she might pass out. She takes one of the pills from her bag and places it on her tongue. He returns with a glass of water. It has ice and a slice of lemon; she almost laughs. She manages a polite “Thank you.” He looks concerned. Patty knows she must have turned white, like a ghost.

“Are you?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Please.”

“To be honest, Mrs. Lancing, the samples taken in the eighties will be no good now for any kind of analysis. Procedure back then was …” He whistles through his teeth. “Neanderthal.”

“But there have been successes, with Low Copy Number analysis. Some of those samples date as far back as 1981.”

“You?”

“I did some research.”

She doesn’t tell him she has barely slept in four days, reading and rereading a hundred case studies.

“Hmm.” He nods, drumming his fingers on the desk. “That’s
true but …” He pauses. “In 1989 you really needed to have had a forward-thinking officer at the crime scene for any samples to be viable today. Twenty years …”

“But it’s possible?” She is strong, not needy or desperate.

“It isn’t beyond the realms of possibility,” he says carefully. “It’s not inconceivable that a DNA profile could be produced from the sample.” He frowns. “If—and I cannot stress strongly enough—
if
it were cleanly taken and well stored.”

“Then it could be matched on the police DNA database?”

“Potentially,
potentially
it could be matched with DNA previously taken.” He shakes his head. “But there are big
ifs
in the mix.”

“I see.” She closes her eyes. “I must not get my hopes up,” she thinks.

“But hope is the only thing keeping you alive.” Jim-in-the-head says.

Keyson pulls a small notebook from a desk drawer and takes a pen from his pocket. “Were you given any kind of timeline on the review?”

Patty nods slowly. “He said it could be four years.”

Keyson stabs the pen into the notebook. “Okay, so it’s a grade two case.”

“Grade two?”

“Grade two or priority two cases. Firstly, there’s no one being held in custody for a crime, so there’s no potential miscarriage of justice to address. Secondly, there’s no indication of a link to another murder or serious crime—those cases are priority one. Otherwise, where there’s the potential to solve a cold case, those are graded priority two.”

He smiles and knocks back the last mouthful of his tea.

“So my daughter’s killer could be identified?”

“Without access to the case notes I couldn’t comment.”

“But a sample exists, a sample of DNA that could identify her murderer?”

“Patricia, can I call you Patricia?” He doesn’t wait for her reply. “I cannot, in all my experience, hold out any hope that a sample taken from your daughter would shed any light upon the identity of her killer. In 1989 no police investigation could analyze a forensic sample and cross-match it with a DNA database. Now they can. It’s an enormous advance. And yet …” He sees the hope in her. “Perhaps, in another four years …”

“Dr. Keyson, I don’t have four years. I’m dying. I have cancer.” She had not rehearsed the lie. She hadn’t even consciously decided she would lie. But she realizes she will do anything. “I can’t wait for the police. I have waited over twenty years already and cannot continue. I will not be here in four years.”

“I’m …”

“DS Bevans made it seem—”

“Tom Bevans?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“He’s a senior officer. The head of Operation Ares.”

“Yes.”

“He personally gave you this information?”

“Yes. He has been involved from the start—with Dani’s murder.”

“Dani?”

“My daughter. Danielle.”

“Your daughter is Dani—and she was murdered in London.”

“No. No, she was killed in Durham. She was a student there.”

“Durham.” Patty can see the cogs churn in his head. Then he swings himself off the desk and walks behind it. Something in him has changed, his eyes no longer sympathetic, instead they burn with intelligence.

“Let’s start from the beginning.”

Monday, February 20, 1984

Downstairs is a heaving mass of bodies, writhing like worms in mud. Dry ice, cigarette smoke and sweat curl up and fill the air. Upstairs, the seating makes it more organized but still bodies bounce and jerk to the pounding rhythm. All is dark except for dim green exit signs and the strobe lights on stage, which catch the band in frozen image after image. Tom feels carsick. Nic Fiend wails into the darkness.

The sea of sound is overpowering. Tom feels it in his body, working him like a marionette, pulling him this way and that as the band crashes, guitar and drums pitched at incredible decibels. To compete, the singer has to screech ever higher and louder. They don’t play like a team but like competitors racing to the finish. Exhilarating—but his head hurts.

Tom would rather be outside away from the smoke but he has to be in his seat: E5. It’s the only place he knows for sure she’ll be. The Banshees won’t be on for ages. Alien Sex Fiend has just started and there are another two support bands he’s never heard of. To be honest, he doesn’t know much about Siouxsie Sioux—just that Dani loves her. And he loves Dani.

He would have preferred to have taken her to a movie.
Footloose
or
Police Academy
—they both sounded good. In a cinema they could hold hands and share popcorn while they watch. And after he could lean over and kiss her.

Yeah, right! Like that was going to appeal to Dani Lancing. No, Dani will love seeing the Banshees, and he will bask in that.

A final screech of guitar and vocal cord end their biggest number
and the crowd screams and claps. He joins in, though his applause is a little lackluster. As the band launches into another song, Tom turns round to scan the doors once more. She probably won’t come until the first chord Robert Smith plays, but he can’t help himself. He knows he should feign nonchalance, get caught up in the music. He should watch the bands. Even after she arrives and sits next to him, he should pretend not to know she’s there until a song ends and he calmly notices her.