The Last Winter of Dani Lancing: A Novel (46 page)

“Christ …” He flails, trying to grab at her leg as he starts to topple backward. He touches her heel, tries desperately to get a hold on her as he falls back, but he can’t keep his footing and he crashes backward down the stairs, head over heels into a crumpled heap at the bottom. Patty is up and after him, running down and jumping over his body.

She hopes he’s unconscious but with a roar of anger he is up and on his feet in seconds. She runs as fast as she can, hoping the path ahead is clear. She can see a rectangle of light further on; it must be a door—but where to? She prays it leads outside. She reaches it and—yes, she can see through the gloom to the end of a storage area and there’s a fence she could scale that leads to the open world. She could escape. She takes a breath to ready herself for a sprint and jump, her adrenaline spiking. She can do this. She leaps forward, accelerating as quickly as possible—sees the gap with the fence beyond—seconds away, she speeds up and—

“Got you.” From nowhere an arm shoots out and grabs her. She tries to spin sideways but it grips on tight, pulling her into a bear hug.

“You’ve been a bit naughty, ain’t ya.” Grant Ronson laughs. His other arm pulls her around and his hand clamps a cloth over her face. She twists and kicks like a mule, tries to pull her face away, breathe clean air, but his hand stays firmly around her nose and mouth. Slowly her energy begins to wane as the chloroform starts to take effect.

“Time to sleep,” he says as she turns to deadweight. He swings her onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She drops her phone but he bends down and retrieves it. Then, whistling the theme to
The Dam Busters
, he carries her outside.

It’s colder out in the open. Wisps of mist have started to trail through the Market Square. Keyson stands under a streetlamp, a sodium-orange pallor making the bruise above his nose look quite nasty. He stamps his feet, partly due to the cold, partly in annoyance.

“Here we go, guv.” Ronson gives his boss a broad smile.

“Phone?”

He hands Patty’s phone to Keyson, who nods and scrolls through the address book. He finds the name he wants and hits dial. It rings only once.

“Patty. Thank God, I was so worried about you!” Jim’s voice blasts from the phone. Keyson pulls it back from his ear a little.

“You will never guess what just happened—a woman jumped off a bridge and landed just in front of us, we had to swerve but a truck hit her. Christ, it was awful. Patty? Patty?”

Keyson smiles. “Hello, Jim, hope your head’s feeling better.”

In the car, Jim digs his fingernails into the seat, digging small ovals into the leather. He looks across to Tom and whispers, “It’s Keyson.”

“Oh hell.” Tom feels a little sick. He looks out of the windscreen at the anarchy in front of him. Two cars have crashed into the middle barrier. One is crushed into the tunnel support, closing the entrance. A trail of blood is smeared from the tunnel at least twenty yards to where the truck dragged the body; the body itself lies like a battered rag doll, its stuffing pulled from it and smeared all around.

“Where’s my wife?” Jim asks coldly.

“Wife? Haven’t you been separated for years?”

“She is still my wife. Where is she, Keyson?”

“Okay, let’s not split hairs, Mr. Lancing. Your wife is safe. No one is getting hurt, I am not that kind of man.”

“Oh, I’ve heard exactly what kind of man you are, Dr. Keyson.”

“From who?”

“Detective Superintendent Tom Bevans.”

“Oh, Jim. Honestly, I would take anything he tells you with a pinch of salt. He’s not your friend.”

“And you are?”

“Me? No, ‘friend’ is too strong a word—but I am going to tell you some truths, including a particularly juicy one. I am going to tell you who killed your daughter.”

From somewhere the sound of sirens begins to wail, getting closer. He turns to see the flashing lights—red and white, rotating—making the blood on the road shine like a trail of bright red breadcrumbs leading to hell. In the mirror, just for a split second, Jim thinks he sees Dani frozen in the red stroboscopic light from an ambulance. She waves solemnly, then she is gone.

Jim strains into the darkness, hoping to catch another glimpse of her but …

Whack! The truck driver slams into the car.

“Jesus!” Jim jumps.

The driver is in complete shock, staggering around in a circle. Jim sees a medic jump out of an ambulance and run toward him.

“Are you still there, Jim?” Keyson’s voice calls from the phone.

“Yes. Yes, I’m here. Patty was in Durham, are you still there?” Jim asks Keyson.

“Yes, old Durham town,” Keyson replies. “Don’t tell me you’re here too.”

“Yes.”

“How wonderful. Let’s meet and have a lovely chat about abduction and murder.”

“Where?” Jim asks coldly, not wanting to get drawn into anger by Keyson’s levity.

“How about the cathedral. Lovely spot. Begun in 1093 and is in the Norman style with some beautiful Gothic flourishes. I’ve got a pile of guidebooks if you’d like one?”

Jim looks out of the side window and up to the heavens. He can see the cathedral above them, dominating the skyline of the town.

“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Jim tells him.

“Alone?”

“I may have DS Bevans with me.”

“Oh, Jim. That would be perfect. Please bring him.”

But Jim’s no longer listening. He unclips his seat belt and opens the door.

“Jim, Jim, where are you going?” Tom asks, but gets no reply. Instead he watches his friend dart across the blocked carriageway and start to climb the hill that leads up to the cathedral.

“Shit!”

Tom slides out of the car and slams the door, pocketing the keys as he does so. He looks around wildly for a second. All is pandemonium as more and more emergency vehicles arrive, each one adding another flashing light and wailing siren. He should help out, move the car to the side, but Jim is getting away from him and he can’t let him meet Keyson alone. He looks around. The truck driver is being helped and it is going to take a lot of time to remove the dead woman from the roadway. There is nothing he can do.

“Damn.” He runs after Jim.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Above them, at the top of the city, Keyson holds Patty, still unconscious, in his arms and watches Ronson work on opening the cathedral door. It is huge, solid oak reinforced by thick slats and possibly metal rods. Keyson doubts it can be breached but he’s seen Ronson perform some remarkable feats and Ronson has told him he will get them inside. Keyson presses himself against the door, deep into the shadows, and waits. There is a sudden snap and the door shudders on its hinges and arcs forward.

Ronson catches it as it moves. “There you go,” Ronson says with pride as it swings, wobbling on a shattered hinge. “No alarms, and I can’t see any CCTV neither.” Ronson grins and holds the door for his boss to walk through.

Keyson enters the enormous structure, looking up, as he does so, to see a parade of saints glowering down at him. Each is suffused with moonlight and looking furious at this intrusion.

“Gentlemen.” Keyson waves cheerily to them. He walks to the baptismal font and places Patty’s limp body on the cold stone. Then, switching on a torch, he begins to explore. There is something he desperately wants to find. He locates the rose window, an enormous wall of stained glass in the shape of a flower. It orients him to the correct set of pews and he kneels down in the central isle and shines his torch into the rows—examining
each pew until he finds what he wants. In the faintest of writing he sees her name.

D
ANIELLE
L
ANCING
. 1986.

He sits in the pew trying to imagine her there. It is uncomfortable and drafty sitting, so he kneels and uses a cushion embroidered in 1952 for the Coronation.

“The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not …” he begins to intone … but there is nothing. Nothing of her to feel. Nothing of anyone to reach out to, in the drafty ancient room. He gets up and walks further into the belly of the cathedral. Now he can give the place his attention. It is magnificent, vaulted ceilings with fingers of wood that worm through stone to hold up the sky. The great rose of stained glass dominating the center of the cathedral. During the day it blazes with light but in the darkness it seems somewhat sinister, a shadow-play of pain and anguish. Keyson likes it.

Jim walks up the final slope toward the cathedral, his legs like pistons—his eyes ahead. In his chest the feeling of panic is slowly being replaced by the fizzing of anger. Behind him Tom follows, not knowing what to do. His professional wisdom says: stop and call for backup—but this is not professional, it’s personal. He pulls out his phone, sees the time is 3 a.m. He punches in a number and listens to it ring. An answer phone picks up—his own voice.

“You’ve reached Tom Bevans. Sorry I’m not here at the moment but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Thanks.” Tom smarts a little at the message. Plain Tom Bevans, no DS—in case a woman he lied to is calling.

“I need to get a life once this is over,” he tells himself.

The phone beeps once.

“It’s three a.m. Wednesday, December 29, 2010. I am approaching Durham Cathedral in pursuit of Dr. Marcus Keyson and Grant Ronson, who I believe have abducted Patricia Lancing for the purpose of extortion. I am following her husband, James Lancing, to the ransom drop-off point. If for some reason I …” He stops for a second. “Jane, just get the bastard.”

He flicks the phone closed and hurries off after Jim. Tom catches up with him just as he is crossing the central lawn that leads directly to the main cathedral door, which stands massive and black in the night. Hung in its center is the sanctuary knocker—a blazing metal sun behind a face with soulless dark eyes. By royal decree those who use it to call for the door to be opened can ask for sanctuary. It was granted even to the guiltiest of souls. Tom reaches his fingers out to touch it.

“Oh please, sanctuary—for you?” Keyson appears from the shadows.

“It isn’t even the real thing, it’s a fake,” Tom says a little sadly.

“Nowhere is safe for a murderer nowadays. Isn’t that right, Tom?” Keyson asks with a smile.

“Hello, Marcus.” Tom attempts to smile back, but in his tired face it looks forced.

“Please.” Keyson motions for them to enter as he pushes the door open.

“Into the cathedral?” Jim asks.

“Pretty please.”

They enter and Keyson closes the door behind them.

Inside it’s mostly dark except for rectangles of moonlight that spill across the floor. The light from the stained glass seems alive,
dancing across the flagstones—deep purple, bloodred and undersea blue. Jim looks up and sees the parade of saints who smile down on him.

“Your daughter loved it in this cathedral, she came often. I think it fitting that this is where we all finally meet to unravel this mystery.” Keyson smiles but both Jim and Tom feel goose bumps spread over their flesh.

Keyson takes a slim book from his pocket and offers it to Jim. “I do apologize for the way I borrowed this.”