The Sad Man. A Dani Lancing Story

One

Wednesday 13 October 1999

He slides his fingers into his pocket. He feels the thin disc nestled there – a talisman, his good-luck charm. A ban the bomb badge – a gift from Dani a lifetime ago. His fingertip finds its sharp pin. He pushes, letting it press deep into the skin until there is a tiny bead of blood. A reminder of actual pain. It is time.

He walks those final steps slowly, with great dignity. At the door he stops for a last-minute inspection of himself. His uniform is immaculate; it is important to show respect. At home he has a full-length mirror. It stands on the floor, allowing him to see exactly how presentable he is, how his uniform fits, the creases, the shine on the buttons, how clean his shoes are – but it does not show his head. He does not like to look at his face in the mirror. He uses an electric shaver, part guess-work and part practice, and every week goes to the barber for a professional shave with a cut-throat razor. That’s just how it goes. He looks at his watch, just a few seconds. He never makes a call before 8 a.m. Her name is . . . her name was Chelsea Elizabeth Taylor. She was seventeen years old when she ran away from home a month ago. Now she is dead. He counts down the final few seconds in his head. It is 8 a.m. He reaches for the doorbell. In a few seconds he will rain a plague down on this house. He is the Sad Man.

He touches the small white button. From somewhere a dog barks, low and mean until a whack cuts it short. The door opens. A small face, feral and pinched, looks out and blinks. The skin seems young though you can see where it is dried and cracked, canals are etched around the eyes and mouth – that is what forty cigarettes a day will do. Forty cigarettes and unimaginable worry. She sees the uniform – looks up into Tom’s face and—

‘Chelsea.’ Her daughter’s name is a wail. A bubble of snot appears, she cracks it with her palm and smears it into her cheek for the torrent of tears to wash away.

‘Can I come inside?’ His voice is so soft it travels less than a yard before it melts into the air. His words are just for her, Chelsea’s mother. She steps back into the shadows and Tom follows down a hallway that stretches like a spine into the centre of the house. Along the walls are photographs of a chubby, happy-looking girl. Tom can see it is Chelsea from the eyes; they are the same deep dark blue he has seen in the SOCO photographs. Except, in the crime scene pictures, Chelsea’s eyes are dead, here on the walls of her family home they are bright and sparkle with life. Her mother leads him into the living room – now more a war room as the clan gathers. The curtains are tightly drawn and the air is a swirl of fog: 90 per cent tobacco smoke and 10 per cent wet dog. Tom peers into the swirling mist and can make out two plants in the corner that look close to death and eight human faces, yellowed and sickly, gathered around a dining table. Sitting on the table before them are a pile of London A–Zs with slips of paper sticking out, each one breaking the city into sections to search, and a box of ‘missing’ posters to be pasted all over town. Too late. Much too late for poor dead Chelsea.

‘I am Detective Sergeant Bevans.’ He pauses, his eyes slowly search out each face in the room and make contact. Human contact. ‘Tom, please call me Tom. I’m what the police call a family liaison officer and . . . I have awful news for you, I am so sorry.’ A tear runs down his cheek. A man moves around the table and envelops Chelsea’s mother in his arms, she folds into him. He is older, maybe her own father. ‘We found Chelsea two hours ago.’ Tom pauses – this is the moment. ‘She is at peace.’

There is nothing. One elephant . . . two elephants . . . three eleph—

‘Did you fucking get him?’ One of the yellow-faced men screams at Tom, pushing his face directly into his so they are nose to nose. Tom almost pulls away – the overpowering stench of cigarettes, stale sweat and despair – but he holds his ground. Tom recognises him from the picture file: Andrew Jenks, Chelsea’s uncle. On another day he might be interested in the man’s assumption it was murder, wonder if it meant something more, but not today. Tom knows his response is not an admission of guilt or hidden knowledge. It just shows that Andrew Jenks is a man who understands how this scenario plays out, who knows how dirty and sordid life can be. Tom sees in his eyes that he knows, or has guessed, where his niece ran to. Mr Jenks is a man who has used prostitutes. He knows how precarious their lives are, what men like him can do to girls like his niece. Tom holds eye contact with the man and then smiles ever so slightly and gently nods his head as if to say: I understand. Sheepishly the man pulls his head away and slinks back to the shadows.