The Sad Man. A Dani Lancing Story

Part 2.

 Two

Wednesday 13 October 1999

 

It is late afternoon by the time Tom walks into the CID office at Greenwich. It is a large room, a hub of desks in the middle crowded together like an open-plan bazaar. There are free-standing white boards and flip charts scattered through the melee and one wall is filled with Post-it notes and pieces of paper tacked onto cork boards. The other three walls have had dividers put in to create small offices. Some are for senior officers, others are for private meetings, though the serious interviews take place one floor up, where there are secure rooms.

Tom navigates his way through the jumble of desks. A few heads turn as he passes, there are a few little laughs – Chelsea’s mother has coated his chest in slime and his trousers are covered in dog hair that refuses to be brushed off. He does not acknowledge the sniggers, just keeps his eyes ahead and heads to the small office he shares with three other FLOs. He has a spare uniform in there. He can grab it and head down to shower and change – good as new.

            ‘New?’ Dani-in-his-head laughs.

He sighs.

He would like it to be all new. Maybe he could start again, have another try at this – at being a grown-up. At thirty-one years old he feels he is still just a boy inside He is alone – not lonely – just alone most of the time.

            ‘You’ve got me,’ Dani-in-his-head laughs.

‘And isn’t that a big part of the problem?’

He has tried to make friends. Recently he bought two tickets for the opening day of the Millennium Dome – he is excited to see the technology; there might be jet packs. He bought two so he could offer one to another officer – but so far he’s asked four other sergeants and they all laughed. No one wants to go with him. He even tried speed dating a few months ago, but the only woman who was remotely interested had a love of Phil Collins and turned out to be a creationist. He couldn’t cope with both genesis and Genesis.

            ‘Bevans. Boss wants to see you.’ A voice comes from the other side of the room.

Tom doesn’t look up – eyes ahead, he is almost at his office door.

            ‘Now, Bevans.’

            ‘I really need—’

‘Now.’

Tom stops and looks over. DI Bennett taps his watch and rolls his arm to show the urgency.

‘Okay.’ Tom turns and heads to the unit officer’s room – the hated DI Ashe.

‘Not the guvnor, Ashe’s not here. The boss.’ Bennett calls and points to the stairs. One floor up to Chief Superintendent Drake. Tom looks down at his uniform.

 ‘You look a right sodding mess.’ Drake opens a drawer and throws him a packet of baby wet-wipes. Tom sponges the worst of the snot away while Drake watches him from behind his antique oak desk. No other office in the building has a wooden desk, the others are metal and grained plastic that does a very poor imitation of wood. Drake had his own desk brought in from home, it was meant to intimidate. Tom thinks it just makes him look like a show-off.

‘I apologise,’ he says as he wipes. ‘I was with a family this morning. Sir.’

The sir is an afterthought. Tom has little respect for the man sitting before him – he is a political policeman. He plays golf with the mayor and hosts charity events for the local MP’s wife. He surrounds himself with policeman who think like he does and who don’t rock the boat. Tom hands back the wipes. They go back into the drawer. Tom looks at Drake’s uniform, crisp and clean. His hair, cut army-short, is like steel wool filed down. His cheeks and chin look polished. If Tom felt his own he would feel stubble; even ten minutes after shaving he feels stubble.