The Sad Man. A Dani Lancing Story

‘Was it?’ Another man speaks, this time his voice is fearful. Chelsea’s father. ‘Was it . . .’ He can’t say murder.

Tom reaches over and touches the man’s arm. ‘She was . . . attacked. It was very quick. ’ Struck over the head while she was on her knees, her skull caved in and pierced her brain. Quick, like a finger click. They do not need to know the details. At least not today. ‘She would have known very little.’

‘She were a good girl.’ The voice comes from the mother, still buried in the older man’s chest. She resurfaces and grabs hold of Tom’s hand. She looks into his eyes, feels kinship there. She can see how much pain he is in, how this news touches him personally – how he cares for them, cares so deeply for them all. She sees the sadness writ large in every line and crease of his face.

‘You will catch him, won’t you?’

He nods gravely. ‘Of course. I promise you and Chelsea.’

She drops her head onto his chest and he puts his arms around her. She weeps tears and mucus all over the front of his uniform.

‘There there.’ He rocks her softly, like a baby. He does not attempt to disengage, but waits for her to stop needing him. After a minute or so, her husband puts his hands on her shoulders and slowly draws her off Tom.

‘Thank you,’ he whispers.

There was tea. There is always tea. Tom drank three cups, each one stronger and more sugary than the last. He sat in an armchair while they crowded onto a sofa. White dog-hair coated everything. He answered their questions slowly and calmly: about seeing the body and making arrangements with funeral directors; about how to talk to the police and what to expect from the press; about paperwork – and, of course, about punishment.

Now he stands on their doorstep once again, yet this time he is walking away. The plague has been delivered. Some families can survive the storm, over time it can bring them closer; give each a greater understanding of the world. The Taylors? More likely, it will devour them, they will become distant, less open with each other and the world in general. Less tolerant, more resentful – less human. That was often the legacy of violent crime.

‘You didn’t tell them the truth, did you?’ He hears her voice in his head: Dani Lancing. She talks to him every day. Questions him, but never really judges him. That’s his job. ‘“You will catch him, won’t you?”’ She mimics the mother.

‘Dani . . .’ he whispers softly, some pain creeping into his voice. ‘No, I didn’t tell them the truth.’ But he can’t lie to Dani, the woman he has loved his whole life, from the age of five until—

‘Until I died?’

‘That didn’t end it – I still . . .’ He can’t complete the sentence.

‘So what is the truth for them?’

‘The truth?’ Where does he start? How can he talk to a family about their daughter being so far off of society’s radar, sucking men’s cocks on abandoned ground behind King’s Cross station for twenty pounds a go, that she walked like a ghost in the hinterland of society. The police could afford very little protection to someone who chose to shun CCTV, keep to the shadows and have friends who would not speak to the police, not even to help find a killer. She had become expendable: her pimp will just cross her off his list and look for some other vulnerable girl he can use until she is drained or killed or crawls back home. That is the horrible truth and it makes Tom so angry.

‘The system will find her hard to care about. She will not be a priority.’

‘She was just a kid. Seventeen years old. She deserves—’