by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer blocked them out, shifted their murmuring to the background. He pondered the details of the case, trying to identify the source of his irritation.
No sexual motive. Both victims received organs from donors who died at the same hospital. Was there a connection to the hospital? To the nurse? Was that all a dead end? Pure coincidence? Possibly. They were both local to the area and so Sheffield would be the natural source.
The bearded man continued. ‘The name doesn’t come from the Norse Thunder God. It’s taken from the word “tor”, which fits the geology.’
No official religions had a problem with organ donation, but was this a lone God freak with issues around artificially prolonging life? Why keep everything so clean? No blood? Why cauterise the wounds? Wrap them in polythene? Cover the private areas?
No external damage. Minimal damage. Efficient.
‘But of course, it’s the legend that persists. Not the boring reality.’
He thought of Ainsworth’s comment. ‘Inconveniently naked.’
‘They’ve found stone tools here. And the remains of extinct animals.’
There was always something left behind.
He hurried down the steps and speed-walked back to the car. As he rose out of the valley at Hulme End, his phone found service and he called Shepherd.
‘Sir. Been trying to reach you. Nothing major. Moran says he’s got nothing from ANPR for the van in the CCTV.’
‘He abandons the vehicles somewhere once they’re used. Somewhere private. Any other recent stolen vans matching the type?’
‘Yes. But no ANPR hits yet.’
Sawyer turned onto the A515, the central North to South arterial road which bisected the National Park. He squeezed the accelerator, aiming for Monyash and the Barrel Inn. ‘I assume Moran is cheerily checking the stolen vehicles for CCTV?’
‘Of course.’
‘Any links coming through from Myers for the potential liver donors? Connections to Susan Bishop?’
‘As I mentioned before, there are five potentials based on deaths at Sheffield at times which fit Palmer’s transplant. Working on links to Bishop and Palmer.’
Sawyer took a packet of salt and vinegar crisps out of the dash and opened it with his teeth. ‘Six.’
‘Sir?’
‘Six matches. Including Roy Tyler.’
Shepherd hesitated. ‘Susan Bishop’s heart donor?’
‘Right. I assume he fits the bill in terms of age and parameters. But we don’t know anything about the condition of these people, their viability for transplants. And, anyway—’
‘It could be a blind alley. The transplant thing.’
Sawyer pulled in to the Barrel Inn car park and unwrapped the bandage from his hand; the cuts were healed but still sore. Klein sat on the wooden bench that looked down towards the fields around Eyam, already veiled by dusk. A few lights twinkled from the farm buildings, with a denser constellation from Bakewell forming on the horizon. ‘Get Sally in on the briefing tomorrow. We’re groping in the dark with victimology. We need to review the scenes, the forensics. The fact that he leaves us nothing tells us something.’
30
They took the back lanes, bypassing Bakewell. Klein was silent, head resting against the window, gazing out. Sawyer slowed behind a hay lorry and flicked on the Mini’s headlights. The beams glared against the bales, stacked impossibly high. He monitored the lorry as it wheezed up an incline. It wouldn’t take much to topple the pile: an error in the tethering, a clunk into an unseen pothole. The bales would dislodge and tumble down onto the car, pestling Sawyer and Klein through the chassis and into the concrete below. It would take all night to scrape them out, to excavate them from the pulverised metal and glass. He imagined the inquest: cop and criminal, out for a night drive. The son of a murdered woman, delivering her killer to a vigilante justice.
‘That’s Robin Hood’s Stride,’ said Klein, pointing at a shadowy cluster of rocks at the back of the fields. ‘Gritstone. Not far to Cratcliffe Tor. Stone circle. Used to hang out there.’ He sighed. ‘So long ago.’ He took off his cap and laid it across his knees. ‘They filmed a scene from The Princess Bride there. I remember going to see it at the old cinema in Leek. The summer before…. Went there with Jess a couple of times.’
‘Were you close to her?’
Klein nodded. ‘We were lovers, Mr Robbins. Let’s not be coy. My parents moved to Wardlow halfway through my A levels. I scraped through and studied at Manchester. Teacher training. I worked with her and we became close.’
‘Did you know she was married?’
‘Yes. Unhappily. Do you remember back at the prison, when I told you that Jess had said she’d got herself into something and was trying to get out of it?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Her marriage?’
‘I wonder if there was something more. Unhappy people often build themselves multiple distractions.’
The hay lorry pulled into a lay-by and turned on its hazard lights. Sawyer overtook, giving it a friendly double-blast on the horn. He turned off towards Elton and Matlock. ‘Did she mention anyone else?’
‘No. She never spoke about her marriage. But I had the sense there were secrets there. And not the kind of secrets you confide to a young supply teacher. An inbetweener.’
Sawyer glanced over. Klein had taken off his glasses and was wiping the lenses with the end of his shirt. He was again struck by how old he looked, how spent. It was common for long-term prisoners to struggle after their release: away from the insulating isolation of the prison walls, the longing for freedom could be replaced by a sense of exposure, and a panic over the lack of structure. ‘How are you coping in general? It must be quite an adjustment for you.’
Klein startled and turned to Sawyer. ‘Sorry. Miles away. I feel like a child again. In cars.’ He settled in his seat. ‘It’s… not an overnight transition. Incarceration is terrible at first. The worst thing in the world. Over time, of course, it normalises. It becomes all you know. You live to the rhythm of roll-calls and spins.’
‘Cell search.’
‘Yes. And now, here in “The Out”, it all seems so open-ended. All these people, on their own timelines, doing whatever the hell they like, whenever the hell they like.’ He replaced his glasses. ‘Are we going to be okay here, Mr Robbins? I’ve heard that Traveller communities can be quite hostile to outsiders.’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘They’re just marginalised. Their lifestyle doesn’t conveniently fit in, and they’ve been antagonised rather than accommodated. You can hardly blame them for circling the wagons. It’s like everything else. You can’t demand respect if you don’t give it.’
The address given by Reeves led to a dilapidated farm in Slaley, on the edge of Bonsall. The main gate opened to a muddy and cratered dirt track, so Sawyer left the car on a verge off the narrow adjoining lane. They side-stepped along a fringe of grass below the property’s stone boundary wall. The outbuildings had mostly been converted for storage—old cars, building materials—but one had been refashioned into a makeshift gymnasium, with stacks of barbells and dented punch-bags.
The farmhouse was low-lit and quiet, but music throbbed from the woodland behind the farm. As Sawyer reached the end of the track, he could see a cluster of white caravans flickering in firelight. Shouting. Laughing. Cheering. A crowd jostled near the fire. Groups of twos and threes milled around nearby, some seated at tables.
‘Look,’ said Klein. ‘I’d be happy to wait in the car. Really.’
Sawyer squinted at him. He was only half-joking. ‘It’ll help us to establish trust, rolling out the guy who suffered because of police injustice.’
A bald, heavyset man in an ill-fitting suit walked over from the farmhouse porch. ‘Yiz lost, lads?’ He spoke quickly, the words blurring into each other.
‘Hoping to talk to Ryan,’ said Sawyer. ‘Ryan Casey?’
The man looked from Sawyer to Klein and back again. ‘Coppers, eh?’
‘I’m an author, writing a book abou
t this man.’ He gestured to Klein, who dipped his head. ‘He’s the victim of police malpractice and I think Ryan can help me with the case.’
The man folded his arms; most of the skin was hidden beneath tapestries of amateur tattoos.
Sawyer kept going. ‘He’s been in prison for thirty years. He’s looking to clear his name. He’s innocent.’
The man coughed, and styled it into mocking laughter. ‘Aren’t we fuckin’ all?’ He gathered himself. ‘Money in this?’
‘We might be able to work something out. But I can’t guarantee—’
‘Fuck yiz, then.’ The man turned his back on them and headed back towards the house.
‘We can definitely work something out,’ said Klein.
The man kept walking, didn’t turn. He held up an index finger. ‘He’s got the right answer! Ryan’s out back. Follow me.’
He led them around the back of the farmhouse to a roofed veranda with raised decking. Cliques of burly men sat at white plastic tables cluttered with glasses and beer bottles. A battered old barbecue flared and sizzled beneath a pop-up gazebo, tended by a walking whale of a man who wore a string vest, despite the chill in the air. Wafts of sweat, cheap sausage, fake designer perfume. Music—deep, bassy hip-hop—rattled the wood beneath their feet. Small children scampered in and out of the house, shepherded by women and teenagers. Two piebald ponies grazed in a stubbly field by the caravan camp.
The suited man turned and beckoned Sawyer and Klein to a large table in the corner, where an elderly man sat flanked by two larger, younger colleagues, both wearing tight black T-shirts which exposed their tattoos: Celtic designs, with tendrils curling around the contours of hard-won muscles. One of them turned, saw the suited man, and lifted himself to his feet, slow and calm. His hair was shaven at the back and sides, with a neat frizzy patch on top. He bent forward and glared at Sawyer and Klein.
The elderly man waved a hand. ‘Visitors, Joe?’
Sawyer stepped towards the muscled man. ‘Ryan? Could you spare us a few minutes?’
Ryan Casey sat back in his chair. He was well into his seventies, but had worn the years well: held his shape, kept his hair (thin on top, with something dangerously close to a mullet round the back). He looked a little unevolved—crude, simian features, with a flattened nose and wide mouth—but there was guile behind the deep-set eyes. ‘No problem, son. Sit yourselves down. Keep it quick, mind.’
The muscled man stepped aside and pulled out two chairs, away from the table. The message was clear: a qualified welcome, open to evaluation.
Sawyer and Klein took their seats, as a shout went up. A group of men had gathered by the veranda. One threw two coins in the air while the others surrounded the ground where they fell, cheering or groaning at the outcome.
Casey called to a passing young woman, chasing a small girl in a floral dress. ‘Drinks, darling!’ She nodded, scooped up the girl, and disappeared into the house.
‘Not the music I expected,’ said Sawyer.
Casey nodded. ‘The traditional stuff comes out later. All that maudlin shit sounds better with a bit of whisky in you.’
He lit a cigarette, held the silence.
More cheering from the men.
Sawyer turned. ‘What’s the game?’
‘You not played Two-Up?’ said Casey. ‘Bit of gambling. The spinner throws up the coins. Everyone bets on two heads, two tails, or one of each.’ He took a drag on his cigarette and yanked it out of his mouth, prodding into the air. The woman reappeared and set down three open bottles of beer. Casey nodded at her and she smiled back. Long hair, platinum blonde, unwashed. She seemed a little too refined for the surroundings.
Sawyer edged his chair closer to the table. ‘Ryan. My name is Lloyd Robbins and this is Marcus Klein. I’m an author. I’m writing a book about Marcus. He was wrongly convicted of murder, a long time ago. We’re working to clear his name.’
Casey frowned. ‘Only one of yiz knows that, though, right? That he was wrongly convicted.’
‘I know it,’ said Klein. ‘I’ve spent thirty years in prison knowing it.’
Casey glanced at Klein, returned to Sawyer. ‘And what’s this got to do with us?’
Sawyer picked up one of the beers and took a sip. Warm. ‘I’d really like to talk to Owen. Your nephew. We think he might remember a couple of things that could help us re-open the case or quash the conviction, get compensation. We could come to an arrangement.’
Casey looked doubtful. ‘I haven’t seen Owen in years. He used to help us with the fights up in the northeast. The boys might know. My boys. They’re down at the ring.’ He stood up. It took him a few seconds to steady himself, then he strode around the table and turned towards the caravans. Sawyer glanced at Klein; they both got up and followed, with the muscled man shadowing behind.
‘Big fight here on Sunday,’ said Casey. ‘It’s going to be quite the party. One or two little rumbles tonight but nothing heavy. McDonaghs have been slagging us off, sending videos. My boy Wesley is going to take on their champ. Head of the family. Calls himself Big Joe.’
He took them past the bonfire into the woodland. They ducked under a jumble of low branches and emerged into a clearing, where a makeshift boxing ring had been set up: two lengths of rope wrapped tight around four corner poles. A tall bamboo torch burned at each corner, casting a pale light over the crowd: all men. The ring was occupied with two topless fighters, circling each other, stepping in for occasional cautious swings. Both were flabby and bottom heavy, with no muscle tone. The crowd watched them in reverent silence, cheering the rare connecting shots.
Casey approached two men leaning on the rope at the far end of the ring. They were similar in size and bearing to the muscled bodyguards on the veranda, but more contained, relaxed. He held up a hand, motioning for Sawyer and Klein to hang back. They stopped by one of the corner torches, the bodyguard waiting behind.
Klein leaned in to Sawyer and kept his voice low. ‘Not happy, Mr Robbins!’
Sawyer looked at him. ‘It’s fine. Just a quick tour.’
The two men at the ring turned as Casey approached. As he spoke to them, he hitched a thumb over his shoulder. They looked up, caught sight of Sawyer and Klein. After a few seconds of discussion, they nodded to Casey, and all three approached.
‘These are my lads,’ said Casey, bright and genial. ‘Wesley’s the big one. Ronan’s the nearly-as-big one.’
Sawyer leaned in and shook the hand of the tallest man, matching his firm grip. ‘Lloyd Robbins. This is Marcus Klein.’
The man nodded. No smile. ‘Wesley.’ He was shaven-headed, with a shaggy black beard and aloof, curious eyes.
His brother—shorter, with an untidy scrub of reddish blond hair—forced a smile and held off the handshakes with his raised palm. ‘Ronan. What’s the score, fellas? You looking for Owen?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Hoping he can help us balance the scales of justice.’
Ronan smiled, revealing a couple of missing teeth. He regarded Sawyer with a predatory scowl. ‘It’s a lifelong struggle, Mr Robbins.’
Sawyer turned to Wesley. ‘You ready for the fight? Hope the opposition is a bit more of a challenge.’ He nodded to the current spectacle in the ring. The larger of the two fighters had stumbled to the ground and was being hauled to his feet by his supporters.
Wesley shook his head. ‘No contest. Fuckin’ “Big Joe”.’
‘Fat bastard,’ said Ronan. ‘Nothin’ else big on him, that’s for sure.’ He nodded to Klein. ‘Where d’ya do your time?’
‘Few different places. They moved me to low security. Had to survive a few scrapes.’
‘Kept your nose clean, eh?’ said Wesley. ‘You really not do it?’
‘Really not.’
Wesley glanced at Ronan. ‘What do you want with Owen, Mr Robbins?’
‘He was in a bit of bother at the time. Long time ago. Thirty-odd years. Minor stuff. We think he might know something that can help us find out who did do it.’
/> Casey finished his cigarette and ground it into the grass. ‘I have to say, there’s a strong smell of bacon back here. And I’m not talking about the fuckin’ barbecue.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘No police. We tried them but they don’t want to know. Case is closed for them. Thirty years old. We think Owen might be able to unlock it. I’d be grateful for your help.’
Ronan snorted. ‘Can you put a number on that gratitude?’
‘Depends on how quickly we can talk to Owen.’
Wesley chewed his lip. ‘You a fight fan, Mr Robbins?’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘A bit. Boxing. MMA. Not quite up on this scene, though.’
He caught a movement from Ronan and shifted his weight, stepping to the side, deflecting Ronan’s haymaker punch with an open-palmed pak sao block. He could tell from the lack of power in the strike that Ronan had meant to intimidate rather than fully connect, but Sawyer’s deflection was strong and effective, leaving him off balance and exposed for a simple follow-up attack to the side of his knee, body, temple. Instead, he shifted back, into Jeet Kune Do fighting stance: side-on, elbows tucked, fists raised.
Ronan stood off Sawyer and turned to his brother, beaming. ‘Got a fuckin’ live one here!’
Wesley looked on, eyebrows raised. ‘That’s some hand speed for a writer, fella. So if you’re Batman,’ he nodded to Klein, ‘how does Robin shape up?’
Klein held up his hands, palms out, and took a step back. ‘Please…’
Ryan Casey let loose a wheezy laugh and stepped between Sawyer and Ronan. ‘Let’s keep it civil, gents.’ Sawyer shifted out of fighting stance and Ronan backed away. Casey pinched at his forehead. ‘Look. Do you really think I’m going to give up my nephew to a couple of strangers based on some sob story?’
‘We need something from you first,’ said Wesley. ‘I’ve got just the thing. Something to establish a bit of trust. Looks like you can handle yourself, Mr Robbins.’ He gestured towards a tall, wiry man standing at the ringside. ‘That’s Charlie. He’s an up and comer. You give us ten minutes and we’ll call it.’