by Andrew Lowe
‘More of a snuff man.’ Sawyer looked around the room. All was calm, undisturbed. He nodded to the dog beds. ‘Pets?’
‘Two dogs. Still in kennels. Taxi dropped him off early yesterday morning.’
‘Do we know where he was?’
‘Not yet.’
They headed past the fireplace into the small kitchen. Walker sat at the table, typing on a laptop. He stood up as Sawyer and Shepherd entered. Two more FSIs were finishing up by a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out onto a small back garden with wild fields behind.
‘Looks like he forced the back door,’ said Walker. ‘He’s tried to repair the lock but he couldn’t disguise the splintering in the frame.’
‘I’d say some kind of chisel or screwdriver,’ said one of the FSIs.
‘He made his first mistake,’ said Shepherd.
Sawyer studied the lock. It was a good repair job, but not perfect. ‘Take it off. Get it tested and sourced. With a bit of luck, we might be able to catch him buying it.’ He studied a wall calendar by the cooker. ‘MMF?’
‘Sorry?’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s blocked out the last three days with “MMF”.’
Walker smiled. ‘I checked that. “Murder Most Foul”. A crime writing festival in Copenhagen.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Our man staked out the place, saw the calendar through the window. He subdued Brock, forced him out to the van. We know the rest, more or less.’
‘Why not just wait for him outside?’ said Shepherd. ‘Like he did with Palmer?’
‘He had the dates nice and clear. Probably checked the flights. Might as well get inside and make himself comfortable. Gave himself plenty of time to replace the lock. And like I said, he’s getting bolder. Hopefully, a bit arrogant.’
‘We now officially have a serial killer,’ said Walker.
Shepherd sighed. ‘Serial or spree?’
‘He’s frequent,’ said Sawyer. ‘But there’s a tempo. An agenda. We need to find the motive, the connection between the victims. At least we now have one more to work with.’
35
They gathered back at Buxton: a full house, this time. Even Keating had diverted from his Saturday fly fishing at Ladybower; he stood at the back, managing to look grave and presidential, despite the civilian dress.
Sawyer tacked a photo of Simon Brock to the whiteboard, alongside images of Susan Bishop and Sam Palmer.
He turned to the team. ‘Connections? A novelist, an ex-TV star, a football manager.’
‘Entertainment business?’ said Walker.
Moran waved his pen. ‘First names all begin with “S”?’
Shepherd glanced at him; he wasn’t even joking. ‘Good news is that this time we have a few forensic scraps. Fibres, and a piece of chewed chewing gum in the garden of the Brock house. He also forced the lock and tried to hide it. Replaced it with a new one.’
‘Same method as the other vics,’ said Sawyer. ‘Two stab wounds this time, though. Beneath the shoulder blades. Both cauterised.’
Keating’s voice boomed out. ‘He stabbed a woman in the front, but the men in the back. Might be significant.’
Sawyer nodded, clearly unconvinced. ‘Moran, include the Brock house and deposition scene into your work with the stolen vans. Sightings, CCTV, ANPR.’ His phone buzzed with a text. He checked it. Sally.
CTS employee alibis all check out. :(
Deep cleaners? Specialists?
He sighed and looked up: to expectant faces. ‘Sally’s team are working on findings from the Brock house and conducting searches in the area near Flash. She’s also broadening the search around the Bishop and Palmer locations.’
‘We’re turning in circles,’ said Keating. ‘Stephen, set up another conference for this afternoon. We need sightings of the vehicles, anything around the scenes.’
Bloom nodded, made a few notes. A pulse of silent despair rippled around the room.
Shepherd cut in, too loud. ‘I called Sheffield, about the Palmer liver donor. The nurse we spoke to isn’t on shift today. She’s at home.’
‘Go with DC Walker,’ said Sawyer. ‘If she can give us a name, it’s another ingredient for the mix. Might stir something up. If not, get the court order. I thought the nurse might be hiding something. But maybe Occam’s razor applies, and she’s just being difficult. Obviously, the donor is dead, so their records won’t be so restricted. There might be family objections, though.’
Walker got to his feet. ‘I looked into Tyler. The lorry driver who donated Susan Bishop’s heart. Nothing interesting about the three people who died in the crash. His girlfriend, Rebecca Morton, moved to London a couple of years into his five-year sentence.’
Sawyer sighed. ‘Let’s wait for Drummond’s report on Brock, and see what forensics bring up on the findings and the lock.’
His phone buzzed again. It was a call, this time. Maggie. Shepherd wrapped up, and Sawyer disappeared into his office, feeling Keating’s eyes on him.
He closed the door and answered. ‘Hey. We’ll have to ditch breakfast tomorrow.’
‘I spoke to Jonathan Brock,’ said Maggie. ‘Simon’s son.’ Her voice sounded thin, distant.
Sawyer sat down. ‘How is he?’
‘You always ask that. How do you think he is?’
‘Sorry.’
‘He mentioned something about his father. I thought you’d want to know. He was pretty unwell. Heavy smoker. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. He had an operation last year, but it didn’t work. He was pretty much terminal. Less than a year left.’
‘Operation?’
‘Transplant. Both lungs.’
36
Sawyer wove the Mini through the dawdling Saturday traffic outside Hollow Meadows. Shepherd fiddled with his phone, scowling.
Sawyer looked over. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to connect to the sound system. Bluetooth. It’s not having it.’
An Audi hooted as Sawyer cut into its lane to beat an amber light. ‘What’s wrong with this?’
Shepherd eyed him. ‘It sounds like Grampa Simpson.’
‘To your philistine ears, maybe. This is “The Story Of The Blues” by Wah! A forgotten classic. What are you looking for? You look like a Springsteen type.’
Shepherd gave up and pocketed the phone. He sighed and stared out of his window. The Derbyshire fields yielded to South Yorkshire suburbs.
‘Walker not happy at being left behind,’ said Shepherd.
‘Executive decision. Bit of deskwork is good for him. He’s a star, but he’s burning a bit too brightly.’
Shepherd smiled. ‘You’ve been watching too much Blade Runner.’
They turned off, into an enclave of handsome semis.
‘Brock’s double lung transplant happened on the same day as Susan Bishop’s heart op,’ said Sawyer. ‘Same hospital, too. Wythenshawe. His son said Simon didn’t want to know any details. But I do. All the organs have come from Sheffield within a two-day timeframe.’
They drove into Crosspool. The semis blended to fish bars and charity shops. Functional flat blocks.
‘The nurse could just hide behind procedure again. We might need that court order.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘That’s Walker’s deskwork. Let’s see what wins. Legal procedure or good old-fashioned gentle interrogation.’
Amy Scott settled on the cushioned seat beneath the bay window. The net curtains muted the honeyed light from a low afternoon sun, casting her in fuzzy silhouette. ‘Can we make it quick? I have to pick up Ava in half an hour. Playdate.’
The sitting room was bright and tidy and smelt of paint and lavender. Modest TV, smart speaker, couple of unfilled Billy bookcases. A waist-high easel was propped on a patch of newspaper in the corner, beside a stool, palette board and side table.
‘You an artist?’ said Shepherd, lowering himself onto the sofa.
She laughed. ‘God, no. That’s Ava’s. She’s eight.’
Sawyer nosed through the book spines. Me
dical non-fiction, Jane Austen, Joe Wicks, a few thrillers and cookbooks. ‘Sorry to bother you at home, Amy. But we have quite an urgent line of enquiry. I think you can help us.’
Amy sighed. ‘I told you at the hospital. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t just share details of medical records. I would lose my job.’ She laughed again, nervous. ‘I… honestly don’t know what you’re doing here.’ She looked from Sawyer to Shepherd and back again.
Sawyer tilted a book spine towards him: Bel Canto. ‘We wouldn’t normally bother you on a Saturday. But we’ve got three dead people. Stabbed. They all received transplant organs from your hospital. You’re the Specialist Nurse in charge of organ donation.’ He turned and sat down on the stool by the easel. ‘So, can you see why we made the journey?’
Amy stared ahead.
‘Ava’s dad not around?’ said Shepherd.
She caught herself and blinked. ‘Junior doctor. He wasn’t interested in being a parent. I was.’
‘Look,’ said Sawyer. ‘I know you’re in a rush. But can you answer me one simple question?’
She found a smile. ‘I’ll try. I want to help. Of course…’
‘What are you scared of?’
Her shoulders slumped. ‘What do you mean? Generally?’
‘No. Not generally. You don’t seem like a jobsworth to me, Amy. You know the sort I mean. Grey people. The types who hide behind bureaucracy. They point at signs, quote paragraphs in the rulebook. They think life can be ordered, modulated, kept inside the guidelines. I’m not saying I blame them. Life is pretty messy, right? Some people just need to know who’s in charge.’ He drew the stool forward. ‘I don’t think you’re in charge here, Amy. And I’m not talking about the hospital hierarchy, the rulebook writers, the legislators. I don’t think you do what you do because of a passion for “best practice”. I think you do what you do because you’re a decent human being. You want to help save lives. So, I’m going to ask again. It’s an appeal for honesty. Because every second we sit here, another life is in danger. We can help you. Protect you, if needed. So, one more time. What are you scared of?’
Amy dropped her gaze. She clenched her hands in her lap. Her breathing deepened: juddering inhales, exhales of exasperation. The room went still.
They sat there in silence for almost a minute.
‘He said that Ava would die if I said anything.’
Sawyer looked at Shepherd. ‘Who did, Amy?’
She kept her eyes on her hands. Her fingers knotted and writhed. ‘He did. Whoever. I don’t know. I’ve never met him. It’s just messages. And he sends me things.’
Shepherd leaned forward. ‘What things?’
37
Sawyer and Shepherd stood together at the MIT whiteboard. Three long-stem red roses had been laid out, side by side, on a spare desk. They were pruned, pristine. The petals were a deep, sensuous red, almost black.
The team gathered around. Sawyer leaned forward and planted his hands on the desk. ‘These have been sent, one by one, over the past week, to Amy Scott, a Specialist Nurse at Sheffield Hospital. She deals with the processes around organ donation, for the people who die at that hospital.’
‘Two of the roses were left on her car,’ said Shepherd. ‘The other was taped to her front door. Timings correspond to the killings.’
‘Messages? Cards?’ said Moran.
Sawyer nodded. ‘The first rose came with a message, reminding Amy of an “arrangement”. She was contacted at work late last year by a man who wanted the details of all the organ donations in April. Recipients, donors. She was told to put a document into a waterproof tub and hide it under a rock near a kissing gate on a walking route near Stanage Edge. Which she did.’
‘Or else?’ said Myers.
Sawyer looked up at the ceiling. ‘Or else he was going to kill her eight-year-old daughter, Ava. As well as the roses, he called her school a few days ago, around the time of Sam Palmer’s murder. To remind her.’
A female DC, Fleming, spoke up. ‘So what was he after? Control over Amy?’
‘He was being deliberately broad,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was only interested in one donor.’
Sawyer unrolled a blown-up printout of a section of the BBC News website, retrieved from the previous July. He tacked it to the board beneath the images of the three victims. A grainy image of a young male—spotty, bad haircut, glaring into camera—sat beneath the headline.
THE KILLER WHO GAVE THE GIFT OF LIFE
‘It’s in HOLMES,’ said Sawyer. ‘Read it. A companion piece to a radio documentary that was broadcast last July. Meet Roy Tyler. Deceased. Ex-lorry driver. Our man must have heard the documentary or read this piece. It talks about the crash that killed three, and how, twenty-six years later, he died at Sheffield after the gym accident and saved the lives of five people.’
Shepherd moved to the side of the whiteboard. ‘The piece only mentions vague details of the recipients. Sex, age.’ He pointed at the victim images. ‘We now know that Susan Bishop received Roy Tyler’s heart, Sam Palmer got his liver, and Simon Brock received both his lungs.’
Sawyer pinned up two more images: a nervous-looking middle-aged woman with pale skin and long auburn hair, and a younger man in a workout vest, heavily muscled. The man had tilted back his head to look down his nose at the camera. Sawyer pointed at each in turn. ‘Jamie Ingram. Twenty-five. Received one of Roy Tyler’s kidneys at the unit in Sheffield Northern General. Kim Lyons. Forty-eight. Received Roy Tyler’s corneas at Manchester Eye Hospital. We’ve issued an Osman Warning, and Amy and Ava Scott are now under protection. We need to do the same for Jamie and Kim, as soon as possible. The killer is clearly targeting any individual who has received organs or tissue from Roy Tyler. We need to find out why. Is it related to the lorry crash? Let’s look deeper into those three victims. I’ll check out Rebecca Morton, Tyler’s girlfriend.’
‘The hand-job queen,’ said Moran.
Walker stepped closer to the board. ‘What about the other kidney?’
Shepherd glanced at Sawyer. ‘It was donated to a fifty-year-old woman at Sheffield Hospital. She didn’t survive the op. Never left hospital. GVHD. Graft Versus Host Disease. Her body rejected it, basically.’
‘Let’s dig deeper into that lorry crash,’ said Sawyer. ‘Find me the girlfriend. Get me more on Tyler. Surviving relatives, connections. We have the jump on him now. We need to know more about the madness behind his methods. Why does he not want Roy Tyler’s organ recipients to survive? Moran, the flowers are hand-delivered. Ditch the car-chasing and work on CCTV for the relevant dates around Amy’s house. Get timings from DS Shepherd. Also take a look near Amy’s kid’s school last Monday. He didn’t show up in person, but he might have been staking out nearby. Street CCTV, local businesses. Anyone looking out of place, lingering, in vehicles. And see if you can find something on the document drop-off spot. Might get lucky and catch him on camera nearby.’
Moran sighed. ‘Catch him on the world famous extensive CCTV coverage around Stanage Edge?’
Sawyer ignored him. ‘It’s crucial that we keep this line of investigation confidential. We have every reason to believe that Amy and her daughter will be in danger if it gets out that she’s revealed anything to us. Stephen, cancel the press conference. Media blackout.’
38
A titanic mothership hovered into the playfield from off-screen, supported by hundreds of smaller attack craft. It sent out a target crosshair that honed in on Sawyer’s ship, spraying lethal geometries of pulsing yellow points. He dodged the onslaught, and picked off a swarm of reinforcements as they swooped on his position. A female commentator exulted in Japanese, shouting to be heard over the impacts and detonations.
He had killed all the lights in the cottage, and was sitting, topless and cross-legged on the sofa, pulled in close to the TV. A Buddha of Bullet Hell. He counterattacked in strategic bursts, maximising his score. His face and torso flared red and yellow and blue in the game’s lights.
While Sawy
er’s instincts and reflexes kept him alive onscreen, his active thoughts were busy elsewhere, illuminated by his hyper-focus on the game.
The case images bobbed on the edge of his vision: the victim photographs, the pallid faces, the texture of the cauterised wounds. He saw the hands: arranged, presented. The dead, covering themselves. Eternally coy.
Nothing personal.
He paused the game and bathed in the light for a while, gazing into the frozen pandemonium.
A car outside, slowing on the road by the cottage.
He called Shepherd. The phone rang for a while and he was close to hanging up and resuming the game when the call connected.
‘Sir.’
Background office buzz.
Sawyer set the phone on speaker and wriggled into a faded black Underworld T-shirt. ‘Sorry to call late.’
‘It’s fine. Still here, anyway. Drummond’s report on Brock. Death from haemorrhagic shock like the first two. Stab wounds. One in each lung.’
Sawyer took in a breath, held it for a couple of seconds, released. ‘There’s anger. Is he attacking the things that are keeping them alive? Could still be about the vics and not Tyler.’
‘Sally’s team are working on the fibres and gum from outside Brock’s house.’
‘They can get DNA from the gum.’
‘I know,’ said Shepherd, excited. ‘They solved a cold case with chewing gum DNA last year. Birmingham somewhere. Oswald. Or maybe Osmond…’
‘Back in the room, Detective. Tyler’s girlfriend?’
‘Myers has got a London address.’
‘I’ll take that tomorrow. I can work old Met contacts.’
Outside, the car turned and crossed the driveway bridge, parking next to the Mini.
Shepherd opened and closed a door. Going into his office. ‘The deceased in Tyler’s lorry crash. Faye and Tony Hansen, Maureen Warren. I’ve got DCs contacting living relatives. No children or siblings. Tony’s brother lives in Zurich. Faye had a sister, Sophie. Lives in Leek. Married, two grown-up daughters. Maureen’s husband, Jim, died ten years ago, two weeks after his second wife went. Emphysema.’