by Andrew Lowe
From the forensic report, the killer had subdued her, silenced her with gaffer tape and stripped her. He had then cut off her hand. The cut had been clean and singular, probably executed with a cleaver or heavy knife. The wound had been fully cauterised, which would have taken some time. The killer had waited for her to die, and removed the tape. But she had not been wrapped in polythene, and, according to the FOA account, the garage floor was saturated with blood. Forensics also discovered splinters of bone, presumably from the force of the amputation. The severed hand wasn’t found.
The anger and logic resonated with the case: attack the cause of the accident, the source of Tyler’s distraction. But the scene was messier. He had left no direct forensic links, but he had been less focused on cleaning up and, unlike the others, the body had been left at the murder site. He may have been disturbed or worried that he was about to be disturbed. But it felt more like a first attack, to be refined and perfected with subsequent victims.
Two taps on the door. Sawyer nodded at Shepherd through the glass, and he walked in.
He closed the laptop. ‘Pretty quick for a conference. Keating lose his voice or something?’
Shepherd took a seat. ‘Sunday. No new revelations. Just a dry appeal for information. No victim relatives to gawp at.’
‘How’s Myers doing with the Joseph Dawson search?’
Shepherd took out a banana and unpeeled it. He took a bite, offered it to Sawyer, who scowled and shook his head. ‘Hundreds of hits. Trace and eliminate will take days, maybe weeks. He had money. He could be anywhere.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘And anyone. Anything from the OPs?’
‘Give them time. He’s hardly likely to attack in broad daylight. They’re good. They won’t miss anything. Kim Lyons is low maintenance, but Ingram is a pain. It’s almost as if he’s relishing the chance for a fight.’
‘He’s an idiot. Unlike the killer. My old instructor once told me that you can spend all day at the gym, refine your techniques, hone your reflexes. But the best weapon is always the mind.’
Shepherd finished the banana and curled the peel into a ball. ‘We have the jump on him. He doesn’t know what we know. Three possible targets, all covered. If there’s any sign of him approaching or staking out, we’ll pick him up. The attacks have been frequent so far. There’s every chance he’ll come out of the woodwork in the next day or two.’
‘Was Logan at the conference?’
Shepherd nodded.
‘He’s doing a story on me.’
‘You mean your history? Your mum?’
‘As he sees it, yes.’
‘Is that why you’re avoiding the conferences? He’ll see that. He’s like the Eye of fucking Sauron.’
Sawyer stared him out for a second. ‘Has he spoken to you?’
‘About your story? No. Do you seriously think I’d tell him anything?’
‘No. Just curious about his angles.’
Shepherd stood up. ‘Leave him to it.’ He lingered, prompting a response. But Sawyer stayed silent. ‘I’ll stay in touch with the OPs, keep grinding at the leads. Don’t worry about me. Seriously. I live to work.’ Sawyer finally gave up a half-smile. ‘Plans for the evening?’
Sawyer tilted his head. ‘The usual. Staring at the walls. Paralysing existential dread.’
Shepherd raised his eyebrows.
Sawyer sighed and shook himself alert. He beamed at Shepherd. ‘Not really. Going to a party.’
44
Sawyer drove his forearms into the stubby poles of the wooden man dummy. He ramped up the exercise steadily: from slow and methodical strikes to hone technique, to quick flurries which would improve co-ordination, rhythm, hand speed. He rested, then settled himself in front of the new full-length mirror and worked through the third Wing Chun form, biu jee (darting fingers). Sharp, efficient finger and elbow strikes to develop power. Emergency techniques to escape grapples and defend against weapons. Agility, turning, footwork.
He showered, and dressed in his best civilian-looking clothes: jeans, weathered old Vans, grey Sherpa jacket. He fed himself (spaghetti) and Bruce (ghastly sachet of glutinous meat) and climbed into the Mini for the journey to Bonsall: solo this time.
He cued up a night drive album—Second Toughest In The Infants by Underworld—and checked his phone messages. Still nothing from Eva. Was this their relationship rules being established? Random dangerous liaisons with radio silence to follow until the coast cleared?
At the farm in Slaley, Sawyer left the car on the verge in the adjoining lane and walked along the dirt track towards the main house. He squinted through a fine mist of rain, and his nose twitched at the savoury waft of barbecued meat.
Little had changed since his visit with Klein two days earlier: music from the woodland at the farm fringes; firelight flashing across the white caravans. This time, though, as he reached the farmhouse porch, two men stood up from a table and approached. They were tall and wide, with better suits than the Friday night guard. The shorter of the two carried a walkie-talkie.
‘Evening, fellas,’ said Sawyer. ‘I was here a couple of nights back. Ryan invited me.’
They glanced at each other. ‘Did he?’ said the tall one. ‘Who the fuck are ya?’
‘Lloyd Robbins. I’m a writer.’
The short one grimaced, then laughed. ‘Covering the show for The Times, eh?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Not that kind of writer.’
The short one turned away and muttered something into the walkie talkie. He listened to the response and nodded to the tall one.
They glared at Sawyer, holding the moment.
The tall one stepped forward. ‘Twenty-five to get in.’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Strange to invite someone to a party and then charge them an entry fee.’
‘Yeah?’ said the short one. ‘That’s just how it fuckin’ works.’
‘Even for potential business partners of your boss?’
The short one edged forward, in line with his colleague. ‘Twenty-five quid, big man. Whoever you are. There’s no fuckin’ VIP area, okay?’
The front door opened behind the men, and Ronan Casey emerged, also suited. He had cut his red hair short, and Sawyer could smell his spicy cologne almost at the moment he opened the door. He took his time walking over, then stopped between them and laid a stare on Sawyer. ‘What’s the beef, boys?’
They shuffled aside, giving Ronan space.
‘No beef, Ronan,’ said the tall one. ‘Just coddin’ the man. Says he’s a writer. Says Ryan invited him.’
Ronan smiled. ‘He’s not a writer. He’s a fighter.’
Sawyer followed Ronan around the back of the farmhouse, past the veranda. A group of men were playing Two-Up at the usual spot. Surely not the same ones? They cheered and jeered the results of the coin tosses.
‘You missed the fun, Mr Robbins,’ said Ronan. ‘Wesley put the McDonagh cunt down half an hour ago. Barely took him a minute. Left him with a face like a butcher’s block, though.’
‘So, what now?’
‘Few side fights later, maybe. His family are all phoney-friendly now, but the beef videos will come in tomorrow, demanding a rematch.’ He laughed, wheezy. ‘Big Joe was boasting about his “iron fists”. Said he’d been soaking them in petrol to make them harder.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
Ronan turned, incredulous. ‘Of course, it’s fuckin’ bullshit! Didn’t make any difference in the end, anyway. He barely touched us.’
They walked along the edge of the pony field, past the bonfire and into the woodland. Groups of white plastic tables had been set up at the far ends of the makeshift boxing ring. Music pounded from a rusted old ghetto blaster: swaggering hip-hop, obnoxious trap, occasional squalls of tinny techno. Ryan Casey—suited—sat at the near end, with Wesley Casey—still topless from the fight—bent forward, in conversation with three seconds, each wearing a dark purple hoodie with the word CASEY gold-embossed in enormous Gothic script. The McDonagh group s
at huddled around the tables at the far end. A couple of teenagers play-boxed in the ring.
Ryan caught sight of Sawyer and turned to face him. He tapped Wesley on the shoulder and he composed himself.
Sawyer nodded at Wesley. ‘Congratulations. Sorry I missed it.’
Ryan lit a cigarette and flapped away the smoke. ‘Mr Robbins, you are a cheeky fucker, alright.’
Sawyer shook his hand. ‘I need your help, Ryan. Mr Klein lost thirty years of his life to a police mistake. Your nephew can help me put that right.’
Wesley glared up at Sawyer. He was a little puffy round the eyes, but had barely sustained a scratch from the fight. ‘Proper little superhero, aren’t ya?’
Ryan gestured towards a chair and Sawyer sat down. ‘All this,’ he swept a hand across the ring, ‘it’s all based on beefs, Mr Robbins. Arguments. Feuds between families and clans. Grudges. Some of it goes back so far that nobody can fuckin’ remember the original disagreement. Sometimes it’s as simple as something some fucker said in a pub about some other fucker’s wife or girlfriend or dog. So it gets settled, in a ring, or on some patch of wasteland or down a country lane. Brothers fighting brothers. Cousins fighting cousins. You send your clan man out, you beat their clan man, you move on.’ He slurped at his bottle of beer. ‘Thing is, it never works out that way. It just keeps going and going. It changes form, becomes about something else, gets passed on down the generations. Sometimes, it all breaks out and the fighters get targeted by family “associates”. Proper bad guys. But that’s just the dark side. The thing that keeps it going, the unbreakable bond, that’s also our way of protecting ourselves.’
‘Family,’ said Sawyer.
‘Deeper than that!’ He took a drag on his cigarette. The tobacco flare lit up his features; he was red-faced, over-refreshed. ‘I’m talking about culture. Our culture. It’s like an invisible thing. A network. The people get old and die, but the beef gets passed on. The culture lives on. It’s bigger than us. We all need something bigger than us, don’t you think? For some, that question of afterlife or no afterlife… it just doesn’t cut it.’
Sawyer dragged his chair close to Ryan. ‘But this is what I’m trying to do. Two families have suffered terrible pain. One with a man robbed of his freedom for so long, and another robbed of a mother. A young woman in the prime of her life. I believe that Owen is the key. Your family can help me settle this beef.’
Ryan shook his head. ‘The Caseys settle Casey beefs.’
Sawyer sat back. ‘Call it business, then. We can pay you.’
Ryan drew in a deep breath through his nose. ‘You don’t know our price yet, Mr Robbins.’
A commotion rose up from the McDonagh table. A tall, wiry character sprang to his feet and tore off his T-shirt, revealing a surprisingly muscled torso.
‘Here we fuckin’ go,’ said Wesley. ‘Danny McDonagh. Joe’s baby brother. Thick as pigshit in the neck of a bottle.’
Danny was pointing at the Casey crew, opening his arms out wide, tipping his head back in defiance. ‘Hey! Hey! No class. No fuckin’ class! Yiz got a lucky shot on an old man, Wesley Casey. Don’t make you a fighter.’
Wesley waved him away. ‘Behave yerself.’
Danny kept it up. ‘Honour! Honour!’ He pointed at the ring, beating his fist into his chest. ‘You and me!’
Ronan stepped forward. He called to the defeated McDonagh champ and patriarch, sitting bruised and bowed at the centre of his group. ‘Joe! If you want another taste, your boy can take on our cousin, Lloyd.’ He turned and grinned at Sawyer. ‘Get the fuck in there, Mr Robbins. Shut this fucker up, will ya?’
Ryan hauled himself upright. He stumbled over to Ronan and clapped an arm round his shoulder. ‘No, no, no. We can’t risk the name. Let him blow himself out. He’s a gobshite.’
Ronan shifted away from his father and called to the McDonaghs. ‘Yiz are shitting out, then?’
Wesley got up and steadied Ryan back to his seat. He sat slumped, glaring at Ronan, breathing heavily.
‘Come on, then!’ Danny climbed through the rope into the ring. He hustled the teenagers out and pointed at Sawyer. ‘Get this Lloyd fucker in with me. Yiz’ll see a proper fight!’
Ronan looked down at Sawyer and angled his head towards the ring. Sawyer sighed. He stood up and took off his jacket. Wesley lifted it away and draped it over the back of his chair.
The group of onlookers gave a cheer and shuffled forward. Joe McDonagh raised his head as his family and seconds leapt to their feet, whooping and waving. The sparring teenagers ran back towards the farmhouse, shouting.
A stocky but elderly man in a white dress shirt and yellow tie stepped in front of Sawyer. He crouched and looked him in the eye, studying. ‘I’m Chris, son. You okay for this? You had a drink?’
‘No drink,’ said Sawyer. ‘Let’s go.’ He lifted off his T-shirt, revealing a lean, lightly muscled torso that looked flimsy compared with Danny’s bulky, gym-pumped definition.
He climbed through the ropes in a daze of disbelief. And again: nothing. No apprehension or anxiety. Just the familiar internal chill; a numbness. More spectators gathered, herded in by the teenagers. The crowd bayed and roared, but it seemed to Sawyer that they were gathered around the exit of a long, thin tunnel: a squirming huddle, their shrieking mouths inches from his ears, but their bodies distant.
Chris stepped into the ring, between Danny and Sawyer. Danny danced and waved at the crowd. Up close, he was taller than Sawyer, with long, beefy arms. He was barefoot, in shabby grey sweatpants. One of the McDonagh group restrained him and wrapped his fists in gauze bandage.
Sawyer dropped his gaze to the ground and the churned-up grass and mud, glinting in the light from the ring’s corner torches. Chris wrapped the protective bandage round his hands and bobbed his head around, trying to make eye contact. But Sawyer held his focus, and sank into the familiar glow: inner calm in the face of chaos.
One of the crowd called out. ‘That some Egyptian shit?’ They were referring to his tattoo. Camera phones flashed.
The Caseys in the embossed hoodies gathered around the corner of the ring near to Ryan, who was now leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring up at the ring.
Chris pulled Sawyer and Danny close, within touching distance. ‘Let’s have a fair fight, boys. No biting. No hits with the head. Show fair play, now. There’s no rounds. No gloves, no rest. I’m here to keep it fair, but I’m not allowed to stop it. You keep going until one of you says he’s had enough, okay?’
They nodded, and Chris shoved them apart. Sawyer backed away, keeping his eyes on Danny. It was a wise move; as soon as Chris was clear, Danny lurched forward and pulled back his elbow, winding up a right hook.
Sawyer switched into JKD fighting stance and side-stepped, turning to face Danny in case he corrected himself for a follow-up attack. But he stumbled, overbalanced, and had to steady himself with a hand to the ground.
A cheer went up: more for the audacity of the attempt than for Sawyer’s agility and anticipation.
Sawyer righted himself and held up his fists: clenched, thumbs tucked. One defensive, close to his face; the other angled forward, ready to strike. He danced on the balls of his feet, getting a feel for the give in the ground. He would need to favour the firmer sections nearer the edges; the solid foothold was worth the risk of getting caught on the ropes.
Danny bobbed forward. He kept his fists low, near his chin, but was smart enough to keep his head moving in dips and circles. He drew back his right elbow again. Sawyer stepped into his left side, on a diagonal, and Danny tottered, striking at air.
The crowd jeered as Sawyer shifted his stance instantly to face Danny side-on, fists up and ready. Danny steadied himself on the ground again, keeping his head down, open to a shot. But Sawyer waited for what he knew would come from Danny’s humiliation: an all-out attempt to land something.
Danny stayed bent forward, turning his head to look up at his opponent. Sawyer saw him drop his right shoulder. He grunte
d and whipped his body up and around, bringing the punch with him: a full-on haymaker. Sawyer shuffled back, diagonally, feeling a whip in the air as Danny’s fist swung past his chin. Now, Danny was twisted around, with the right side of his face exposed.
Sawyer pushed off his back foot and jerked the full power of his core up and to the right, thrusting a direct jab into the left side of Danny’s face. Danny’s head snapped to the right and he dropped down into the mud. Sawyer shuffled back, still in fighting stance, pointing his fists down, ready for retribution.
Danny’s seconds rushed over and dragged him to his feet. He pushed them away and lifted his fists back in front of his face. But the light had gone out of his eyes. He blundered around, confused, as if he was struggling to locate Sawyer. On instinct, he twisted back his arm for another punch. But the movement overbalanced him and he staggered backwards, sat down in the mud, and fell onto his back, unconscious.
Chris held his arms up high and waved them left and right, in crossover.
Cheers and jeers from the crowd. Sawyer winced beneath a shower of warm beer. Uproar from the McDonagh side, as Joe and the other family members gathered around Danny, reviving him.
Hands on Sawyer’s shoulders, pulling him to the ropes. Ronan Casey. Outside the ring, Wesley grabbed Sawyer’s hand and threaded him through to a beaming Ryan.
The McDonaghs dragged Danny to the other side and propped him up on the ropes, rousing him with splashes of water. He winced as he came round, and held a hand to his jaw which seemed to be stuck half-open. Joe looked him over and shook his head. He shouted to one of the teenagers, who took out his phone and made a call.
Ryan Casey pulled Sawyer into a bear hug. ‘A good, good fight, son. Floatin’ like fuckin’ Ali in there.’
Ronan laughed and locked an arm round his brother’s neck. ‘Looks like they’re calling him an ambulance.’
Ryan leapt to his feet, suddenly sober. ‘Come on, boys. Get this ring cleared. Torches out.’