by Andrew Lowe
Wesley slapped Sawyer on the shoulder. ‘I didn’t even see that punch!’ He spoke to his father, gesturing back at Sawyer. ‘Thought he was a streak of piss, this one. But you know what? He’s a fuckin’ beast.’
Ryan smiled and nodded. ‘He’s a Casey.’
Sawyer sank low in the Mini, as the ambulance jinked its way up the lane and turned into the farm. It juddered along the dirt track, directed by a mixed group of Caseys and McDonaghs.
He phoned Klein. It was late, and he was surprised when the call connected immediately.
‘Mr Robbins?’ He sounded surprised, vague. Sawyer thought of Alex’s line about self-medication.
‘Just a quick update. I saw the Caseys again. There’s an old bothy near Magpie Mine in Sheldon.’
‘The ruined place?’
‘Yes. Ryan Casey tells me that the bothy is sometimes used by travellers and homeless. It’s also used as a neutral meeting spot. Organising fights, settling disputes. There’s a meeting there tomorrow afternoon. Owen Casey is going to be there. I can pick you up at three? Usual place. We find Casey, see what he knows. All shall be well.’
Klein shuffled around, coughed. ‘I thought Ryan said he hadn’t seen Owen in years?’
‘He lied. People do that.’
45
Dry soil, on his lips. The sunlit world around: fading up, swelling into focus.
The sickening silence.
He raised his arm, dug his fingers into the earth, hauled himself up onto his knees.
He coughed, spraying soil and blood. Her blood?
His brother lay motionless. Powder-blue T-shirt. More blood. Like paint, scattered across the grass.
His dog. Flat, on his side, legs out straight. Like he was asleep by the fire at home.
He crawled forward. Every movement triggered a spike of agony from the wound at the back of his head.
His mother. Black hair. Orange jacket. Red, red, red.
Her face. Always kind, always open and curious. Always alert to the love she might give. Now replaced by something collapsed and unspeakable.
The man with the hammer had gone.
Another male voice, behind. A woman’s scream, ripping through him.
His brother jolted at the sound.
He reached out and rested his fingers on the palm of his mother’s upturned hand. Warm. Wet.
Behind, the man talking. Urgent.
The woman. Whimpering.
Her hand on his back. He shrugged it away.
Sawyer opened his eyes. Something was wrong. It was too bright for an autumn morning. Bruce paced around the bed, miaowing, pining for food. Sawyer winced at the pain from the hand that had punched Danny.
He reached for his phone, saw the time, and jerked upright.
He scurried around, diving into clothes. As he brushed his teeth, Bruce protested from outside the door, as if chiding him for indulging in hygiene when he was half an hour late for work.
He fed and watered the cat, and hurried out to the car.
Phone. Text to Keating.
Flat tyre. Nightmare. Be in soon.
Sawyer threw the Mini around the narrow lanes, taking corners at top speed, scouring the asphalt. His hand throbbed; the skin around the knuckle had already turned an alarming dark purple, despite the bandage protection. He let his thoughts drift to the case: there was something off-key about Rebecca Morton’s murder. It didn’t sit neatly along the rest of the narrative. The revenge logic made sense, along with the wounding and cauterisation. But there was too much left behind. Too much mess, and with little evidence that he had been disturbed and forced to abandon the scene.
Like the man in the balaclava: so present in his recent nightmare, but absent in his long, exhausted sleep last night. He had taken the hammer, slipped off the edge. Could Owen Casey help Sawyer pull him back into the frame?
He made the half-hour drive to Buxton in less than twenty minutes. The MIT floor was busy, and someone had written ‘JOSEPH DAWSON’ above the photographs on the whiteboard.
He dashed down the corridor between the desks, catching a wry smile from Moran, and slipped into Keating’s office. Shepherd and Sally O’Callaghan stood at the desk.
Keating opened his arms out wide. ‘Honoured by your presence, DI Sawyer! I’m afraid that DS Shepherd has had to brief the team without your steadying—’
‘He’s local.’ Sawyer leaned on Keating’s desk and addressed all three. ‘He had time to clean up the Rebecca Morton scene, but he didn’t bother. He didn’t even bother to move the body. That was London, though. Here, he’s a lot more careful. Surgical. He’s determined to cover his tracks, leave no trace. The proximity is spooking him.’
Shepherd studied him, squinting. ‘I’m not so sure, sir. He has left us things. At the Brock scene. The fibres, gum.’
Sawyer looked at Sally.
She shrugged. ‘Fibres are from a generic brand of carpet. No DNA match.’
‘Probably because he’s not on record,’ said Shepherd.
Sawyer nodded. ‘Or it’s not even his DNA.’ Blank looks. ‘He planted them, to throw us off. Hard to imagine he would clean up everything else so meticulously, but leave something he knew we would find… unless he wanted us to find it. Sally found traces of a specialist clean-up chemical at the Palmer scenes. We kept it private because we wanted to check out one of our own contractors, the clean-up company, CTS Decon. Their employees checked out, but if our man is willing to go to the trouble of obtaining a specialist chemical to decontaminate the scenes, why would he leave chewing gum and fibres behind?’ He turned to Sally. ‘What about the lock? The one he replaced at Simon Brock’s house?’
‘No forensics on it.’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘We checked recent purchases at local shops. Indies and chains. Hundreds. Some cash, some card. There’s an intel cell working on it, but it could take weeks to narrow down, check CCTV. Some of the shops won’t have CCTV.’
Sawyer sighed. ‘He’s clever enough to use a shop without CCTV and pay cash. Go lateral. Have the cell check those instead. We might get a description. E-fit.’ He stood up off the desk. ‘Sorry I’m late, by the way.’
‘All quiet from the observation points,’ said Shepherd. ‘Ingram is still being an arsehole. But Walker is handling him well. Kim Lyons’ mother came to visit. Amy and Ava Scott are happy to have the officers around.’
‘What about Dawson?’
‘Still tracing, still eliminating. I spoke to Sophie and Andrew about the money they transferred from his parents. Five figures.’
‘Account trace?’ said Sawyer.
Shepherd shook his head. ‘He emptied it a few months after he left home.’
‘Not enough to sustain him over ten years. He must have done something with his life.’
‘Might have changed his name,’ said Sally. ‘Easily done. You can do it by deed poll from the age of sixteen or seventeen, I think.’
Keating stood up and took up his cap from the desk. The overhead light bleached the grey from his hair, rendering it a furry film of white. ‘Chief Constable meeting.’ He nodded at Sawyer. ‘I’d like a word with my DI alone now, please.’
Sally and Shepherd left. Keating walked to his window and looked out. ‘Tyre really flat? Or did the dog eat it?’
‘Really flat.’
‘Which one?’
He was looking down at the parking area, and Sawyer couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t check. ‘Wasn’t as bad as I thought. Just had to put some air in it.’
Keating turned. ‘So not really flat?’
‘As it turned out, no.’
‘DI Sawyer. I know you seem to think press conferences are optional, but I’d appreciate it if you would at least adhere to the agreed working hours. We’re not exactly nine to five round here, but we’re in the middle of a complex case that is drawing national attention. Conduct leaks out. We have to be airtight.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Sir.’
Keating approached him. ‘You’ll f
orgive me for wondering why your hand is injured for the second time in seven days.’
‘Hitting things. Exercise. Overdoing it.’
Keating nodded. ‘More “glitches”?’ He straightened his cap. ‘Your extracurricular activities are none of my business, of course. But they’re starting to impact on my investigations. Consider this an informal verbal warning. I’m sure it’s not your first.’
46
The guest in Room 38 angled his head at the gentle knock on his half-open door. Chris Hill, Operations Manager at Rosemary House, edged into the room. Hill had the look of a flustered local councillor: unflattering, off-the-peg suit; fuzzy ginger facial hair caught between stubble and beard. He wore a pair of baroque half-moon glasses, and was in the habit of hitching them down the bridge of his nose and tipping his head forward when he wanted to make a point.
Sawyer hung back in the corridor, feeling queasy at the institutional odours: ageing linoleum and boiled food, with a whiff of faeces from the communal toilet opposite his brother’s room.
He stepped inside, where the smell wasn’t much better: old socks and cheap coffee. As ever, Michael sat before his muted TV, wall-mounted at head height. The screen showed a recording of an old football match—eighties, judging by the strip and height of the shorts—but Michael kept his gaze down on a handheld gaming device, which trilled and bleeped as he played.
‘We haven’t been too well lately,’ said Hill. He pulled a cord at the window and raised the slatted blind, over-lighting the charmless en suite room. ‘A bit irritable, perhaps. Oh well. Every day a fresh start, eh, Michael?’ Without waiting for a response, Hill turned to Sawyer. ‘Would you mind keeping it quick? We have a training session in fifteen minutes, and we need to secure the rooms.’ Again, no wait for a response. ‘Many thanks to your father for settling the fees, by the way.’
As he left, Sawyer heard his bright demeanour slip as he berated a young orderly over preparations for the meeting. Their voices faded as they moved along the corridor, until they were silenced by the double doors which led to reception.
Sawyer picked up an angular wooden seat and moved it around into Michael’s potential eyeline. He sat down on the cushion: solid and unyielding. ‘Still playing that one? Is there a global leader board? You can’t be far off the top spot.’
Michael glanced up and nodded. His handheld fell into a tantrum of discordant twittering. He recoiled in anger, and tossed it onto his bed. He looked up at the TV.
‘Mike.’ Sawyer shifted closer. ‘I’d like to get you a speech therapist. I know we’ve tried them before, but sometimes you have to try things more than once.’
Michael looked at him. He had gained more weight in recent weeks, and cultivated an unruly thatch of beard: black around his lips, grey at the edges. He squinted, muting the green of his eyes. Sawyer raised his eyebrows, hoping for more words, but Michael just strained and grimaced, as if swallowing something unpleasant. He held up his hand and splayed out his fingers and thumb.
‘Five?’ said Sawyer. ‘That many? Let’s try again. Maybe you just haven’t met the one who’s right for you yet. Let’s build on what happened a few weeks ago. Now you know you can do it, yes?’
Michael turned back to the screen, paused, then nodded his head in rapid jerks.
‘Like I promised, Mike. I’m going to help you get your life back.’
Michael reached to his bedside table for an opened can of Dr Pepper, exposing the diagonal ladder of scars down his inner forearm. Some of the rungs were made up of single, straight swipes, while others had been carved in place with jabs and scratches. He took a drink, shrugged.
Sawyer pushed on; he was used to the rules, the gestures. ‘I might have found someone who can help.’ This time, Michael shook his head. ‘Mike, I think he’s the one who stole the weapon, to frame Klein. He’s our link to the killer. I don’t think he did it, but he could help us find who did. Maybe there’s enough time passed now. Maybe he feels safer.’
Michael sighed. His shoulders slumped. He clenched his hands in his lap and threaded his fingers together, writhing them around.
Sawyer shuffled in close and rested a hand on his brother’s fingers. ‘You said she asked him why. Mike? She knew him. I think she knew him well. She pulled off his mask, didn’t she? You must have seen that.’ He leaned forward, deep into his brother’s personal space, making himself un-ignorable. ‘What did he look like? You saw him, yes? Yes?’
Michael’s fingers stopped moving. He raised his eyes to Sawyer. A sheen of tears muted the bright green of his irises.
He shook his head.
47
On the drive down to Sheldon, Sawyer scrolled through his phone contacts and tapped one of the names. He set the phone to speaker and slotted it in the dashboard dock. The reply was almost instant, and the caller’s stentorian tone seemed to rattle the bodywork.
‘Detective Sawyer. To what do I owe this pain?’
‘You know how I only call when I need something?’
He heard Frazer Drummond shuffle some papers, flick a switch. ‘Uhuh. And why break the habit of a lifetime?’
‘Talk to me about detergent. With active oxygen.’
A pause. ‘As my son Ben says, “JFGI”.’
‘I’ve done that. Googled it. But I’m old-fashioned, Frazer. I prefer the opinion of an expert over the online mind hive.’
‘Flattery might work with the lonely MILFs of Ladbroke Grove, Sawyer. But it’s lost on me.’
He slowed for a cattle grid, stayed silent.
Drummond sighed. ‘At industrial strength, it’s the hard stuff. You don’t just buy a batch of that at Superdrug. He’s done his research. He knows how the forensics work. He’s a step ahead. Usually, they’ll splash around the Domestos. Bit of Cif to make sure. Who does your clean-up?’
‘Company called CTS Decon. Checks out.’
Drummond clicked his tongue. ‘You not spoken to Sally about this?’
‘Of course. Just looking for a second opinion.’
‘Might not be a professional connection. He just needs to be cosy with chemistry. He’s stacking them up, though. Can you do me a favour and catch this fucker before the weekend? Daughter’s birthday party.’
Sawyer’s phone pinged with a text message.
‘House full of teenagers?’
Drummond snorted. ‘Oh, yes. The boys, I can handle. The girls frighten the life out of me. And there’s fireworks. I fucking hate fireworks.’
‘Is there anything you don’t hate?’
Drummond thought for a while. ‘Montoya Cabernet. Ruby red. Black cherry and blueberry on the nose. Plum and vanilla finish. With a sweet, tender lamb, and honey roast vegetables from a wood-fired oven.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Anything else?’
‘A spot of walking and birding around the Gouthwaite Valley. My wife, my kids. But that really is it. Listen. Love to chat, but you know how it is. Dead people.’
‘Your favourite sort.’
Drummond cackled and hung up. Sawyer checked his phone message.
Eva.
Not ignoring you. Hold back for a while. Dale acting off. Suspicious? xx
He sighed, and accelerated through a flooded dip near a farm entrance, drenching the Mini in muddy water. He called Shepherd.
‘Sir. How was the “word” with Keating?’
‘It was more his words than my words. I’m busy this afternoon, but I want you to talk to Myers. While he’s tracing Joseph Dawsons, get him to cross-reference with chemistry graduates. Stick to colleges and unis in the North and Midlands.’
‘Is this the scene clean-up angle? The one we only found out about today?’
Sawyer paused, hoping it would transmit his irritation. ‘I told you, we had to keep it quiet because we were looking into one of our own contractors.’
‘With respect, sir—’
‘Don’t say that, Shepherd. Please. Let’s take our mutual respect as read, yes? No need to apologise for frankness.’
‘I’m the direct report for the DCs on this case. I should know—’
‘You do know. Now. Before, I made the decision that you didn’t need to know. As your direct report. Myers, please. Chemistry. Stay on target. We can kiss and make up later.’
He hung up, angered by his need to have the last word.
Sawyer picked up Klein at the Barrel and they drove on to Sheldon in near silence. Klein looked frail and haunted, as if the adventure was all a bit too much for him.
They turned in to the road alongside the Magpie Mine site. Sawyer glanced at Klein as he jinked around the potholes. ‘How’s your living situation, Marcus?’
Klein managed a faint smile. ‘First name terms at last!’ He lifted his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. ‘It’s okay. I have the place to myself until just before Christmas. My brother is away.’
‘Is something bothering you?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Not at all.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Klein turned to him. ‘You don’t believe me?’
‘No, I don’t. I’ve interviewed lots of people over the years. You get used to the little tells and body language leaks.’
Klein sighed. ‘It’s strange. I’m having a little trouble adjusting. Nothing serious. Struggling with the small things. The maintenance. Day by day. The supplies, the consumables.’
‘The things that were done for you on the inside?’
‘Yes. Prison does have its positives.’
Sawyer steered into the parking area. ‘I suppose that’s one of the freedoms they take away. The right to make those small choices. The little decisions that make up the days. Brand of toothpaste. When to go to bed. What to eat and when.’
Klein laughed, without humour. ‘There’s also… You’ll probably laugh. But I’m really feeling the paranoia. Like someone is watching me. Or following me.’
‘Today?’
‘Since I’ve been out. Just a feeling. Noises. Looks from people in public. I’m hyper-sensitive to cars behind me, waiting for them to turn off so I can be sure they’re not following.’