by Andrew Lowe
Shepherd nodded. ‘Forensics from Ingram show he was hit with PAVA. Incapacitant spray.’
‘So much for his certificates. Good, old-fashioned surprise attack.’
‘Sally says the immediate scene is clean, but they’re searching the surrounding woods. If he had to get away in a hurry, he might have left us something.’
Sawyer slotted the pen away. ‘Get back to Kim Lyons. I need you to stay there and supervise.’
‘She’s pretty low maintenance.’
‘She’s also effectively under house arrest until this is over.’
When Shepherd had left, Sawyer closed his blind and dug out a pair of in-ear headphones. He connected them to his phone and cued up the recording of his reliving session with Alex. It was profoundly strange to hear his voice checking off all the details, including the colours, the weather, the sensory information.
‘I am walking down the lane… I can hear a plane, high in the sky… I am running back, too fast, tripping over my steps... I can hear my mother’s voice and my dog, barking… The sound makes me feel scared and sick… I can feel the heat of the sun… I can see the green of the grass, the red of the blood…’
He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t help his mother. And he couldn’t help Walker. Both times, he had been too late. Compromised. Powerless.
Of all the questions Alex had posed, one lingered.
‘Does your behaviour put other people in danger?’
He listened some more.
‘I am feeling dizzy… I am crawling on the ground… I can see a man holding a hammer…’
He stopped the recording. He was breathing hard.
He let his brain wander.
His mother asked her killer, “Why?” There was no indication that she had known Owen Casey. So, if he had taken the hammer from Marcus Klein’s house, he was unlikely to be the killer. And the killing was too brutal and calculated for a man with a history of petty burglary. Someone must have asked him, forced him, to take the hammer. They had to be the killer. Or someone connected to the killer. Someone who could plant it as evidence. Or manipulate it later to incriminate Klein. Another informant? An insider?
He called Sally. She barely had time to say hello before he started to speak. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Can you be overheard?’
‘I’m at the processing lab. Private office. Why?’
‘We checked the staff on the crime-scene clean-up company, yes?’
She sighed, irritated. ‘Yes. CTS Decon.’
Sawyer got up and walked to the window. ‘What if the person using the hardcore cleaning chemical isn’t involved in cleaning crime scenes but their work still brings them into contact with similar chemicals?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Jake—’
‘The chemical, the apparent insider knowledge, the change of methods…’
‘You’re not fucking serious?’
He opened the blind. Sunny. Short morning shadows. ‘Remember the conversation we had in the tent at the Palmer scene? I talked about the killer being consistent. I said how it would help us to catch him.’
‘Yes?’
‘The FSIs were there, all around us. After that, we get the chewing gum and fibres at the Brock scene. Breaking in, changing the lock. Changing his methods. Less consistent. Intentionally trying to throw us off. I want a list of everyone you’ve employed as a forensic scene investigator, helper, assistant. Everything. Particularly those who have accompanied you to the scenes in this case.’
Sally took a breath, holding her temper. ‘My team are subject to extensive background checks. They’re regularly screened for psychological—’
‘This is nothing personal on you. Please email me the list straight away. And don’t let anyone on your team know you’ve sent it.’
55
Sawyer drove out of Buxton, climbing away from the tangled outskirts onto the broad A-road artery that connected to the High Peak. He played the album that defined his early teenage years: Everything Must Go by the Manic Street Preachers. Soaring art rock, fuelled by melancholy. It was the first record the band had released since the disappearance of their mercurial guitarist Richey Edwards, and the sense of loss and longing defined his bittersweet escape from a childhood poisoned by his mother’s absence. Today, the breadth of the music meshed with the widescreen fields, spotlit by unseasonal sunshine.
He aimed for the village of Flash, sizing up the potential endgames: extrapolating, projecting options, gaming scenarios. The killer was pathological. He was determined to complete his work: erase all cellular evidence of the man who had denied him the chance to ever know his real parents. But what then? Move on? Wall it all off as an unpleasant duty?
He remembered the words of Dennis Crawley, his quarry in the previous case; a man also driven to murder out of a twisted desire to rebalance the universe. He had said that an eye for an eye was too final, that revenge was a stone in a lake, sending out ripples across future generations. An insatiable legacy.
For the first time, Sawyer was struck by a terrible thought. What if he was to discover his mother’s killer? To confront the man who had demolished her delicate face with a hammer? Would an eye for an eye be enough for him? Would her killer’s death be enough to break the spell that held his brother mute, that had turned his wise and funny father into a religious recluse? Would it unlock his own state of suspension? Unfreeze him?
The gate at the entrance to Kim Lyons’ house was guarded by an authorised firearms officer in bullet-proof body armour, carrying a semi-automatic carbine rifle. Sawyer showed his warrant card. The man called through on his walkie-talkie. A plain clothes protection officer opened the front door and the AFO nodded Sawyer through.
Kim Lyons sat at the kitchen table, talking to a standing female firearms officer. She wore a chunky, rainbow-striped jumper and bright blue jeans. Was she favouring louder colours to compensate for her fading eyesight?
‘Detective.’ Kim pulled herself upright and walked over. She shook Sawyer’s hand: her grip was limp, more like a pinch. ‘A great deal of fuss for one person.’ Her voice seemed even weaker. Watery.
‘Ms Lyons. We have an ongoing situation and we have to prioritise your safety.’
She gave a sad little nod. ‘Are you close to catching this person?’
‘My boss would like you. I think so. I have some ideas. We hope you won’t have to suffer this inconvenience for much longer.’
She ran her fingers around the table and navigated to the far corner of the kitchen. The firearms officer stepped aside to let her through. ‘Would you like some cake?’ Kim took a plastic tub out of the fridge. She opened it, revealing a square sponge cake, coated in bright pink icing and cut into small slices.
‘My kind of breakfast,’ said Sawyer, picking out a slice. ‘Thank you.’
Kim handed him a side plate and a sheet of kitchen roll. ‘Your colleague is through there, in the sitting room. I can’t get him to eat anything.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Doesn’t do sugar. His body is a temple. Well, a parish church, maybe. Strict regime. How are you doing?’
She groped her way to the chair and sat down. ‘Not terribly well, I’m afraid. Everything seems a little darker now. I keep squinting, blinking. Rubbing my eyes. Hoping it will get better. But it never does.’ Kim looked up at him, her eyes darting, hungry for light. ‘My ophthalmologist is very sweet. He tells me that people live perfectly good lives without sight. But I’m not sure I’m ready to accept that. There’s so much beauty in the world. Too much to live on without it.’
The mongrel dog padded in; Sawyer petted it. ‘Life can surprise you. It might feel you’ve reached the end of the road, but then you find a little path, and it leads you somewhere unexpected. You should always be open to the unexpected. Emily Dickinson, the poet, said a beautiful thing. “I dwell in possibility”.’
Kim smiled. ‘That is beautiful. But I think I’ve stopped fearing death, as the end, with nothing but
void beyond. In one sense, fear of death is the fear of missing out, on all the things the living can enjoy. But I value my sight too much. The compromise would be impossible to bear. Have you heard of David Eagleman?’
‘The neuroscientist?’
Kim seemed pleased. ‘Yes! He wrote that we all have three deaths. The first, when the body ceases to function. The second, when the body is buried or otherwise discarded. And the third is the moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time. When you’re forgotten by the living. I have no children, Detective. There’s nobody to speak my name, to carry my genes, hold me in memory. I’m ready to be forgotten.’
‘Your moment will come,’ said Sawyer. ‘As it will for all of us. But for now, I’m afraid it’s my job to extend it into the future, to make sure you have the time to do unforgettable things.’
She gazed up at him. ‘You sound more like a priest than a policeman. I lost my faith years ago. Catholic. I always enjoyed confession, though. So cleansing. I hope you have someone you can confess to.’
Sawyer smiled and turned away. He walked through, past the plain clothes officer. Shepherd sat at a wooden dining table, busy on his laptop.
‘Minecraft?’ said Sawyer.
Shepherd looked up, startled by his presence. ‘Something happened?’
Sawyer dismissed the officer and closed the door. ‘You online?’
‘Yeah. Looking at the list of doctors from Myers. The ones working at Cavendish on the day of Joseph Dawson’s birth. Two obstetricians. Edward Shaw and William Riley.’
Sawyer joined him at the laptop. ‘Bring up the names from Moran. The deed poll name changes registered at the end of the Joseph Dawson timeline.’ Shepherd opened a PDF from his desktop: a smudgy photocopy, with a long list of names in alphabetical order of first name. Five Edwards. Three Williams. No Shaws or Rileys. He took out his phone and checked his email. Another list, from Sally. Sawyer scanned the names and set the phone down on the table, for Shepherd to see.
He took a bite of the cake, waited. Shepherd read through the list, cross-checked with his laptop screen. He looked up and raised his eyebrows.
Sawyer nodded. ‘Remember the bookshelf?’
‘Bring him in?’
‘Get Myers to trace the name. Full story. There’ll be an address, but he won’t be there now. Not after Walker.’
‘Public appeal?’
‘I’ve got a better idea.’
56
They stood before Keating like a line of naughty children in the headmaster’s office: Sawyer, Shepherd, Moran and Sally. Keating leaned forward on his desk, scrubbing a palm across his stubbled chin.
‘We have to keep this tight,’ said Sawyer. ‘Just the key players. Nothing on HOLMES. I think he has inside information somehow. Maybe hacked HOLMES access. Maybe just what he’s picked up from the scenes or second-hand from briefings.’
Sally stared down at the desk, at her file photograph of Edward Ballard: a photobooth shot, bright and bland. Ballard was perched in front of a corrugated, watery blue background. He peered into the lens, head tilted up slightly. He had frizzy brown hair, cropped short all over. Wide, pensive mouth with thin lips pressed together; round, dark-framed glasses which perfectly matched the radius of his eye sockets. His expression was curious, and there was a softness to his eyes. A sympathy. He seemed slight and scaled down, diminished in the centre of the image.
‘He looks like an accountant,’ said Moran. ‘Or a fucking mortgage advisor.'
‘It’s just so difficult to believe. He’s one of my best investigators. So sharp. And kind, too. Diligent.’
‘This stuff doesn’t always show on the outside,’ said Sawyer.
‘He’s ditched the glasses,’ said Sally, dreamy and distant.
Myers knocked on the door; Sawyer waved him in.
‘There’s nobody at the Hayfield flat block,’ said Myers. ‘His flat is on the ground floor. Looks empty, through the window. The landlord is around tomorrow morning.’
Keating shook his head. ‘He’s not obliged to let us in.’
‘Harbouring?’ said Shepherd.
Moran nodded. ‘Perverting the course, at least.’
‘He won’t go back there,’ said Sawyer. ‘Not after what happened with Ingram and Walker.’
‘It’s crazy,’ said Sally.
Sawyer looked at her. ‘It’s safe. For the target.’
‘But not for you.’
‘She’ll only agree to it this way,’ said Keating. He nodded to Myers. ‘What else?’
‘Edward Ballard. Twenty-seven. Studied Forensic Science at Wolverhampton Uni. First three years undergrad, fourth year Masters. Looks like he didn’t complete the Masters. Worked clean-up at a Birmingham firm, Scene Clean. Then…’ He looked at Sally; she kept her gaze fixed on Keating’s desk. ‘Started to work on Sally’s team three years ago.’
‘Did he attend the Ingram and Walker scene?’ said Keating.
Sally shook her head. ‘Called in sick the day before.’
‘Busy staking out,’ said Sawyer. ‘Probably living in a new stolen van.’ He unwrapped a black-and-white boiled sweet. ‘The timeline adds up. I bet he saw the BBC article about Tyler last summer and it set him in motion. He contacted Amy Scott, forced her to reveal details of Tyler’s organ recipients. He spent some time observing the targets, establishing routines. A few weeks ago, he travelled to London and murdered Rebecca Morton. Then he visited Susan Bishop, the first of the five who are keeping Tyler “alive”, in his mind. He’s meticulous, unwavering. Andrew and Sophie mentioned his obsessive nature. We’ve seen it in his presentation, the way he’s tried to direct his attention to the offending organs. Leave no trace.’ He squeezed the sweet into his mouth.
Keating stared up at him. ‘One more time, Sally.’
She sighed. ‘I email my team, explaining how Kim has requested that the heavy protection be removed, with one protection officer at the front of the house and one unarmed protection officer inside, while we prepare for transfer to a safe house tomorrow morning. I say the house is to be swept after Kim has left, for evidence of intruders or listening devices.’
‘And we’re confident that Ballard will see this email?’ said Keating.
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Belt and braces. Even if he doesn’t, he will be watching as we remove the protection. There’s only one route through to Kim’s first-floor bedroom, which will be covered by the protection inside. Me. She’s asked for me specifically.’
Keating nodded. ‘You mean you pitched it to her, sold yourself.’
‘Not like you to make friends, DI Sawyer,’ said Moran.
Keating pointed at Myers. ‘I want you as the officer out front. Sawyer, stay in touch. Regular check-ins with Myers. If something feels wrong, if Ballard shows, you call it in. You get help. Immediately. Clear?’
Sawyer stepped forward, towards Keating. ‘This is our best chance of getting him. Kim Lyons is more than a loose end. Her continuing survival is unbearable for him. He needs to finish his work.’
57
Kim Lyons paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘There’s tea and cake in the kitchen. Please help yourself.’
Sawyer had pulled an armchair through to the hall. He sat in a pool of shadow in the corner, facing the door that led through to the porch and back garden. ‘Thank you. I’ve got everything I need. We appreciate your co-operation. If our friend makes an appearance, I can have back-up here in seconds. But please keep your bedroom door locked. I have your number, so I’ll inform you if there’s any development.’
Kim smiled. ‘You’re very brave, Detective.’
‘I’m fine. Leo’s got my back.’ He reached down and scratched the head of Kim’s mongrel dog, curled up tight at the side of the armchair. His tail swished against Sawyer’s ankles.
‘He’s not much of a guard dog, I’m afraid. He’s getting on a bit now.’
Sawyer patted Leo’s flabby torso. ‘Let me know if you need anything. I realise this must
be stressful, Ms Lyons. But it’s under control. We have a watcher out front, and I have the back covered here. If nothing happens tonight, then we’ll have to move you and take another approach.’
She forced a smile and slowly made her way up the stairs. Sawyer followed the footsteps as she moved into her bedroom, directly above. He looked down to the dog. ‘Just you and me tonight, big man.’ Leo lifted an ear.
He reached over to the table at the side of the chair, and opened his book. ‘Let’s see if we can finally get through this.’
An hour passed. Sawyer knew from his experience with stakeouts that he had to hold his mind in stasis. It was a mistake to try and keep it alert with hectic videogames or lively music; that would just tire it out. But he also couldn’t afford to let it settle, sink too close to the edge of sleep.
He read, listened to low-volume music through one earpiece, played a few mildly taxing phone games.
The house was silent and still, apart from the metronomic tick, tick, tick of the kitchen wall clock. Its rhythm synced with Leo’s wheezy breathing and Sawyer found himself tuning out, drifting.
He got up and walked into the kitchen, navigating only by low-brightness phone light. Leo followed him, curious.
The kitchen clock read 2:40.
He made a cup of black instant coffee and helped himself to a slice of the sponge cake. Leo looked up as he sliced, hopeful. Sawyer smiled and handed down a chunk. The dog inhaled it and immediately agitated for more. He found some ham in the fridge and tore off a few strips, laying them on the floor for Leo to snaffle in seconds.
Sawyer ate the cake standing up and swallowed two ibuprofen with a slug of water. He took the coffee back to his chair, riding a spike of pain whenever he applied pressure to his right leg.
A noise upstairs.
Kim’s footsteps, moving across the ceiling towards the bathroom. After a few minutes, the toilet flushed, and she shuffled back.