by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer stared at the story’s accompanying photograph: a young adult man, late teens, standing on the green of a golf course, kissing a small trophy.
‘How are you finding The Reading Room?’ Jenny breezed in and set a bright yellow tea tray down on the table.
He looked up. ‘Huh?’
She squatted by the table and fussed with the teapot. ‘The guest house is The Reading Room, but that’s what we call the library, too. Bit confusing. I’m not sure what came first.’
Sawyer stole a look at her wellingtons.
She noticed. ‘Sorry about the get-up. We’re building a new coop.’
He nodded, forced a smile.
Jenny stood upright. ‘We keep chickens.’
Sawyer nodded and let his eyes drift up to the high bookshelves which, given the lack of ladder, were practically cosmetic. ‘It’s a nice room. It reminds me of a place I stayed at in the Lakes a few years ago. Smaller on the inside than it looks on the outside.’ He smiled. ‘Like a TARDIS in reverse.’
Jenny nodded, doubtful. ‘A what?’
‘Dr Who?’ He sat down and transferred two sugar lumps into the ornate teacup.
‘Ah!’ She floundered. ‘So. You wrote “police” in the occupation section of the form. What brings you back to the Peaks?’
Sawyer poured, holding the silence. He looked up at her, a twinkle in his eye. ‘That’s classified, I’m afraid.’
Jenny’s mouth dropped open.
Sawyer smiled. ‘Joking. Transferring back to my old nick in Buxton soon. Visiting family for now, though. Bit of time off.’
‘Excellent! You’ve pretty much got the place to yourself. Just one other couple staying at the moment. Now the children are back at school—'
‘So how come the car park is so busy?’ He crunched into a biscuit.
‘We let non-residents use it to park, using some new app or something.’
Sawyer stirred his tea. ‘You synchronise space availability with occupy data?’
‘So I’m told. My husband handles the “back end”, as he calls it. I’m all about the guests.’
The young woman from the dining room entered, and examined a side table containing local maps and guides. She was tall, perky, dressed in a beguiling mix of hiking gear and gym wear: stripy tea cosy hat; bright blue North Face Jacket; Lycra leggings. Sawyer’s gaze lingered as she stretched up on tiptoes to reach a book on a high shelf.
She turned and spoke to Jenny. ‘Do you have any maps of walks around Arbor Low?’
‘I have a terrific area guide for Arbor Low and the Eastern Peaks. Bakewell, Matlock. I’ll go and get it. Won’t be a sec.’
Jenny strode out, leaving the woman browsing a book named Peak District Secret Gems. Sawyer sipped his tea and flipped the newspaper over to the sports page. He chanced a look over at the woman, who, awkwardly, chose the same moment to do likewise. She shifted her eyes back to her book, but Sawyer held on.
‘Cup of tea?’
She looked up, smiled, went back to the book. ‘No, thank you. Just had breakfast.’
‘Lucky you. I missed the cut. I’d kill for some locally sourced egg and bacon.’
She chuckled. ‘Hyper local. Have you seen the chickens out back?’
‘No. Just got here. I’m from round these parts originally. Been exiled down South. You?’
‘Solihull.’
‘Very nice. Bit boring, maybe?’
She looked up, amused. ‘Sorry?’
He smiled and dunked a biscuit. ‘Don’t they call it Soli-dull?’
‘And who is “they”, exactly?’
Sawyer took a bite, spoke with his mouth full. ‘Internet?’
‘Actually, it was voted the best place to live in the UK a few years ago.’
‘By SAGA Magazine, yeah.’
That got a smile. ‘No! I think it was some standard of living website.’
‘Well, if some standard of living website says so, then it must be true.’
She put down the book and studied him.
‘I’m Jake, by the way.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t tell me! It’s either Annabel, or something strange like Delilah or Araminta.’
‘Not even close. It’s Beth.’
He nodded. ‘No kids, then?’
She walked over and settled into a padded chair at the other side of the table. ‘What?’
‘Walking holiday with boyfriend. Booked out of season to avoid the families, which means you don’t have one yourself yet. You’ve stayed close to home because you spent a lot of money on an overseas holiday recently.’
Beth reached over and took a biscuit. ‘And where did we go?’
Sawyer pressed his fingers to his forehead, mind reader-style. ‘Somewhere like… Santorini?’
Beth laughed. ‘I thought you were on a roll for a moment, with the Sherlock impersonation.’ She bit into the biscuit. ‘Malta.’
‘You know what we should do, Beth?’
She leaned back in the chair, munching. ‘And what’s that?’
‘We should go for a walk. I’m free this morning, I know Arbor Low pretty well. It’ll be stunning on a day like today.’
Sawyer caught a movement in his periphery, and assumed it was Jenny returning.
‘We ready, darling?’
The man, Beth’s partner, stood in the doorway. She startled at the sound of his voice and stood up, then headed out to the hall.
‘Have fun, Beth. Nice to meet you.’
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘You, too. Hope you find your egg and bacon.’
Sawyer listened as Jenny greeted her in the hall and handed over the walking book. Although it was Beth who had asked for the book, the man did most of the talking.
He finished his tea and poked through a couple of the local magazines. The inside back cover of Peak District Life had been taken over by a full-page advert: an enormous banner headline with a photograph of five riders on the front seat of a suspended rollercoaster, mouths open in terror and exhilaration, legs outstretched, hands gripping the shoulder barriers.
ESCAPE! TO ALTON TOWERS!
5
‘We’ve been here since the Bronze Age, you know.’
Maggie listened; Justin talked. He was a barrister at a firm in Stockport, dealing mostly in family law and courtroom advocacy. He often joked that anything she couldn’t fix ended up with him.
‘All this gritstone, the escarpments. It was formed way back in the past, by the sliding and slipping of layers of mud and rock. It took thousands of years to settle, then the wind and rain whittled it all down.’
Maggie stared out at the serrated rocks, the low shroud of morning mist, the smears of purple and green. They had secured one of the coveted window tables for Saturday brunch at the Roaches Tea Rooms, and lingered over coffee while Freddy and Mia chased the owner’s Bichon Frise around the back lawn. The main dining area was set in a large, open-plan conservatory, with panoramic views of Blackshaw Moor. Ornate wooden chairs, pyramid napkins, salad and crisps with everything. It was all a little twee for her tastes, but she loved the feel: intimate inside, infinite outside.
Justin sipped his coffee and continued. ‘A couple of years ago, some workers restoring a footpath discovered fragments of an urn. Guess what was inside?’
Maggie smiled. ‘Ancient jewellery? The head of Boadicea’s spear?’
Justin tugged his beanie down over cropped grey hair. ‘Human remains. They dated them back around three thousand, five hundred years ago. Bronze Age.’
He sat back and snapped into his comedy-smug pose: arms folded up high, head tilted back, impish grin. He wasn’t much older than Maggie, but in that light, on that morning, he looked positively fatherly: all creases and crinkles, his good breeding cheapened by the sensible headwear.
Maggie shook her head and gave him a shove. ‘So are you an authority on archaeology now? Or is this all coming from Wikipedia?’
‘Been listening to a history podcast in the car. Britain, region by region. Fasci
nating. We think we’re so progressive, but there’s more that we don’t know, than what we do know. Amazing to think what else might be buried out there.’
Maggie’s phone buzzed with a call; she didn’t recognise the number. ‘I’ll take this outside. Reception’s bad in here.’ She walked out to the patio and answered. ‘This is Maggie.’
‘Hey!’ There was a rumbling and roaring noise at the other end; the speaker was having to shout to be heard. ‘How’s things?’
Maggie held the phone further from her ear. ‘You never say that.’
‘What?’
‘You never say, “How’s things?”’
A rattling sound. A whoosh of wind. ‘What would you like me to say?’
‘How about, “Sorry for forgetting to call you all summer”?’
‘Had a busy time. I literally couldn’t spare the two minutes I would have spent calling you.’
A chorus of screams.
Maggie winced. ‘Where are you?’
‘Right now, I’m upside down… Right way up again. Upside down again.’
She sighed. ‘A rollercoaster?’
‘The Tumbler.’
Maggie turned towards the field and shielded her eyes. Rudyard Lake glistened in the distance. ‘You’re at Alton Towers?’
‘Yeah. Transfer came through. Back to Buxton.’ Another round of whoops and screams. ‘Taking a bit of time off first, though. Family stuff. Everything’s in storage.’
‘Jake, couldn’t you have waited until you got off the rollercoaster before calling me?’
‘Fancied a chat. Forgot it would be so noisy. Sorry.’
The hiss of hydraulics announced the end of the ride. Maggie peeked round the corner of the dining room conservatory. Freddy and Mia were teasing the dog by throwing its ball back and forth between them. Freddy dropped it and the dog snatched it up. Justin emerged with a pair of top-heavy ice-cream cones and the game was history.
Sawyer’s end was suddenly quiet. ‘I’m out by the ride photo shop. Why do they bother with these things? Everyone takes selfies or sets up their own pics these days.’ He paused. ‘Maggie? Still there?’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Near Manifold Valley. Childhood memories. The good ones. The room is a delight, commanding outstanding views of the car park. Are you in for the Padley case?’
‘Due in Sheffield tomorrow. Keating’s MIT. Briefing then co-ordinating FLO.’
‘What’s cause of death?’
‘They didn’t say. Just that Keating wants me on call at Buxton to run the FLO show. It’s a relief, to be honest. Gets me out of the house. Out of the office. Not much FLO work, lately. Spate of school stabbings a few months back.’
Chomping at the other end. ‘Bored teenagers? Failing to appreciate the majesty of the moors.’
‘What are you eating?’
‘Spun sugar.’
She laughed. ‘Candy floss?’
‘So how’s the head-shrinking? Who’s on the couch at the moment?’
‘There’s an interesting guy. Ex-military. He saw a close friend step on an IED in Afghanistan. He recently got himself stranded when he ran out of petrol and had a panic attack when he tried to fill up. Smell of diesel reminded him of—’
‘Isn’t it strange that they won’t tell you cause of death?’
‘A bit. But you know Keating. He likes his support staff to get on board at the same station.’
More chomping. Maggie waited. She knew the pause was a portent. ‘I’m thinking of leaving, Mags.’
‘So why are you transferring?’
‘London. Tired of it. I know, I know. Swapping the smog for the country air. Might buy a place. Set up on my own. Monetise my skills.’
Maggie laughed. It sounded more mocking than she’d intended. ‘You mean a PI? They’re all retired, Jake. They’ve done their time.’
‘Twelve years not enough?’
She sat on the table of a spare wooden picnic bench, facing the view. ‘You know what PIs do, don’t you? It isn’t Philip Marlowe. They serve papers. They’re glorified postmen. Maybe a bit of computer forensics. Trace and locate on a good day.’
Sawyer clicked his tongue. ‘That’s the old model. I’ll update it. Do it my way.’
‘Please don’t break into song.’
He laughed. Maggie warmed at the sound. Sawyer’s laugh wasn’t the kind of braying bark you found on most men. It was infectious, conspiratorial. ‘Only if you say yes to coffee.’
‘You sure coming back is a good idea?’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ve done the healing. Don’t dodge the question. Coffee?’
Maggie got up and walked to the makeshift smoking area by the side of the main gate. She lit up. Speaking to Sawyer always gave her the urge to smoke. ‘What about your flat?’
‘Sold it.’
‘And Sheena?’
‘She’s the one who bought it. Well, Daddy bought it for her.’
Maggie took a drag, exhaled. ‘Are you still—’
‘Jesus, Mags. What does a man have to do to get in front of you with a cup of coffee?’
She looked over to the dining room, through the side windows. Freddy and Mia sat with their father, engaged in the serious business of ice-cream eating.
‘I promised Justin, Jake.’
He didn’t miss a beat. ‘Is this what you do now? Let men define your boundaries? Doesn’t sound like you.’
‘That’s not what I’m doing. That’s in your head.’
He sighed: nice and loud, for her benefit. ‘It’s just coffee.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘That’s in your head. You always had a dirty mind.’
She laughed. ‘Call me when you’ve completed your tour of the theme parks of Northern Britain.’
Sawyer blew out a long sigh. ‘Meet me tomorrow. After the briefing. Then you won’t need to pretend you don’t know anything.’
6
Sawyer drove to an industrial estate on the edge of Buxton and handed over the Corsa to the granite-faced clerk at Enterprise Rentals. The man checked it over, completed some paperwork, and led him to a car park round the back.
‘You’re taking this one for a week. Is that correct?’
‘That’s right, yes. No extended cover. No upsell.’
The clerk eyed him. ‘Right. Something a bit sportier for those twisty country roads, eh?’ A tag on his lapel identified him as ‘HOWARD’. He sounded South African.
‘I like Minis. My mum used to drive one.’
Howard balanced the paperwork on the boot of the orange-and-black Mini Convertible. Sawyer signed and Howard handed over the fob.
‘Diesel, two litre, bring her back with a full tank.’
Sawyer opened the boot and threw in his backpack.
‘Your basic protection is just that, you know. Basic. It doesn’t really cover a lot.’
Sawyer ducked into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Without looking at Howard, he smiled. ‘No extended cover. No upsell.’ He closed the door. Howard bent forward and tapped on the window. Sawyer opened it a few inches.
‘It’s not an upsell. Just a way to reduce your financial liability.’
Sawyer looked up, his emerald eyes sparkling. ‘I’ll be careful.’
The fourteenth-century church of St John the Baptist was Grade One-listed and dubbed ‘The Cathedral of the Peak’ by, presumably, local cathedral enthusiasts. It was the gothic centrepiece of Tideswell, a placid village in the limestone uplands where a teenage Sawyer had first struck out with friends from his nearby neighbourhood. They were hardly intrepid excursions, but the dislocation was symbolic: Tideswell as a stepping stone between the enclosing bosom of Wardlow and the badlands of Buxton.
He parked up and took a moment, gulping back a few breaths. He opened his wallet and slipped out the crumpled polaroid of his mother: so beautiful and unruined, posing at the garden gate on a biting Christmas morning, 1987. There she stood, in her burnt-orange bathrobe, stranded i
n the scattering snow. Her glossy black hair was bundled into the raised hood but was still long enough to escape and coil over her shoulders. She was smiling: indulging her five-year-old son and his new toy, and although her radiance ignited the sunless morning, there was a frailty to the smile; something unsteady in those wild but welcoming eyes. Was it the cold, or were they glassy? On the verge of tears?
At the gravesite, Sawyer replaced the flowers—always white lilies—and stepped back to read the flat bronze headstone, embedded flush to the grass.
In memory of
JESSICA MARY SAWYER
Loving wife to Harold
Devoted mother to Jake and Michael
Died 15th September 1988
Aged 34
Always in our thoughts
Forever in our hearts
He hated it. He hated the generic eulogy and the fake pebbled texture. He hated the gold text and the tacky rose illustrations at the corners.
It was a placeholder, and he would replace it. When it was all over.
‘I’ve come back home, Mum.’ He spoke aloud but kept his voice close to a whisper. ‘Not to the old house. That’s someone else’s home, now. It’s taken a few years, but I’m ready.’
A wheezing laugh erupted from somewhere behind. He turned and saw three teenage boys, tall and coltish, squatting in a spare patch of grass by the church wall. Cigarette smoke swirled around their leering faces. They fell silent at Sawyer’s stare, suppressing laughter. As he turned back, they fell about in a fit of cackling.
‘I need to see Mike, Mum. And Dad. I know how you used to worry, but it’s okay. You don’t need to do that. I can’t say I’ve followed any kind of religious path. Sorry. But I do remember a thing from that prayer you used to read to me. I didn’t know it was a prayer back then. I was too little. You said how there would always be sin. Bad things. Evil. But, “all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well”. It’s not, yet. But it will be.’
‘Talking to yourself, mate?’