Creepy Crawly

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘Bound to happen. Can’t be avoided.’

  The boy nodded. ‘How do you know my name?’

  Sawyer looked up at Eva and winked. She smiled with one side of her mouth. Bronze lipstick. ‘I looked within your soul.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I heard your mum say it before.’ He stood up. ‘How long have you got before you can get back to school? I bet you’re missing it, aren’t you?’

  Luka shrugged ‘They say a week or two. I love school. Miss my mates.’

  ‘I like your glasses.’ He nodded. ‘You got good teachers?’

  ‘They’re alright.’

  Sawyer took a peek through the window. Follett hadn’t moved. ‘My mum was a teacher.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘She taught me a lot.’

  Luka glanced up at his own mother, seeking approval. She nodded. He turned back to Sawyer and drew back his shoulders. ‘I want to be an astrophysicist.’

  Sawyer reeled. ‘Really? Not an astronaut?’

  Luka pondered. ‘If I get bored with astrophysics, I could change and be an astronaut. Or maybe a comedian.’

  Shepherd handed Sawyer a coffee. ‘Good idea, Luka. We need more comedians. It can be a pretty depressing world.’ He held out a hand; Luka took it. Sawyer did the shaking. ‘I have to go now. Get yourself back to bed. And get well soon.’

  36

  Shepherd inched the Range Rover past an oncoming tractor and, to Sawyer’s relief, turned into a broad A road, bound for Longnor.

  Sawyer took a packet of boiled sweets from his pocket and prodded it towards Shepherd, who shook his head. He squeezed a bright yellow oval from its wrapper and slipped it into his mouth. ‘Why do you drive this thing?’

  ‘It’s a good all-rounder.’

  Sawyer shook his head. ‘If you were the director of an outdoor pursuits centre, yeah. On and off road in all weathers. But you’re police.’

  ‘We can’t all be svelte types like you, sir. There aren’t many cars that are compatible with my—’

  ‘Presence.’

  Shepherd smiled. ‘I’ll take that, yeah. And it’s rugged, hard wearing.’

  ‘Makes you feel safe.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  They drove on, flanked by flat, open moorland and roadside farms.

  Sawyer crunched at his sweet. ‘Anxiety. It’s the fear of the future. Seneca said that there are more things likely to frighten us than there are to crush us, and we suffer more in imagination than in reality.’

  ‘I had a lurgy. Really. Sometimes you just get laid out for a few hours, then feel better.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it? How we give physical illness cute little colloquial names. Lurgy. The runs. But with anything mental or emotional, we keep it clinical. Like it’s the reserve of doctors, and not something we’re supposed to empathise with, human to human.’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘This is certainly different. The last fella I worked with, he wouldn’t shut up about rugby.’ He turned into the village with the care home and stopped in a queue at traffic lights. ‘So what are you afraid of, if not the future?’

  ‘I don’t know. Haven’t found anything yet.’

  Shepherd studied him, smiling. ‘I thought you said that men should stop with the bravado and be more vulnerable.’

  ‘It’s not bravado. I just… don’t get it. I don’t feel it. Fear. I don’t feel it in the moment. As a physiological thing. I don’t know what it feels like.’

  Shepherd moved off. ‘That’s weird. Maybe you just haven’t encountered anything that scares you yet.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Follett hasn’t been well lately, so I would ask that you keep it brief.’

  Marilyn Holland, the manager of the Sunrise Retirement Community, led Sawyer and Shepherd through the day room. The residents were arranged in cliques, huddled into lavender chairs with tall, curved backs. Most sat before wheeled walking frames. Some were slumped alone, pointed towards two large windows; others had gathered around cheap beechwood side tables. Chatting. Knitting. Sleeping. Peering into magazines. Staring into space.

  A few sat around a small dining table scattered with brightly coloured children’s play blocks.

  ‘That’s our dementia-friendly activity. Normally, Judy would be involved, but she wasn’t keen today.’ Holland was thirty-odd. Short and slim and dressed in an immaculate nurse’s uniform: royal blue with white trim. The material flashed in the light as she walked ahead. It looked vinyl. Waterproof. Fluid proof.

  The day room had been rendered in washed-out colours. Cream walls, grey curtains and floor, a flat-screen TV mounted on a watery turquoise back wall. As with Rosemary House, there was nothing primary; presumably to keep emotion dampened down.

  Sawyer shuddered at the institutionalised obsolescence. Life boiled down to its barest essence, to a schedule of pre-defined waypoints: medication at nine, activity at ten, board games and television in the evening, cocoa at bedtime. Rigid mealtimes: nutritionally precise. Optimum tranquillity. An uneventful glide towards the grave.

  One half of him found it appealing: the absolute surrender. No alarms or surprises. Waited on, doted on. Propped and tucked. Wiped and watered. Sustained. Like an unloved but familiar pet.

  The other half raged against it. Against the dying light.

  They passed a trembling woman: drooped and skeletal inside a sagging blouse, head lolled to the side, eyes half open. Sawyer thought of Larkin. The Old Fools. ‘Thin, continuous dreaming’; ‘baffled absence’.

  ‘Judy’s room is back this way.’

  Holland unlocked a pair of double doors and stepped aside to usher Sawyer and Shepherd into a beige corridor with a stale miasma of musk and mould. The walls were obscured by insipid landscapes and the floor and ceiling maintained the anti-colour scheme: stony grey, sandy white.

  Holland tapped on a laurel green door, opened it wide and walked in.

  An ash-haired woman was perched upright in a single bed, sunken into a back rest of pink pillows. Her toad-skin hands lowered a copy of The People’s Friend as they entered.

  ‘Hello, Judy! Are you feeling any better?’

  Judy looked up, startled, as if hearing Holland’s voice for the first time. Holland bustled over to the curtains and opened them wider; Judy squinted at the movement.

  Holland dropped her voice and spoke to Sawyer and Shepherd. ‘She exaggerates the eyesight thing. She can see fine. Deaf as a post, though.’ She raised the volume and turned to Judy. ‘This is Mr Sawyer and Mr Shepherd, Judy. They’re from the police.’

  ‘Who?’ The voice was tiny, wavering.

  ‘Hello, Judy.’ Sawyer pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. ‘We’ve got some good news for you.’

  She swivelled her head to him, wincing; the movement clearly caused her pain. ‘Are you getting me out, then?’

  ‘Oh, now,’ said Holland. ‘You love it here.’ She whispered to Sawyer, ‘I’ll leave you for a few minutes. Call me if you need anything. I’ll leave the door open, if you don’t mind.’ She swished past and entered another door, halfway down the corridor.

  Sawyer shuffled his chair closer to the bed. ‘Mrs Follett. It’s about Gary.’

  She looked confused. ‘Gary?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s okay. He’s alive. He might be able to come and—’

  Judy looked up at Sawyer. Red, rheumy eyes. ‘My Gary? Oh, no. He’s gone. Haven’t seen him for a long time. Never been to see me, you know.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘Yes. But he’s back. We’ve found him, Mrs Follett.’

  Judy craned her neck to see down the corridor. She leaned towards Sawyer and he bent forward. ‘They don’t feed you.’ She sat back, satisfied. ‘Nothing. You get nothing.’

  Shepherd exchanged a look with Sawyer. ‘Mrs Follett. Do you know if Gary was friends with someone called Toby? Or maybe Georgina. Does that name ring a—’

  Judy jabbed a finger over Sawyer’s shoulder, towards the corridor. ‘She does it all. Stops
the food. She puts things in it, you know. Drugs.’ Judy was flushed, angry.

  Sawyer angled his head and Shepherd closed the door. ‘Judy. We need to talk about your son. About Gary. Someone tried to hurt him and—’

  Judy screwed her eyes closed. A tear trickled down her cheek and blotted into the edge of her blanket. She opened her eyes again. ‘My Gary is a good boy. He was always big, you know. Biggest in all his classes. But he never hurt anyone.’ She waved a hand. ‘I don’t know no Toby. Or Georgina. You should get out of here now. Tell Gary I don’t want to see him. He couldn’t be bothered to come here before, so I don’t want him now.’

  They found Holland and trudged back through the day room. The skeletal woman was in the same position, her chest rising and falling with each rasp and release.

  ‘Has Mrs Follett received any unusual mail today?’ said Sawyer.

  Holland shook her head. ‘I don’t think she’s had any mail for the last year. Sad but true.’

  ‘Can you keep an eye out? Please give us a call at Buxton station if she receives anything.’

  ‘Of course.’ Holland opened the main door to show them out. She was sulking over Shepherd’s closing of Judy’s door.

  They walked across the car park, shoulder to shoulder, and stopped at the Range Rover.

  ‘Now that,’ said Shepherd, ‘is what you call an unreliable witness.’

  ‘The killer must know he got out. We need to talk to Follett. Find out how he got to the grave, if he saw the killer.’ Sawyer’s phone vibrated in his pocket. ‘Get someone looking into Follett, Toby Manning and Georgina Stoll. We have three elements now. There must be a connection somewhere. And we need to know why he messed up Follett’s dosage. Was he disturbed? Is his MO changing?’ He took out the phone, checked the screen. He connected the call. ‘Mags.’

  ‘He’s awake. Follett.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’ Silence at the other end. ‘Maggie?’

  ‘Sort of. You need to get back here.’

  37

  Sawyer burst out of the lift and hurried along the corridor, leaving Shepherd puffing behind. Keating had joined Myers and Walker outside Follett’s room. The blinds had been fully closed.

  ‘Well?’ He looked from face to face. All sombre.

  ‘Maggie’s in with him,’ said Keating.

  Sawyer walked in to Follett’s room, followed by Shepherd. Maggie sat at the side of the bed, resting a hand on the rail. She stood as Sawyer entered.

  Follett sat upright, eyes open, shaven head dipped slightly. His gaze didn’t shift to Sawyer; he seemed fixated on a wall mounted cupboard at the foot of the bed.

  Maggie patted the back of Follett’s hand. ‘Gary, this is Detective Inspector Jake Sawyer and Detective Sergeant Ed Shepherd. They’re here to help you.’

  Sawyer pulled up a chair. ‘How are you feeling, Gary?’

  Follett paused for a second, took a breath. ‘Creepy crawly.’

  The voice was deep and resonant. Sawyer caught Maggie’s eye.

  ‘What’s that, Gary?’

  ‘Creepy crawly.’

  This one raised in pitch near the end. It almost sounded like a question.

  Sawyer turned to look at Shepherd. He nodded. ‘Is that a film you like, Gary?’

  ‘Creepy crawly.’

  Follett blinked for the first time since Sawyer had entered, but he kept staring straight ahead.

  Maggie gave Follett’s hand an encouraging squeeze. He submitted, but didn’t return any movement. ‘Can you tell us what happened to you, Gary? You’re perfectly safe now.’

  Follett turned his head towards Maggie and squinted, as if he were trying to discern something through darkness. ‘Creepy crawly.’ He spoke the words with a barbed confidence.

  Keating had moved to the doorway with Myers and Walker behind, watching.

  Sawyer sat back. ‘Who put you in the box, Gary? Did you see the man? What did he look like? Did he say anything?’

  Follett’s crystal blue eyes shifted to Sawyer’s. ‘Creepy crawly.’

  Now the words were insistent, as if he was impatient at the lack of understanding, frustrated by having to repeat himself.

  Shepherd tried. ‘Is that something the man said to you, Gary? Did he inject you with something? Put you in a box? Do you remember—’

  ‘Creepy crawly.’

  Sawyer lifted his hand and passed it before Follett’s gaze. No blink. ‘Can you nod or shake your head yes or no, Gary? Was the man tall?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Was he white, black?’

  Nothing.

  Sawyer reached into his inside pocket and produced a printout of Rhodes’s two CCTV images of the bearded man. ‘Did he look like this, Gary?’

  Follett’s eyes drifted to the paper, then found their way back to the cupboard. ‘Creepy cr—’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sawyer. ‘Creepy crawly. We get that. Gary? Listen. I’ll give you a clue. Two words. Six, six.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘Jake…’

  ‘Slang term for insect or bug.’

  ‘Creepy crawly.’

  ‘Yes! Progress.’

  Sawyer took out a pen and turned over the printout, to the blank side. He placed pen and paper on the bed, onto Follett’s knees. ‘Can you draw me something, Gary? Can you write your name for me? Can you draw me a picture of the man who put you in the box?’

  Follett reached a hand out from underneath the blanket. His hands were large and pitted with scars and grooves. He reached out to the paper and hovered a hand over it. There was soil beneath his fingertips, fresh-looking bruises around his wrists.

  He pulled back the hand and stuffed it back under the blanket.

  They found a table seat in the coffee shop. The men sat in a line on one sofa. Maggie took the other.

  She stirred her tea. ‘We need to go easy. He’s in a semi-catatonic state, probably brought on by the trauma. If we push too hard, he might shut down completely.’

  Sawyer toyed with a sachet of sugar, pinching it, feeling the grains shift and re-gather. ‘He might be trying to tell us something about the killer.’

  ‘What is this, Maggie?’ said Keating. ‘Catatonic state or PTSD?’

  ‘A bit of both. PTSD usually develops over time, but it can sometimes be immediate.’ She flashed a look at Sawyer. ‘And it’s not helpful to see the behaviour as wilful. This is pathological. It’s a chemical response in the brain. An opioid overload. We can barely imagine the horror he’s been through. Plus, we don’t know anything about him. No mental health history.’

  ‘And he’s been missing for five years,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s a big gap in our knowledge.’

  Keating sat back, hands on head. ‘What if he’s been threatened and told only to say those two words?’

  Shepherd pointed at Sawyer. ‘The Manson family had a thing they called “creepy crawling”. They would break into houses while the residents were sleeping and rearrange furniture, steal small items, get into their heads. It was more about the violation than material gain.’

  Sawyer tore open the sachet and tipped it into his coffee. ‘Is there medication? Anything that could unlock him?’

  Maggie sighed. ‘Potentially. But that could also make it worse.’

  ‘I spoke to Sally,’ said Keating. ‘Scene is clean. Everything consistent with the other burials. Coffin lid has been bashed open from the inside. Same camera. They found bloodied cable ties on the route from the scene to the roadside.’

  ‘He’s not a live messenger,’ said Sawyer. ‘That’s too risky. Our man screwed up his dose, or he has some kind of immunity. Our priority is to find a connection between Gary Follett and the others. And we need toxicology.’

  Keating shook his head. ‘We have a live witness. Someone who has survived a murder attempt. Our priority is to get him to talk sense. We need to hear what happened to him and hopefully find out something about who did it.’

  Shepherd’s phone rang. He stepped away from the table to take it.

 
Keating leaned forward. ‘Maggie, the skill of an SIO is to predict consequences. When the Chief Constable finds out that we’ve got someone who has escaped from the killer, the consequences are clear. He will want to know why we haven’t used him to find the killer. I need to bring in Tier Three officers to interview him, draw him out. We’re police officers, not social workers.’

  ‘You can’t use specialist interview techniques to bypass trauma. He is a victim of crime. Not a criminal.’

  Shepherd returned. ‘That was Bloom. He says the press know we’ve got a live victim, someone who got away from our killer.’

  Keating closed his eyes. ‘How the fuck do they know that?’

  ‘He says he got a call from one of the nationals. They’ve got a nickname for the killer.’

  Keating sighed. ‘Go on.’

  Shepherd glanced at Sawyer. ‘The Undertaker.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ said Keating. ‘This is the real world, not some fucking Marvel comic. Please tell me that Bloom didn’t give them anything.’

  Sawyer stood. ‘Maggie, keep trying with Follett. Let us know if he says anything new. Sir, we should hold back the Tier Three boys until tomorrow at least. Shepherd, you supervise here. Stay with Maggie and don’t let Follett out of your sight. Screen all visitors. We don’t know what he’s seen, but our man still might try to finish the job. Walker, look into “creepy crawly”. What is that? Book? Film? Manson family? Video game? What’s the significance? Keep the phrase out of the press, though. If you can.’

  38

  ‘Just relax, Professor. It will be better. To reduce resistance from the spirit world.’

  Donald Ainsworth unfolded his arms and eased back into the sofa, in his sparse, unlived-in living room. Viktor Beck sat opposite, all in black. He had taken to wearing a fedora: black with a dark grey band. It sat on the coffee table between them, beside two untouched cups of tea and the blue-grey plush elephant from the experiment at the university.

  ‘Would you prefer me to call you Donald?’