by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer flowed through the disciplines, embedding the footwork, deepening the muscle memory. The fog swirled and scattered, uncloaking his mind: a broad, cool pool on a breezeless night. Faces shimmered across the surface. Tracey Manning. Viktor Beck. Dale Strickland. Georgina. Toby. Luka. Eva. They merged and melted, offering nothing. His body needed rest; his brain screamed for shutdown. But the faces lingered in montage: amorphous and unknowable.
He completed the form, made coffee, and read a section of Maggie’s book.
True fear is a gift that signals us in the presence of danger. It will be based on something you perceive in your environment or your circumstance. Unwarranted fear or worry will always be based on something in your imagination or your memory.
4.10am. He would go back soon.
His eyelids stung. He let the book fall away and closed his eyes.
On cue, his mother swept in. Lost but luminous, her raven black hair falling free. When he dreamed of his mother, Sawyer was lucid, fully aware that he was inside a dream. He would greet her, ask her for help. She would smile, and he always had the sense she could hear him, but was unable to reply. Sometimes she would appear anguished, as if desperate to communicate but unable to find her voice. Eventually, her eyes would slide away and she would startle and look over his shoulder, as if spotting some threat at his back. However hard he tried not to, he would always turn, and wake confused, searching his brain for an answer to her puzzle.
56
‘We’ve found a fit for Tracey Manning’s story.’ Moran handed a sheet of paper to Sawyer: a compound photocopy of a death record and newspaper obituary. ‘Irene Crawley. Died age thirty-seven. Death registered in June 1992.’
Sawyer browsed the record. ‘Looks like she didn’t die in the assault.’
‘You said Tracey mentioned she might have had polio,’ said Walker. ‘Was that still around in the nineties?’
‘Mostly gone by the late eighties,’ said Shepherd. ‘She could have had a type of paralysis or some other complication. What’s the COD?’
Sawyer handed back the sheet and slumped into a chair. He had barely managed a couple of hours’ sleep in total. ‘Just says “after a short illness”. Pray for the eternal soul. Blah, blah, blah. It mentions her brother, James, and son, Dennis. It hardly matters how she died. He connects the assault to her death. He sees it as murder.’
Shepherd turned to Walker. ‘What about the assault?’
‘No record. Doesn’t look like they even reported it.’
‘Assuming it happened.’
Sawyer pulled at the skin around his cheeks, trying to work out the fatigue. He kept his eyes closed. ‘Dale Strickland?’
‘Common or garden scumbag,’ said Myers. ‘I couldn’t find a single redeeming feature. Didn’t go to Paul and Danny’s school. Looks like he bounced around the country for a while in his twenties and thirties. A few trips to prison. Drugs, stolen goods, bit of burglary. Two complaints of sexual assault. No convictions, though. He came back to the family home in Chelmorton a few years ago. You know the rest. GBH. Buckley Hall. Parole coming up. The world will definitely be a less pleasant place with him on the outside.’
‘He’ll keep,’ said Sawyer. ‘I’m more concerned about getting his son back safe. What do we know about Dennis Crawley himself?’
Moran pulled up a chair. ‘He finished the year but then moved to a different school. Benedict. His mother died in the run up to his GCSEs. He was in care for a while. Independent school. Ainfield, near Warslow.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘There are a couple of them in the Peaks. My brother was at the other one in Bradwell.’
A beat. Side glances.
Moran continued. ‘Got his tax records. Dole for a year or two. Then at the address of his uncle, James, in Warslow. Then he got a job. At Poole’s Cavern.’
Sawyer opened his eyes. ‘Tracey said he was into rocks. Geology. Caving.’
‘He then worked at an activity centre. White Hall Open Pursuits.’
‘Ten-minute drive from here,’ said Myers. ‘Did a team-building thing there a few years ago. Climbing, abseiling, caving. Made me realise I’m the indoors type. Actually, I didn’t do the caving. Too claustrophobic. Anyway, I can’t find Crawley after he left White Hall. Maybe he went freelance. Indie.’
Sawyer stood up. ‘Myers, take Poole’s Cavern and White Hall. What did Crawley do there? Habits? Hangouts? What was he like? Who hired him? Moran, get the uncle’s address on the warrant and go see the clerk. Get it rushed through. Walker, come with me and Shepherd.’
Shepherd held up both hands, palms out. ‘If we’re going to Crawley’s uncle’s place, then we need to wait for a TAC team.’
Sawyer whipped on his jacket. ‘Three strapping lads like us?’ Shepherd looked doubtful. ‘Alright. You can bring your special pen.’
The address took them to a semi-detached council house off the Leek Road outside Warslow. Sawyer parked the Mini across the street and double checked the number. Crawley’s uncle’s place was the end terrace, with the most overgrown garden of the group.
‘None of your characterful gritstone dwellings round these parts,’ said Shepherd. ‘These are Parker Morris homes. Sixties, early seventies. Based on the old prefab designs. They were required to have one flushing toilet. Who the hell has a non-flushing toilet?’
Sawyer rolled his eyes at Walker; Shepherd caught it. ‘Sorry. It’s the one thing I remember from my civics exam.’
Sawyer reached for the door handle. ‘Let’s go see if Dennis can come out to play.’
Shepherd reached over and pulled back Sawyer’s hand. ‘We need to wait for the warrant. It’s quiet. Early. Moran will get it signed off within the hour. We can’t just walk up to the door and ring the bell.’
Sawyer shrugged him off. ‘Section seventeen. Danger to life or limb. We don’t have time for process. Luka doesn’t have time. This is the most likely address that can give us an idea where Dennis Crawley might be.’
‘He might be here,’ said Walker.
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Now that really would be hiding in plain sight. He’s not here. I’m not even sure his uncle is here, judging by the state of the garden.’
They climbed out of the car and crossed to the house: Sawyer ahead, Shepherd and Walker flanking. At the front door, Walker edged round a side snicket to watch the back of the house.
Sawyer flipped open the letterbox and peeked inside. The motion dislodged a flutter of peeling turquoise paint, exposing the original wood of the door.
He listened.
Tap, tap, tap.
Paws on lino.
An enormous Rottweiler padded out of the kitchen into the hall. It spotted Sawyer and sank low, haunches raised, jaws dripping into the carpet. Its growl rose in volume, from cautious rumble to accusatory snarl. Sawyer kept his eyes on it for a few seconds and released the letterbox. The snarling raised in pitch and volume.
A net curtain twitched in the front window, and a male voice emerged into the hall, berating the dog. A door slammed and the dog fell silent. Sawyer leaned round to the snicket and motioned for Walker to stay at the back of the house.
The front door opened. A startled man in his early sixties filled the doorway, dressed in a tattered Black Sabbath T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He was broad and lumpy, with pallid skin that hung off his cheeks in wrinkled folds. He ran a hand over his stubbly grey hair. It had just gone 9am, but there was something in the man’s exaggerated movement that suggested he had been drinking.
The dog snarled and scratched behind the kitchen door.
‘James Crawley?’ said Sawyer. He and Shepherd both held up their warrant cards.
The man nodded. ‘Jim.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Sawyer and this is Detective Sergeant Shepherd. Sorry to disturb you, but we’re keen to talk to your nephew, Dennis.’
He snorted. ‘Join the fucking queue. He owes me nearly a month’s rent.’
Sawyer placed his accent as local with a hint of
Midlands. Maybe Stoke. ‘Have you not seen him lately?’
‘Not for a week or so. He’s normally in and out, and I catch him from time to time. Sting him for the rent.’ He dipped forward and winked at Shepherd. ‘We pretty much live separate lives here, though. He’s like a lodger. I’ve been away a bit lately. I met this woman down near Mayfield.’
Sawyer peered around him, into the hall. ‘Can we have a look round his room?’
Jim darkened. ‘I hope you’ve got a warrant. I’ve seen the police shows.’
Shepherd glanced at Sawyer. ‘It’s on its way.’
Jim winked again, shrugged. ‘I’m only messin’. Take the carpet up if you like.’
‘Is the animal safe?’ said Shepherd.
Jim smiled. ‘Geezer will take your hand off, normally. But he’s alright in there.’ He stepped aside and they walked through to the hall. ‘Something off with him today, though. Never seem him so timid. Any visitors and he’s normally up at the door, tryin’ to break it down.’
Jim led the way up the stairs, his buttock cleavage peeking over the top of his tracksuit trousers. The house smelt stale and doggy. Sticky carpet, patterned woodchip wallpaper. Unchanged since the eighties. Maybe seventies. Sawyer half expected to see Drummond’s detested Crying Boy painting.
Sawyer gripped the dusty bannister as he climbed behind Jim. ‘Don’t know many dogs named after bass players.’
Jim turned, smiling. ‘Sabbath man?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘My mum loved them. She liked her sixties and seventies stuff.’
Jim stopped. He coughed and caught his breath before hauling himself up the next stair. ‘Ah, best time for music. They say you’re always biased towards the music of your teens and twenties. But today’s music is just filling space. No edge to it, eh?’
Shepherd called from behind. ‘How long have you lived here with Dennis?’
‘Pretty much since he came out of Ainfield. Couple of years after Irene died. His mum.’
‘She was disabled, right?’
He looked back again. ‘She had a hard life. Broke her neck the summer after Dennis was born. Misjudged a swimming pool dive. I was there. Fucking hell, that was hard.’
‘What happened to Dennis’s dad?’ said Sawyer.
‘He didn’t want to know. Don’t blame him. He was too young for it. She met a bloke after the accident. Physio. I think he had a fetish, you know? He fucked off before Dennis got to school. Some women just have no luck with fellas.’
They made it to the top and gathered on the landing.
Jim panted and bent forward. ‘She was sweet, my sister. Wouldn’t hurt a gnat. Turns out she had a bit of money under the mattress, like. I got a bit. The rest went into a trust for Dennis. We sold the house after she died and I bought up this place off the council in the nineties. I used to rent it. Fucking hope he pops up soon. I need that rent. I drive buses.’ He coughed again; it didn’t sound healthy. ‘I’m on noons today.’
The dog barked downstairs. The sound bounced off the mass produced partitions, fuzzy and eerie.
The first door on the left had a faded old World Wildlife Fund panda sticker near the handle.
‘This is Dennis’s room. Fill your boots. I’ll go and sort Geezer. He’ll be fine once he’s fed his face. I hope Dennis hasn’t done anythin’ wrong. He’s a bit off the wall, but he’s not a bad lad.’
The room was small and hot but oddly odourless. There was an unmade single bed against the wall beneath a window that overlooked the back garden. Sawyer edged aside the curtain and peeked out at a forest of weeds. Cycle handlebars poking through a manky tarpaulin. Neglected old shed.
Walker lurked in the corner at the end of the snicket. He looked up at Sawyer and raised a hand in greeting.
Sawyer turned back to Shepherd. ‘We need to book a surveillance course for the DCs.’
Shepherd rummaged through the drawers of an old hardwood dresser. ‘Nothing much here. Old T-shirts, magazines. Pretty benign stuff. Nothing embarrassing. A few toiletries. What is this?’ He held up an ancient Nintendo Game Boy handheld.
Sawyer took it. ‘Wow. I used to have one of these. Back in the day when you had to sit under a bright light because they were too cheap to build one into the system.’
Shepherd looked inside a mug on the floor and winced at the green mould forming over a shallow patch of old tea.
They turned and scanned the room. It was austere, impersonal. More like a spare room. No posters or pictures. Acoustic guitar with grubby metal strings. Wicker baskets stuffed with old trainers and shoes. Outdoor magazines. Books: mostly maps and technical guides. Empty wooden fruit bowl. Wall-mounted TV with wires trailing down to a gaming console sitting on top of a shoebox. Sawyer moved the console and opened the lid. One controller. A few shooters and RPGs. A stack of DVDs: mostly horror and commercial action movies.
A shelf above the dresser functioned as a shrine to caving, with books, magazines, leaflets, DVDs (Adventures Underground in the Yorkshire Dales, Great Caves of the World), and a filing box with detailed cave survey maps slotted into alphabetised folio folders (Bagshawe Cavern, Carlswark, Giant’s Hole).
Jim’s footsteps thumped up the stairs. ‘Settled him now. All it takes is his bodyweight in Pedigree Chum.’ He stopped at the open door. ‘How are you getting on?’
Sawyer pointed to a small door in the corner, cut like a triangle to fit the wall shape. ‘What’s in there? We’re not going to find Dennis waiting to jump out on us, are we?’
Jim laughed. ‘No. That’s where he keeps his caving gear. I introduced him to it after his mum died. He loved it. He worked in Poole’s as a guide. Then White Hall. They used to call it an “outward bound” centre. I can’t go any more. I can hardly bend over to tie my shoes, let alone crawl through tunnels.’
Sawyer opened the closet. It was empty, with a few items crammed in at the back: wellies, helmet with broken headlamp, a coiled mound of worn rope. ‘What did Dennis enjoy about caving?’
Jim pondered. ‘Listen, I’ve met a lot of cavers over the last thirty years, since I took it up. They’re sound people. They’re interested in the natural world. Respectful of nature, you know. They just have a different view of things. They don’t go for social climbing or big houses and posh cars. They just don’t see that kind of thing as a way of measuring success, you know? It’s quite a community, really. Dennis didn’t have a great time at school. I think he was seen as a bit of an oddball. A lot of those types are drawn to caving because it’s so accepting. Once you’re underground, you’re all the same. You look out for each other. Doesn’t matter what you do for a living above the surface, or how much money’s in your bank account. I miss it a lot. I think for some cavers, the first time they felt comfortable around other people would have been in caver clubs.’
Sawyer closed the closet door. ‘Do you know of an incident involving your sister, Jim? Would have been around 1990. Dennis would have been thirteen. We believe she was assaulted by a group of older teenagers.’
He looked confused. ‘First I’ve heard of it. Is that what this is about?’
‘We think so. Have you any idea at all where Dennis might be?’
He shook his head. ‘Like I say, he comes and goes. Been gone a while this time, though.’
Shepherd’s phone buzzed. He looked at it. ‘Moran. They’ve got the warrant.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘In the nick of time. Thank you for your help today, Jim. I’m sure Dennis will turn up. We’ll get your number and let you know. Please give me a call if he appears.’
Sawyer’s phone rang. Eva Gregory. ‘Excuse me a second.’ He moved out to the hall and slipped into a small bathroom: bath, mirrored wall cabinet, one flushing toilet.
He connected the call. ‘Sawyer.’
‘Mr Sawyer. It’s Eva Gregory. I need to speak to you. Mr Beck has asked me to pass on a message.’
Sawyer rolled his eyes and opened the cabinet. Shaving foam, safety razor, plasters, Lynx body spray. ‘Does he need you as
a conduit now? Can’t he just pass it to me telepathically?’
‘At least he’s coming up with something. What are you doing?’
‘We’re busy in the real world, Ms Gregory. Following leads, interviewing relatives, looking for clues.’ He flipped the toilet seat cover closed and sat down. ‘Go on, then. What’s the latest from the astral plane?’
57
Sawyer closed the door behind him and walked over to Keating’s open window. There was a match on at the Tarmac Silverlands Stadium; not a high attendance by the sound of it, but it gave him the itch to watch.
‘Mid-week afternoon game? That’s a new one.’
Keating turned from his computer. ‘Grassroots. Pre-season, I think. Can I make an observation, DI Sawyer?’
Sawyer looked at him. ‘Is it something to do with me looking like shit?’
‘If we’re going to find this boy, and this killer, I need you alert. And I need you on the level, accountable. I need you well. Have you been avoiding Maggie?’
Sawyer turned, paced. ‘Not intentionally. If you want to keep an eye on me, why not just recruit the woman who runs my guest house? She’s the nosy type.’
‘I didn’t go to Maggie. She came to me. She knows you. She knows the signs.’
Sawyer skewered Keating with a glare. ‘I’m fine. I’m well. I’ll sort myself out when we wrap this up.’
‘I am concerned for your personal safety, but when you take juniors into potentially dangerous situations without AFOs—’
‘It was intel. No way Crawley would be so stupid as to hole up in his uncle’s house.’
Keating studied him. ‘Let’s talk about Beck.’
Sawyer took a seat. ‘It’s bollocks. Guessing. Cold reading. It shouldn’t even be taking up our time right now, right here.’
‘If he says the boy is “near to water”, and the mother wants us to look into that, then—’