by Andrew Lowe
‘She’, said Samantha. ‘And she rarely obliges with lap time.’
‘Lowers your blood pressure, apparently. Stroking pets.’
Samantha set down a jug of iced water with two glasses and began to pour. ‘I’ll stick with my medication. More reliable. You got a cat then?’
Sawyer nodded and took a seat. ‘Yes. As with all cats, though, he thinks he’s got me.’
She smiled, sat down opposite. ‘I heard your music. Electribe 101. I was a bit of a raver back then.’
‘In the nineties?’
‘Yeah. That was one of my comedown albums.’
Sawyer sipped his water. ‘I love the electronic music from that time, but I don’t dance. My body won’t do it.’
Samantha leaned forward. ‘Mr Sawyer, I really appreciate this. I know you’ve… had a busy time, lately. I want you to know that I think you did the right thing, stopping that bastard.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Which one?’
‘David Bowman.’
He shrugged. ‘I did a thing. My bosses are busy deciding how right it was.’
‘So, this is okay? You’re allowed to do other jobs?’
Sawyer held her gaze. ‘I’m suspended from official police business. They wouldn’t be crazy about me taking on investigative work, but I can get round it if I don’t take payment.’
‘Oh. Really. I can afford—’
‘Tell me about Darren.’
She sat back, took a drink. ‘He’s lovely. Kind. Clever, in a good way. He’s been gone for seven years now. He was fifteen at the time of his disappearance. Went out one night, said he was going to a party. Never came home.’
‘Did he often go to parties?’
‘Not much. He liked a lot of my old music, actually. But he didn’t seem to fancy the idea of clubs or events or whatever. He seemed interested in my youthful excesses, the hedonistic lifestyle. But I don’t think he was into the idea of pursuing it for himself.’
‘How long have you lived in Matlock Bath?’
‘Never lived anywhere else. My parents used to live five minutes from here. Bought this place with my husband twenty-odd years ago. We separated a couple of years after Darren’s disappearance. As I said on the phone, I read a lot about you. About what you went through.’ Samantha leaned forward again, and rested a hand on Sawyer’s. ‘I thought you would understand it. The pain.’
Sawyer slid his hand away and took another drink. ‘Was Darren popular?’
She gave an awkward laugh. ‘He was hardly a player, you know. But he seemed to have good mates, good relationships. He’d had a bit of a tough year, though.’
‘In the run-up to his disappearance?’
She nodded. ‘He had to move schools because there was a fire at his old place. Nothing suspicious but they couldn’t keep it running.’
Sawyer’s eyes drifted to a movement off to the side. The cat strutted out and slumped in a patch of sun at the foot of the garden. ‘Why a tough year? Did he not adjust well to the new school?’
‘No, he seemed to like it. He wanted to study business, and that wasn’t an option at his old place. But they offered it at Cedar Mount, the new school. I think the general standard was higher than he was used to, though. I remember, I picked him up from an event late one evening, and he was a bit off with me. Withdrawn. There was a bruise around his cheek. He said it was nothing, just a “silly ritual” that all new pupils were supposed to go through. I was going to talk to the headmaster but he begged me not to pursue it.’
‘How close was this to the date of the party?’
‘Oh, a few months before.’
‘What about the police investigation?’
She shook her head. ‘Various appeals and “lines of enquiry”. A few sightings, suspected hoaxes. Nothing concrete, though. They still call me in sometimes to identify an item they’ve found. I’ve never seen anything that I could link to Darren. The searches have turned up nothing. I have a case review file from a couple of months ago. You can take it if you like.’
‘That would be perfect, thanks.’ Sawyer sloshed his water around the glass and shifted his chair into the shade. ‘I’ll need to understand more about the period leading up to Darren’s disappearance. All his friends, interests, places he went to, who he might have met there. Did you do the same for Virginia Mendez?’
‘Yes. She contacted me late last year. Student journalist. Lovely girl. She wanted to make a podcast about the case. She lost her brother back in Venezuela a few years ago, so I think my case struck a chord with her. I helped as much as I could. She put out three episodes. They were very respectful, sensitive.’
‘And now she hasn’t been seen for just over two weeks.’
Samantha sighed. ‘Awful. I hope it’s a coincidence.’
Sawyer drained his glass. ‘I want to help.’ He stood up. ‘And I don’t want payment. But I can’t promise you that I’ll find Darren. Or that there will be a good outcome. You talk about your son in the present tense, but you have to be prepared—’
‘—for the worst.’ Samantha nodded. ‘I’m ready to face whatever comes, Mr Sawyer. Anything would be better than this limbo. The not knowing either way.’
The cat eyed Sawyer as he moved back towards the kitchen. ‘Could I take a look at Darren’s old room? Have you kept his things?’
‘Of course.’ Samantha bustled in front of Sawyer and led him back through the house. ‘I haven’t kept his room like a shrine or anything, but I’ve held on to all his bits and pieces.’
Sawyer followed her up the uncarpeted staircase into a surprisingly small bedroom with a wide open sash window that looked down onto the back garden. 28 Days Later poster, acoustic guitar propped in the corner, portable CD player, work desk with a chunky old Dell PC. Single bed with red-and-black Sheffield United duvet, modest TV and DVD player squeezed on top of a corner unit. Sawyer browsed the rack of books, CDs and DVDs on a wall shelf above the bed. Singles and albums from the early 2000s, horror films and action movies, graphic novels.
He turned to Samantha, perched in the doorway. ‘Lots of Walking Dead stuff here.’
‘Yes. He went through a big zombie phase.’
‘DVDs and graphic novels. Bit of a fanboy.’
‘I suppose so. We had a snow day the winter before he… We watched my old DVD of This Life. Remember that? He tolerated it, but then when he saw that Andrew Lincoln was also the star of The Walking Dead, he made a connection.’
Sawyer leaned in to a framed photograph on the end of the wall shelf. A teenage boy in a red-and-black lumberjack-style shirt peered into the camera. Tapering, almond-shaped eyes; Mona Lisa smile; mane of thick, unstyled brown hair swept across his forehead in curls. His gaze was earnest, coltish; he was marooned in that awkward dead zone between child and young adult.
‘That’s one of the few pictures of himself Darren actually liked. I’ve got a few copies if you want to take one.’
‘Thanks. That would be useful. He looks bright.’
‘He was. Is.’ She caught herself. ‘Are you taking on any more… investigative work?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘You have me exclusively. I’ve got my own limbo to deal with, while I wait to see what the brass are going to do with me.’ He looked out of the window and was amused to see the cat staring up at him. ‘So, yes. I’m all yours. Apart from a few personal affairs I need to tie up.’
Back at the Mini, Sawyer dialled a number and ducked into the driver’s seat. He turned on the engine and opened the window.
The call connected. Male voice. ‘The man of leisure!’
‘No rest for the wicked, Dale. You should know.’
A pause. ‘Business or pleasure?’
Sawyer sighed, swept his eyes across the park and the picnickers. ‘We need to talk.’
3
The Koffee Pot was an upscale greasy spoon in Manchester’s Northern Quarter: chequered floor, bright orange booths, walls splashed with art school murals. Sawyer and Maggie had eaten here regularly on cit
y trips in their Keele days, and the place had barely changed, bar a few more options on the artisanal bread slate.
Sawyer arrived early, and dug into a plate of beans on toast while he sifted through the Coleman case review file and dipped into the three published episodes of the podcast. Virginia Mendez had used the first episode to introduce the case and outline the findings of the official enquiry so far: not much. Episode Two focused on Darren himself, as Virginia spoke to friends and family, while Episode Three was almost entirely devoted to an interview with Samantha that revealed little that Sawyer didn’t already know, apart from further detail on Darren’s father who had recently remarried. But his ear pricked at Virginia’s sign-off, where she promised an exclusive interview with an ‘interesting character’ who was close to Darren. The interview was trailed with an audio clip: an unnamed male voice saying, ‘There are rules. You’re not supposed to say anything, reveal the location.’
Sawyer was deep into a second cup of tea when a short, grey-haired man in a fitted white shirt entered and slid into the opposite seat, followed by a much larger character in a sleeveless T-shirt who budged up next to Sawyer. The short man took off a pair of heavy-framed glasses and polished the lenses with his shirt cuff.
‘It’s never a good idea, is it?’ said Sawyer.
Dale Strickland replaced the glasses. ‘What isn’t?’
‘Two cups of tea. Sometimes, you really enjoy that first cup so much that you feel like you want another. But then the second just doesn’t quite land and you lose interest halfway through.’
Strickland looked around. ‘Nice place. Starbucks too grown-up for you, Sawyer? This is Jerome, by the way.’
The big man nodded but didn’t lift his head up from his phone.
Sawyer smiled. ‘Of course it is. You eating? They have an award-winning fry-up here. Maybe not quite right for your optics, though. Now you’re in the political arena. Sorry to hear you didn’t get the main gig.’
‘Plenty of time for that. Hopped up a few rungs. The mayorship can wait. At least I’m still in gainful employment.’
‘There’s no need for spite.’
Strickland glanced at Jerome, then back at Sawyer. ‘How’s my wife?’
Sawyer slurped his tea. ‘I would question the use of the possessive pronoun there.’
‘Eva is still my wife.’
‘Technically. But I’m not sure she sees you as her husband any more.’
Strickland scowled and studied Sawyer. ‘Semantics.’
‘Let’s talk about guns instead of girls. The unfortunate business with Shaun Brooks. An ex-associate of your employer, Jerome. I assume you’ve been briefed. Dale, I’m going to speak frankly. Eva is technically your wife, I’m technically a civilian. The efforts you’ve put into recovering the Glock I took from our mutual friend, Mr Fletcher, suggest it must have had some involvement in Shaun’s demise. I suspect you used him to set up your county lines operation, but since he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the rack, he transgressed in some way and so you, or someone under your command, removed him from the picture.’
Strickland held up a hand and addressed Jerome. ‘Get me a cup of coffee. Black, sugar.’
Jerome got up and approached the counter.
Sawyer continued. ‘So, when Fletcher came after me, I took the gun off him and kept it in a safe place. Not safe enough, though. Whoever pulled the trigger on Shaun Brooks, it’s all academic now. It looks like we share a problem.’
Strickland frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Sawyer took out his phone and navigated to a news story whose main image showed a burning house being doused by a team of firefighters. ‘The former home of Hector Jurić. Another of your old associates whose life was tragically cut short before his time. This is a bit of a theme with you, Dale, isn’t it? Does Jerome know what he’s letting himself in for? Is everyone else in good health? How’s the Scottish guy you sent to menace me last year? Marco, wasn’t it?’
Strickland sighed. He took out his phone and turned the screen towards Sawyer. Grainy CCTV footage from an underground car park. A burly man with a short blond ponytail entered the back door of a parked car and the vehicle rocked as he struggled with the occupant. The car stopped moving and, shortly after, exited the car park.
Sawyer raised his eyes to Strickland. ‘Any news?’
Strickland shook his head. ‘That’s from the hotel where Marco and I celebrated my appointment as drug tsar last week. Fletcher was obviously waiting for him.’
‘The prospects aren’t good.’
Strickland shrugged. ‘I have other people.’
Sawyer sat back and squinted at him. ‘Henchmen dot com? Like I say, we share a problem. Apart from Fletcher’s attempts on my life, he was watching Eva and me recently, near the place where I hid the gun. It took him a while to find it, but it adds up. And I know he’s also been watching my house. I get the sense that he’s slipped your bonds, Dale. We have a common enemy. He’s cleaning up your mess. Snipping off the loose ends. I know about Fletcher’s dishonourable discharge from the SAS, but I wondered if you had any insight into what might be his next move.’
Strickland pocketed his phone. He picked up the glass salt cellar and turned it around in his fingers. ‘Aside from my wife’s peripheral involvement, I’m not really sure how this is my problem. There’s plenty of time to square the Marco and Hector thing, discreetly. I don’t want to get involved in any other business now, given my new role and status.’ He nodded to Jerome as he queued for the coffee. ‘Personally, I’m feeling pretty safe at the moment, Sawyer. But if I were you, I would draw a lesson from The Art of War. Take the initiative. Attack the undefended. Find the weak spot. As you’ve seen, it doesn’t go well for those who wait for Fletcher to come to them.’
4
DCI Robin Farrell shuffled in the centre of the chintzy sofa: cream with a pattern of veiny green flower stems dotted with red petals. He took a small canister of breath mints from the inside pocket of his grey summer suit, tapped one out and flicked it into his mouth.
Jordan Burns sat opposite, perched on the edge of a matching armchair. He set down a bottle of mineral water before Farrell and leaned forward, elbows on knees. Burns was thickset and balding, grey at the temples, with a saggy white T-shirt that hung over a burgeoning belly.
A beat of silence, as Farrell broke the seal on the water bottle and took a slug.
Burns sat back. ‘Steph’s on her way down.’
‘Thank you.’ Farrell tried on a smile; he didn’t wear it well. ‘I’ll keep it brief. Obviously, your wife has been through a terrible ordeal. Given the… circumstances, we’re required to run an internal enquiry, overseen by the IOPC. Independent Office for Police Conduct.’
Burns nodded. ‘You got your man, right?’
Farrell ran a hand across his forehead, then flattened his dyed-black hair. ‘We’re confident of that, yes. But as I’m sure Stephanie has told you, the circumstances of his apprehension were rather extraordinary, and we just have to be sure—’
Burns shook his head. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Mr Sawyer saved my wife’s life, and probably the lives of—’
Farrell raised a hand. ‘I do understand that view. But Stephanie is the only independent witness to David Bowman’s death, and we have to make sure the picture adds up.’
A young woman entered the room and made her way to a second armchair, next to her husband. She wore a dark purple dressing gown with the hood up. Strands of blonde hair seeped out over her shoulders, and her eyes were underscored with dark circles. She took each step slowly and carefully, feeling for footing. Farrell sprang to his feet; Burns walked over and steadied the woman into the chair. He crouched down beside her and draped an arm over her shoulders.
Farrell lowered himself back onto the sofa. ‘Stephanie. I’m terribly sorry to disturb you. Just a few quick questions. Won’t take long.’
‘Do you want a drink, babe?’ said Burns.
She shook her head. ‘I’m okay
.’
Farrell took out a notepad. ‘As I was telling your husband, we’re conducting an internal enquiry into the events surrounding the… resolution of your abduction. There’s no implication of wrongdoing on anyone’s part. It’s all about establishing the objective facts of the matter. A formal procedure that we’re required to pursue whenever there’s a death following contact with police.’
Stephanie’s faraway eyes hovered to the bay window and the sunlit back garden. She turned her head and faced Farrell. ‘What more do you need to know? I’ve given my statement to your Liaison Officer.’
‘Of course. This is purely a follow-up. I’m leading the enquiry, and there are a few points I wanted to be certain of. Firstly, before Detective Sawyer was brought into the house by David Bowman, did you hear a gunshot from outside at all? It might have been a distant sound, but I’m keen to know if you heard anything.’
Stephanie glanced at her husband. ‘No. I was… asleep. Well. Barely awake. I’d been badly beaten. Dehydrated.’
Farrell made a note. ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
‘And it was raining. Stormy.’
Farrell studied her. ‘Ah, yes. This is a difficult one, but were you conscious when David Bowman murdered Julius Newton, the man who arrived with Detective Sawyer?’
Stephanie shook her head. ‘I didn’t see any of that.’
‘Thank God,’ said Burns, giving Stephanie a squeeze.
Farrell nodded. ‘You didn’t hear it?’
Stephanie coughed. ‘The first time I was aware of anything was when I saw Detective Sawyer in the chair, hands behind his back.’
‘And Detective Sawyer ultimately broke free and fought with Bowman. Is that correct?’
‘As I’ve said, I wasn’t fully aware of the whole thing. But I know that he managed to get the axe away from Bowman and then used it to defend himself.’
Farrell raised an eyebrow. ‘What exactly was he defending himself against at the time he used the axe?’