by Andrew Lowe
He sipped his coffee. ‘Great anecdote.’
She laughed. ‘So, how does it feel?’
‘Velvety. Good blend. Little bit bitter. I’ll add some more sugar.’
‘I mean the new role. Your new status. Detective Constable.’
‘My bobby days are behind me.’ He ate some more cake, looked at her, held off for a few seconds but then returned her smile. ‘So far, so good. A monumental change. DC from PC.’
‘You can finally wear your own clothes.’
‘And I’m so made for the catwalk.’ He glanced at her wedding ring. ‘You’ve changed, too. From Miss to Mrs. How’s your new role?’
Maggie looked away. ‘It’s good. Exciting. Justin is lovely. Very clever.’
‘A wrangle for the ring. You’re looking sun-kissed. Where did you go? Caribbean?’
‘Jamaica. Bit too hot for me.’
He laughed. ‘Did nobody tell you it’s tropical?’
She sipped her herbal tea. ‘My God, Jake. I couldn’t believe it when we got off the plane. It was like a sauna outside. I was so glad for the air-conditioned hotel. We didn’t travel around much, apart from a fishing trip with a few locals. I feel a bit guilty—’
‘That you didn’t see the real Jamaica?’
Maggie gave Sawyer a look.
‘Does he want more kids?’
‘Justin? What about me?’
‘I know you do.’ He looked over the Observer Travel section. ‘We should probably have got married.’
She gaped. ‘After uni?’
‘Yeah. In an alternate reality, we went travelling. Europe, Africa, Canaries.’
‘Uhuh. And did we have kids?’
‘No. We stayed itinerant, exploring the world.’
Maggie shook her head. ‘See, there’s an old romantic in you somewhere. Beneath those defences.’
He held her eye. ‘I’m glad you didn’t change your name. It’s too good. What’s he? Jenkins or something?’
‘Perkins.’
‘I rest my case.’
She took a long drink. ‘You don’t rest anything. Least of all yourself.’
‘Does Justin know you’re meeting me?’
A sigh. ‘Of course he does.’
‘I met someone.’ He dug back into the cake. ‘She’s called Sheena. I bought her a drink at a bar in London, when I was doing part of the detective training.’
Maggie nodded. ‘And are you getting married?’
‘I doubt it. She’s posh. Bit horsey. She’ll end up marrying someone with more money than brains.’
‘And you’re the opposite.’
Sawyer didn’t laugh. ‘She wants me to move in, though.’
‘Where? London?’
He nodded. ‘Still a bit early for a transfer to the Met, but it’s an idea. I need to get away.’
‘Jake. We talked about this at the wedding. You need to look after yourself. You can’t just run away from your—’
‘Demons. I know. I wouldn’t be running away from anything. Just… embracing possibility. Mum told me to run, don’t look back.’
‘I’m going to buy you a book on Stoicism. The classical type. It’s a philosophy I think you’ll get behind.’
Sawyer browsed the newspaper. ‘Is this the basis for your therapy thing?’
‘I want to wind down the FLO work and start my own counselling business. It’s just too emotionally draining, propping up the poor people whose lives have turned into nightmares. I can’t cope with all the horrors. At least therapy would feel like I was—’
‘Helping to prevent things? Maybe heading off some of the horrors?’
‘Well, yes.’
He pushed the paper away. ‘Did you ever get anywhere with that case you showed me on my first day? Remember? The guy who was tortured and skinned.’
She winced. ‘I don’t think so. Ask DI Pittman. It was one of his. Hideous, but in a weird way. The open-ended cases are worse. The ones with no bodies, no resolution. Yesterday, I was with the wife of a professor who’s gone missing. Totally out of character. No sign. Just awful.’ She caught herself. ‘Are you sure detective work will be good for you?’
‘I think so. I don’t seem to…’ He lubricated the thought with a sip of coffee. ‘I don’t really feel the danger. The threat, the fear. It keeps my head clear to… see the angles others don’t see, maybe. Through the fog of emotion. But I also find it hard to project, extrapolate for—’
‘Consequences?’
Sawyer shrugged.
‘Maybe it’s because you feel there’s nothing that can happen that will be worse than the trauma you’ve already experienced.’
‘I wouldn’t be running away if I go to London. I’m not planning ahead.’
She leaned forward. ‘Jake, what happened to you as a child… It taught you that things can change at any moment. It’s made you wary of everything. Second-guessing. Expecting terrible reversal at any moment. Of course you have to go forward with some kind of hope. But it’s okay not to plan too far ahead. It’s one of the pleasures of life, the not knowing. Not knowing what’s going to happen, not knowing how it’s going to end.’
Sawyer sat back. ‘Spoiler. Everybody dies.’
17
PRESENT DAY
Dale Strickland entered the carpeted office and fell into the revolving chair by the wide glass-topped desk. He pushed the chair away and spun round to face the view down to Deansgate far below.
‘Movies!’ He took off his glasses and laid them on the desk, but didn’t turn to face Jerome, standing in the corner.
Jerome produced a digital tablet and approached the desk. He accessed a video file and propped the tablet on its cover stand.
Strickland leaned forward and flopped his arms onto the desk. ‘First item on the agenda. I’ve been offered a new office in the mayor building. Broadhurst House. It’ll be a shame to abandon the glamour of this place, but I simply can’t face another summer with faulty air-conditioning.’ He looked at Jerome. ‘So I’ll need someone to run the clubs for me.’
Jerome nodded, solemn.
‘Now. Movies.’
Strickland cleaned his glasses with his shirt cuff and set them on the end of his nose. Jerome stood over the tablet in silence, watching. Dale nodded at him, and he played the video.
‘This is an edit of two weeks’ worth of drone footage taken over Fletcher’s position.’ His voice was accented—Eastern Europe—and surprisingly high-pitched for such a hefty man, but there was a colourless chill to his tone.
Dale watched the video: a bird’s-eye view of the farmland around Edale. The image zoomed in to a dilapidated building as a man resembling Fletcher emerged and walked to a path at the edge of the field, where he disappeared beneath tree cover. The background switched to gritstone moorland on a rainy day. A brown Fiesta driving along the track by Ramshaw Rocks. Jump-cut to the vehicle in a small car park beside a smart-looking detached house that overlooked the Roaches.
‘Is he still living in a fucking field?’
‘He is. And he’s an early riser. I stayed at some pub hotel for a few days. Flew the drone from my car parked nearby. He’s tracking Sawyer still, but sometimes goes to check on Sawyer’s friend, Maggie Spark, at her house.’
Dale took a bottle of Glenfiddich off a shelf and splashed a little into a weighty glass. He pointed to the bottle and looked at Jerome, who shook his head. ‘Has he been to the house? Is he watching Eva?’
‘No. She’s away at the moment. Greece.’
Dale sipped his whisky and peered into the tablet screen. ‘Why?’
Jerome stepped forward, giving himself a view of the screen. ‘Why what?’
‘He’s cleaned house. Taken out two of my employees. Why doesn’t he just do Sawyer and disappear?’
‘The gun?’
Dale grimaced, shook his head. ‘I don’t think he cares. He knows he’s on my shitlist.’
‘Maybe because of the previous run-ins with Sawyer, he’s taking his time, asses
sing his angles. Making sure he gets it right this time.’
The screen showed Fletcher’s Fiesta in the car park outside Maggie’s house.
‘I know Fletcher. He’s lateral. I think he’s stalking Maggie as an option to get Sawyer away from home, draw him out, engineer a moment of weakness.’
‘Or maybe he’s just having second thoughts about taking out a copper.’
Dale laughed. ‘Fletcher wouldn’t care either way. I might have an angle with Sawyer, anyway.’
Jerome retrieved the tablet and switched it off. ‘How about my idea?’
Dale took off his glasses again, fiddled with the arms.
Jerome stepped closer. ‘It would keep you out of the picture and could deal with two problems in one go.’ He held up a packet of Fatima brand Turkish cigarettes. ‘We use Sawyer’s skills against him. Get him to do the dirty work for us. Even if he doesn’t make the direct connection, Sawyer will already suspect that Fletcher has been watching him, and Maggie.’
Dale pivoted his chair and opened the window a few inches. The chug of traffic slipped into the room. A Metrolink tram squealed as it braked for the station. He nodded. ‘Make it unpleasant, but not permanent.’
18
A bell jangled as Sawyer opened the door of Scrivener’s, a second-hand bookshop in the centre of Buxton. He inhaled the oaky fragrance of ageing paper and browsed a shelf of custom-bound hardbacks on local history, positioned, bizarrely, beside a doorstopper biography of the band Queen. The room was small and narrow, and every available surface was wedged tight with books; mostly collectable and antiquarian on the ground floor.
The elderly owner watched him from a cushioned rocking chair, writing in a logbook. ‘New arrivals.’ He took off his flat cap and nodded at a pile of paperbacks at his side.
Sawyer smiled. ‘I’ve never been in here. Always meant to.’
‘Most people default to the High Peak Bookstore. Coffee and cakes and all that. We’re more old-fashioned, I suppose. I do bookbinding demonstrations. We have five floors of books, though. Over forty thousand, at last count.’
‘Feels like a place you could get lost in.’
The man laughed. ‘Oh, people do! We’ve had three shut-ins over the twenty-three years we’ve been here. They became so engrossed, in a dark corner somewhere. We just leave a key now, so they can let themselves out. I find if you trust people then they tend to live up to expectations. Can I help you with anything in particular? I’m Alistair, by the way.’
‘Jake. I’m interested in urban exploration.’
Alistair pushed himself to his feet. ‘I saw something on that the other day. It’s the chaps who nose around abandoned hospitals and factories and what-not, yes?’
‘It is. “Chaps” being the operative word.’
He laughed. ‘Well, we men do like our pointless pursuits. The women have more important things to do. Let me just find that book for you.’
Alistair hobbled through to a back room. Sawyer walked over to the till where the impulse buys sat in a line across the main counter: bookmarks, local guides, reading lights, and a box of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolate bars.
‘Here it is!’ Alistair called through. ‘Beauty in Decay: The Art of Urban Exploration. More of a photo book, really, but there’s plenty in here about how it all works. £16.99.’
‘Sounds perfect, thanks.’ Sawyer took a chocolate bar and slipped it into his pocket.
Alistair reappeared with the book and made his way over to Sawyer at the counter. ‘Yes, we re-bind old titles. Mostly restorations for the owners but some go to auction. We had an old botany book from 1540 recently. It sold for several thousand pounds.’
He reached the counter and thunked the book down next to the till. It was a coffee-table book, and not really what Sawyer was looking for, but he browsed the pages for a few seconds and looked up into Alistair’s expectant eyes. ‘Sold.’
Jordan Burns waved Sawyer over to a far corner of The Source coffee shop, a standard breakfast and lunch joint close to the station. He slid the urbex book onto the table and shook Burns’s hand.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet, Jake. Can I get you a coffee or—’
‘I’m fine. How is Stephanie?’
‘Not too bad.’ They sat. Burns slurped at his cappuccino; the handle of the cup and saucer looked child-sized in his chubby fingers. He had clipped his greying hair at the temples and shaved his head to a cue ball polish. Battle-ready. He read the cover of Sawyer’s book. ‘Beauty in Decay. Bit of light reading while you’re on hiatus?’’
Sawyer watched him. Deflection. Darting eyes. ‘What’s this about, Jordan?’
Burns wiped his mouth. ‘I know what you did.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Earlier this summer?’
Burns locked eyes on Sawyer. ‘Yes. Steph gave me the full picture.’
Sawyer sighed, sat back. ‘Are you sure you’ve thought this through?’
Burns stared into his cup. ‘You fought with Bowman, overpowered him. But then when he was basically helpless, you murdered him in cold blood.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t respond to this accusation without a lawyer present.’
Burns kept his head down. ‘We spoke to Mr Farrell. DCI Farrell. Steph told him you acted in self-defence. But she admitted to me that it was nothing like that.’ He took another steady sip of his coffee. ‘She’s obviously conflicted. We’re both grateful to you for saving her life. But we can’t be part of this lie.’
‘So this is a moral issue for you? You’ve come to me for advice because the ethics are keeping you awake?’
Burns lowered his voice. ‘We’ve suffered emotionally. It’s put an immense strain on our relationship. The business has struggled, with Stephanie being out of action. I… read about your father. I’m sorry for what happened, but this is about survival.’
‘What’s it got to do with my father?’
‘I read the Derbyshire Times piece. He was an artist. I looked him up. His work was commanding decent prices. I’m guessing you benefited from that.’
Sawyer closed his eyes.
His father’s face. Shotgun blast.
A bright flash. Brain matter on the ceiling.
He opened his eyes, glanced at the coffee shop owner: out of earshot. ‘Like I say, Jordan. Are you sure you’ve thought this through? We have a word for it, you know. It can get you up to fourteen years in prison. How would Stephanie cope then?’
Burns looked up, leaned forward and bared his teeth. ‘It’s not…’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Blackmail. I’m just asking you to help us out. Now I know what actually happened. You saved Steph’s life, but your actions contributed to her… her trauma. They’re part of the reason why she can’t work.’
‘Just to be clear on what’s happening here. What will you do if I say no to helping you out? Your answer to that question will make it nice and clear if it’s blackmail or not. Whatever you’ve told yourself it is.’
Burns stayed silent, drummed his fingers on the table.
Now Sawyer leaned forward. ‘I would imagine, since you’ve mentioned DCI Farrell, your plan would be to threaten to tell him what you know, unless you get what you want from me. Yes?’
Burns raised his eyebrows, looked back down at the table. ‘Are you willing to risk a manslaughter charge? Maybe even murder?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘There it is. At least we understand each other now. Definitely blackmail. You do realise that if I refuse this, and you go to DCI Farrell with Stephanie’s information, then I could still prosecute you for blackmail. We might even end up sharing a cell.’
Burns gave a strained laugh.
‘Does Stephanie know about this?’
Burns looked up sharply. ‘No, she doesn’t. And she’d better not find out.’
‘Or what? You’re going to blackmail me twice?’
Burns’s face flushed, and he drummed with both hands. ‘We keep it strictly between the two of us, and it ends well for everyone. I know this i
sn’t pleasant, but look at it from my perspective. Our life, and our business, has fallen apart. Steph wants to work, but she simply isn’t capable. We just need something to get us back on our feet. I’m not…’ He glanced at the owner, who finished tidying a stack of mugs and moved off into a back room. ‘I’m not greedy. I’m just seizing an opportunity. It’s simply numbers. I used to work for Citibank, Jake. The world moves on money, and the bedrock of money is debt.’
Sawyer folded his arms. ‘So, I’m in your debt?’
Burns pushed on. ‘Debt enters the economy in the form of loans, and those loans are based on interest rates, and interest rates are based on risk.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Will there be a test on this? Do I need to make notes?’
‘So, risk is measured in probability. The probability of getting a loan paid back. And how do we measure probability?’
‘Odds.’
‘Exactly. So it’s all just gambling. Which means that gambling is the bedrock of society. The people with money are just better gamblers than the people without it.’ He held out his hands, palms up. ‘I’m willing to take the gamble that you’re not prepared to risk your freedom for the sake of a few thousand pounds.’
19
Sawyer stripped down to his underwear and stood in front of the full-length bedroom mirror. He cued up an ambient album—Sakura by Susumu Yakota—and switched to horse stance before easing into the third Wing Chun form: biu gee. Darting fingers.
He was feeling too spiky for the flow and calm of the first two forms, and craved the elbow and finger strikes of biu gee, with its emphasis on attack and counterattack. His execution was smooth and direct, embedded in muscle memory. Nothing extraneous or showy or telegraphed: optimum efficiency.
He showered, dressed and served up a bowlful of meaty mush for a grateful Bruce. The dope from Ash sat on the coffee table next to the chocolate bar he’d stolen from the bookshop. He opened the drawer beneath the sink and took out a small metal tin embossed with the Jack Daniel’s whiskey logo: a keepsake from his student years. He sifted through the stale tobacco and torn cardboard, and pulled out a packet of Rizla cigarette papers: brittle but still functional. He rolled a scruffy joint and lit it on the oven hob gas burner. Bruce turned his head as the dark smoke curled into the air, then returned to his food.