by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer took a puff, inhaled, piped the smoke out through his nostrils. It was surprisingly smooth on his throat for cheap marijuana. He spluttered, took another drag.
A numbness stole over him, easing his aching muscles, fuzzing the edges. For a moment, the world receded; his pain was still close, always ready to pounce. But the tension in his strings had loosened, and the thought of the memory flashes was no longer so troubling.
His phone rang, jolting him back to reality: a muggy summer afternoon, the familiar heightened sense of self-consciousness. Bruce had cleaned his dish and was busy washing himself. He paused and glared at Sawyer, as if willing him to silence the ringtone.
He checked the Caller ID.
Rhodes.
He tapped the answer button and set the phone to speaker.
‘Sawyer. Got some goodies for you. Not much, but it might be interesting.’
Sawyer snuffed out the joint in a Diet Coke can. ‘Go on.’
‘I had a root around the urbex website back end. Couldn’t find anything related to “Darren Coleman” or “Devil”, but I did find a profile, “ST60”, connected to a “Stuart Sutton”. Your lad might have used the site but not under his real name. Maybe he was savvier than Sutton.’
Sawyer pulled over his laptop and navigated to the Left Behind site. ‘ST60’?
‘Yeah. Before you bother, I couldn’t find any posts. Maybe he never actually posted, maybe he deleted them all.’
Sawyer’s head swam. ‘Thanks, Karl.’
‘Pleasure.’
He rang off. Sawyer browsed through the Beauty in Decay book, letting his mind drift. He googled ‘Stuart Sutton’ with variations of ‘urbex’ and ‘urban exploring’. No likely hits in the main search results. He switched to the Videos tab and followed a YouTube result. The video was shaky, handheld POV and labelled Abandoned Children’s Asylum. Empty staircases, crumbled plaster and exposed brickwork, collapsed ceilings. No voice-over, just occasional captions for context. It had been posted by ‘The Great Explorer’, whose avatar image showed a pair of eyes glaring out from behind a balaclava-style face covering. Sawyer clicked on the name and browsed The Great Explorer’s channel. The About section made Sawyer’s stomach flip.
Welcome to my undiscovered world. My name is Stuart Sutton and I travel around finding derelict and abandoned locations to film and take pictures of. NO LOCATION DETAILS. I DO NOT FORCE ENTRY OR VANDALISE!
The channel had few followers and contained only videos: Abandoned Cement Factory, Messed-up old hospital, We found an old chapel in the woods! The most recent post was almost five years old. Sawyer scrolled through and watched some of the footage: all in the same shaky handheld POV, all captions.
He clicked on a video labelled Security Incident! It had been filmed at night, and showed a torchlit POV approach to a perimeter fence.
Voices. Laughter. Two males. Judging by the volume and distortion, one voice came from the person filming. As the camera reached the mesh of the fence, the screen went blank and filled with a clumsy caption.
NO YOU DON’T GET TO SEE HOW WE GOT IN!
The video switched to the interior of an industrial building: decrepit but with intact fittings and arcane-looking piping and equipment that seemed in relatively good shape. The person holding the camera swung to the side occasionally, catching sight of the second explorer: male, with a dark hoodie and a scarf covering his face. He pointed up.
‘Rails, man!’
The camera followed his lead and briefly captured an intricate network of ceiling-mounted track runners.
Voice behind the camera. ‘Fucking hell. Imagine being up there.’
A clumsy jump-cut to a sign.
USE BOOT WASH BEFORE ENTERING OR LEAVING PRODUCTION AREA
The camera panned across a large open-plan area of metallic troughs and sinks.
‘Has that been cleaned?’
‘No way.’
A high-pitched alarm sounded. The camera shook and lurched to the side, resting for a split second on the boy in the hoodie. His eyes were wide, terrified.
Shaky images. Sounds of running and panting.
The screen faded to black. Caption.
TO BE CONTINUED!
But that was it. None of the other videos seemed to connect or follow on.
Sawyer scrolled down to the comments beneath the video. A couple from The Great Explorer himself, mostly replying to random praise.
‘Slydad’ claimed to ‘work in a similar place up in Scotland boot wash stunk sometimes we started at 5 lol.’
‘Mike Finlay’ had seen an opportunity to make a political point. ‘This is because of Blair misunderstanding EU rules. The damage he did lives on.’
‘Daryl97’ was more succinct (‘awesome day’). His comment had been blessed with an old-school smiley emoticon from The Great Explorer.
Sawyer looked up from the screen and watched Bruce, curled into a tight ball on the armchair, his torso rising and falling as he snoozed.
97. Darren’s birth year.
If it were him, why not Darren97?
He googled ‘Daryl’. The first hit was the Wikipedia entry for D. A. R. Y. L., an inoffensive sci-fi movie from the mid-eighties.
The second hit was another Wikipedia page, this time on Daryl Dixon, a character from The Walking Dead TV series. He thought of Darren’s graphic novels and DVDs, and Samantha’s story about how he got into the show after she had shown him This Life.
Sawyer replayed the video and frame-skipped to the moment where the boy in the hoodie looked startled by the alarm. He took Samantha’s photograph of Darren out of his jacket pocket and compared the two. The on-screen image was dark and blurry, but the eyes were the same shape and it looked like he wore a similar red-and-black shirt beneath his hoodie.
He navigated back to the Left Behind site and searched for posts from Daryl97. There were two or three, all fairly bland replies in other threads.
Sawyer replayed the section of the video where the boys looked at the ceiling rails.
‘Fucking hell. Imagine being up there.’
He took out his phone and played the trail from Episode Three of the Mendez podcast.
‘Some people are dumb, though. They stick up their hero shots. Bragging, yeah? But you’re not supposed to say anything, reveal the location.’
The voices were a match: the rhythm, pitch, intonation.
Sawyer lifted his eyes back to the sleeping cat.
A shudder ran through him.
He was following the same trail as Virginia Mendez.
20
Sawyer bypassed Bakewell and followed the spindly back roads down through Youlgreave. He bounced the Mini over a rough track and stopped at a bridge to let a tractor pass by; a long line of traffic trailed it like imprinted ducklings.
He bowed his head and waited, braced.
Metal on bone.
He looked up, focused on the tractor, the cars.
Michael, lying still in the grass. The dog’s barks fading to yelps.
‘You had Dad’s memory.’
His mother’s voice, from the back seat. He looked up to the rear-view mirror. This time she sat smiling, upright. Sawyer closed his eyes, opened them again. No change. For a moment, he wondered if he might actually be seeing a ghost.
‘He could always remember the day, the details.’
Jessica kept her smile, but her gaze passed through him.
‘Michael got more of my genes, though. Head like a sieve.’
Holes.
The hammer. Metal on bone. Her face; the flesh pulped.
Sawyer’s breathing quickened as he spoke. ‘You said not to look back.’
Her smile faded. ‘It’ll come to you.’
Inhale.
Exhale.
He wanted to reach out, but the rational part of his mind told him this was all illusory, impossible.
One of the cars behind the tractor sounded its horn and Sawyer startled. He jerked his head to the side and glared at the driv
er. When he refocused on the Mini interior, the back seat was empty.
His phone rattled against the plastic of the dashboard compartment. He checked the Caller ID, slotted it into the mount, set it to speaker.
‘You do pick your moments.’
Shepherd sniffed. ‘Can you talk?’
The traffic cleared and Sawyer drove onto the bridge and crossed over the still, shining surface of the River Lathkill. ‘Is it good or bad?’
‘Well. It’s not good. Speaking to Farrell and friends later.’
‘By this time, he’s probably got ballistics on the bullet that hit the axe. He might even connect it with Cross.’
Silence from Shepherd.
‘If he asks, I know you have to tell him.’
‘It would be worse for both of us if I didn’t tell him and he found out.’
Sawyer checked the rear-view mirror. Back seat still empty. ‘No point you making it bad for yourself, no.’
‘Sir.’ A creak as Shepherd sat down. ‘I don’t think that’s fair.’
‘It’s divide and conquer. Classic. If he can prove Cross was there as our—my—guest, then it strengthens his case about undermining his jurisdiction.’
‘Why?’
‘It looks intentional.’
‘It was intentional. You called him in as back-up. You do realise that if Farrell can make gross misconduct stick, he might be able to push Bowman’s death as unlawful.’
Sawyer joined a wider A road and squeezed the accelerator. ‘Let’s change the subject. Are you looking into a misper? Virginia Mendez. Manchester student.’
‘That would be a GMP gig, but I overheard Moran mention it, too.’
‘And how are you doing with the Hardwick murder? Is Walker helping?’
Shepherd paused. ‘He is. And we’re nowhere with it. Any progress on this “ping” you mentioned?’
‘I’ve been busy. I’ll try to get it to ping louder.’ Sawyer pulled into the driveway of a handsome detached house surrounded by a low dry-stone wall. He parked the car and gazed out across the trimmed garden: three widely spaced saplings wavered in the afternoon breeze. ‘Hardwick wasn’t drugged.’
Shepherd sighed. ‘No. Drummond says the killer took off most of the skin on his limbs, some around his torso.’
‘Was he gagged?’
‘I don’t think Drummond’s report mentioned that.’
‘Find out. It might tell us more about the scene of death. You’re going to scream pretty loud if someone is peeling off your skin.’
Shepherd groaned. ‘What about the partial burial?’
‘Someone interrupted him? Something spooked him? Maybe it’s the first one he’s messed up and there are others he buried properly. Look at serious crime or unsolved murders involving people connected to the meat industry. Could be a connection to Hardwick and his business. Follow the inevitable tabloid headline once they find out how he died.’
‘Which is?’
‘BUTCHER BUTCHERED.’
Adam Grayson brought over two glasses of water with lemon slices. ‘You’ll have to excuse my heightened state of excitement, Mr Sawyer. We’ve had a bearded vulture sighting, near Bleaklow.’
Grayson was mid-fifties, bottom heavy, with a wide, ruddy nose and a bald head that tapered slightly at the top. He blinked too frequently, giving the impression he was trying to get something out of his eyes.
‘Is that rare?’ Sawyer poked the lemon slice deeper into the water and set the glass down on the black steel bistro table. A putting mat and golf balls were laid out along the side of the small back garden.
Grayson laughed and took a slug of water. ‘It is indeed rare, Mr Sawyer. Bearded vultures are larger than golden eagles and it’s highly unusual to get a visit from one in the UK. I was just talking to my birders on Facebook Live. The consensus is that it’s flown over from the Alps where it’s being reintroduced at the moment.’ He sat opposite and set down his glass. ‘Of course, the bloody twitchers are all over it.’
‘Like vultures.’
‘Well, quite.’
‘So there’s a difference between birders and twitchers? I thought—’
‘That twitcher is slang for birder? No, no, no.’ He shook his head and took another drink. ‘Twitchers are box-tickers. They travel to sighting areas, bag their spot, make a note, and go home. Birders are more watchful and appreciative.’
‘Do you still teach?’
‘Part-time, yes. I left Cedar Mount a couple of years after Darren Coleman’s disappearance. I now work at Langley Park School for Boys, teaching English, a little History. I also do some private tutoring, which can be immensely rewarding.’
‘My mum was a teacher.’
Grayson frowned. ‘Has she passed?’
‘I’m not fond of that euphemism. She still feels present for me. She died when I was very young.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry. My own mother is still with us, but only in body. Dementia. Such an awful business. Like being both alive and dead simultaneously. There’s nothing worse than seeing someone you care for in that state.’
Beads of red in the grass.
Smears of gore across Michael’s face; the perfect powder blue of his T-shirt.
Sawyer squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again, clearing his head. ‘What are your memories of Darren?’
Grayson rubbed his hands together in a circle, pondering. ‘Shy lad. But then fifteen-year-olds are rarely effusive creatures.’
‘A lot going on inside, though.’
‘Well, of course. The veritable swan. Calm on the surface but furiously paddling away beneath. I thought he had a lot going for him. Obviously bright. But that’s not enough, these days. You have to work hard, make the right choices.’
‘He had to move from another school. Do you remember him struggling to settle in?’
Grayson puffed out his cheeks. ‘This is many years ago, Mr Sawyer. I recall that he mentioned studying business, which was something his previous school didn’t offer.’
‘His mother described an incident where she picked him up from a school event, late one evening. He had a bruise on his face. He said it was a “silly ritual thing”. Do you know what that might have been about?’
Grayson narrowed his eyes and looked out to the garden. ‘Not really. There were one or two cliques and the like. The odd hazing tradition. It’s all fine banter. It’s good for them.’
‘What is?’
‘Ego deflation. A little humbling. It’s good for them to be aware of the peer hierarchy. It’s part of school life, and those who react against it are the ones who have trouble. No?’
Sawyer shifted in his seat. ‘It’s a two-way thing, though, surely? It’s only “banter” if both parties are complicit, in on the joke. Otherwise, that sounds like good old-fashioned bullying to me. No?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Sawyer. I wasn’t aware of a bullying culture. I’m obviously hopeful that you find Darren safe and well, although it has been quite a few years now.’
‘Did you speak to a woman named Virginia Mendez?’
‘I did. Briefly, on the telephone. We were due to meet and record an interview for a podcast but nothing ever came of it. Are you working directly for Mrs Coleman? Or is there some official police involvement?’
Sawyer took a drink. ‘I’m a Detective, up at Buxton Station. But this isn’t official, no.’
Grayson nodded, frowned.
A silence persisted.
Sawyer leaned forward. ‘Did you know of a boy named Stuart Sutton?’
Grayson raised his eyebrows. ‘I did. He was excluded the year before Darren’s disappearance, I believe. He wasn’t in my form, though. I think he was in the year above. So, about to leave, anyway.’ He toyed with his glass. ‘Tell me, Mr Sawyer. Given your official status, I trust we’re not drifting into an area where I’m under suspicion.’ He forced a chuckle. ‘After all, we’re discussing a serious matter and if there’s any implication of accusation—’
‘I could shine
a bright light in your face if that would clarify things?’ Grayson looked suddenly unhappy; Sawyer smiled. ‘Joke. No. Not at all. I’m looking into the possibilities, and as someone who had regular contact with Darren before his disappearance, I hoped you might be able to point me in the right direction.’
‘And how am I doing?’
‘You’ve helped me in more ways than you probably know.’
Grayson nodded, uncertain.
‘One more question, then you can get back to your vulture. Do you remember why Stuart Sutton was excluded from the school?’
Grayson held Sawyer’s eye. ‘I don’t recall the exact details. We weren’t told everything. He was caught in possession of contraband. Drugs.’
Outside, Sawyer lingered by the Mini, basking in the low afternoon sunshine. He took a lemon boiled sweet from his pocket, unwrapped it, popped it in his mouth.
He took out his phone and angled his face to the screen while slowly raising his eyes to the house. Grayson stood at the window, watching.
He turned away and dialled a number; it connected immediately.
‘Sir.’
Sawyer glanced through the window into the back seat. ‘DS Walker.’
‘How are you, sir?’
‘Rosy. Apart from the career-threatening investigation into unlawful killing. Shepherd tells me you’re working on the Hardwick case.’
Walker paused. ‘Not that there’s much to work on.’
‘Anything around the deposition scene?’
‘Sally’s team came up blank. Nothing on the body.’
Sawyer looked back at the house; Grayson had gone. ‘I was hoping you could help me with something. Just a bit of rummaging. Background stuff. No need to make it official.’