by Andrew Lowe
The man caught up and slipped into an alley, out of sight, as Bishop scaled the steps to his house and jangled his keys. He unlocked and opened the front door.
The man dashed up the steps behind him and jabbed something into his back, illuminating the porch in a crackle of blue light.
Bishop yelped in pain and shock, and stumbled forward into the hall, dropping to his hands and knees. He rolled to one side, trying to turn and face upwards, but the man loomed in and hit him with a heavy punch to the side of his head, knocking him unconscious.
Bishop jolted awake, gasping for air. A second torrent of icy water splashed into his face, and he twisted his head to the side, spitting and spluttering.
He lay propped against a cold stone wall, still topless, wrists clamped together by a metal cuff, and his legs locked into a chain by clasps around his ankles. He kicked at the floor, pulling the chain taut against its base link, which was locked onto a metal plate at the foot of the wall.
The place was dark, with a faint dawn light peeking in through a grubby window. A male figure moved in his peripheral vision, and bent forward over a storage unit in the corner.
Drawers opening and closing. Clattering metal.
‘Hey!’ Bishop shouted. ‘What am I… Who are you?’
The man went over to a sink and turned on a tap. After a few seconds, he carried a large pan of water over to a workbench and set it down.
Bishop blinked and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. The man struck a match and lit a portable gas stove on the workbench. He lifted the pan onto the stove.
‘Oi! I’m talking to you. Where the fuck am I? Who are you?’ Bishop winced. ‘My fucking face! It hurts to talk. You must have broken my cheekbone. Was it you?’
The man stood over the stove with his back to Bishop. ‘Why don’t you fight yourself? With other people?’ The voice was deep, resounding.
‘What?’
‘You force the dogs to fight. Why not yourself?’
Bishop shook his head. ‘I… What am I doing here? Where are we?’
‘You target the powerless because you feel no power yourself.’ The man raised himself back to his full height; he was still mostly in silhouette, and the shape of his head seemed to have changed, grown. ‘Because it makes you feel powerful.’
Bishop lapsed into a coughing fit. ‘Hey. If you say so, right? Now, listen. Get this fucking chain off me or…’ He shifted position, tugged at the chain.
The man turned off the stove and lifted the pan. ‘Now you close your eyes. You don’t look at me. You don’t see anything.’
‘I’m not closing my fucking eyes. Unlock this chain now.’
The man walked over and set the steaming pan of water down on the floor. Bishop looked up, trying to see his face. He caught a flash of shadow. Something beast-like, with horned tips either side of the top of the head.
The man reached down and flattened a strip of opaque masking tape over Bishop’s eyes.
‘No, no, no. No!’
Clanking metal. Bishop screamed; an unconvincing howl of outrage, the anger now blending into terror.
‘You can make noise,’ said the man. ‘But I won’t stop. And this place is remote. Nobody will hear you. I promise you that there is no possibility of rescue or salvation.’
The man leaned over to the wall and flicked a switch, casting the room in feeble electric light.
Bishop writhed and tugged at the chain. ‘Fuck you! Let me go! You fucking…’
The man lifted the pan.
Iron scraping on stone.
Bishop paused for breath. The man waited in silence, holding the steaming pan of water, watching him.
Bishop looked around sightlessly, listening for the man.
He leaned in, close to Bishop’s ear. ‘You can scream now.’
He stripped the tape from Bishop’s eyes.
31
Sawyer shouldered through the heavy double doors into the relatives’ room. Lewis Vaughan stood alone, staring up at the wall-mounted television that displayed a static image with multicoloured icons and a bright logo in an uneven font: CAVENDISH HOSPITAL INTERACTIVE.
‘How is she?’
Vaughan turned and ran a hand across the back of his neck. His blond hair was still immaculately quiffed, but his eyes were wild and reddened. ‘She’s unconscious. I wanted to call you because…’ He dropped his head.
Sawyer stepped into the room. Beech coffee table with tissues. Stack of old magazines. Blank walls in pastel and teal. ‘What happened?’
Vaughan fumbled for the back of one of the three chairs and took a seat. ‘I haven’t seen her yet. Haven’t spoken to her. She’s been sedated. The doctor said she was agitated and rambling. He said he wants to rule out, uh—’
‘Head injury.’ Sawyer sat down opposite. ‘Is she otherwise okay? Physically?’
Vaughan rubbed his knuckles around the corners of his eyes. ‘They don’t know. They’re doing tests or whatever. I only saw her in the bed. She looks thin.’ He sucked in a deep breath. ‘Fuck!’
‘Maybe she’s malnourished. She’ll be on IV fluids. They’ll take care of her. How did she get here?’
‘She came in a car. Someone dropped her off. Ginny had her purse, and my number on an emergency contact card.’
Sawyer frowned. ‘Who dropped her off?’
Vaughan looked at Sawyer, confused. ‘Some old couple. They left. I only spoke to them for a minute or two. The woman said that Ginny flagged them down by woods up near Slackhall.’
Sawyer’s phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘Did she say anything to them? Or to the doctor?’’
No. Just kept asking them for help and crying. They brought her straight here.’
Sawyer looked at the message, from Jordan Burns.
Time running out need an ANSWER
He pocketed the phone. ‘Can I see her?’
A voice from behind. ‘Why would you want to do that, Detective Sawyer?’
Sawyer sighed, and turned. A scrawny man in a light grey suit entered. He stopped, too close to Sawyer, smiled, and adjusted his wire-framed spectacles. He took out a warrant card and turned to Vaughan. ‘I’m Detective Constable Ross Moran. You’re Lewis Vaughan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Vaughan, we’re keen to understand how Ginny found herself at the hospital today. I’m sure you’re aware that she’s the subject of a missing persons investigation.’
Vaughan nodded. ‘Yes, but—’
‘Detective Sawyer is currently inactive, under suspension pending an investigation.’
Vaughan closed his eyes for a few seconds, opened them again. ‘I… want him to help. We’ve met before.’
Moran smiled again. ‘I’m afraid that’s not relevant. Have you been nominated as Virginia’s next of kin?’
Vaughan looked at Sawyer. ‘No.’
‘Well, then I’m sorry to say that neither you nor Detective Sawyer have any leverage here.’
Sawyer scoffed. ‘Leverage? It’s not a business deal, Moran. His girlfriend has been missing for over two weeks. She’s just been found in a terrible state.’
‘Of course.’ Another smile. ‘But that’s the emotional perspective. I’m here to focus on the practicalities. The police procedure. We need to find out the extent of any illegalities, and regardless of your connection to Detective Sawyer, Mr Vaughan, I would urge you to restrict your dealings to official police channels.’ Vaughan looked to Sawyer. ‘And, as I say, at the moment that doesn’t include Detective Sawyer, who is currently serving a suspension.’
Sawyer stood and headed for the exit. He turned at the door. ‘Lewis, can I have a quick word in private?’
Moran sighed, but Vaughan got up and followed Sawyer out into the corridor.
Sawyer led him to an alcove opposite and spoke in a low voice. ‘Lewis, can you get me a contact for the couple who brought Ginny to the hospital? I’m entitled to help you privately, but I need to know a bit more about where she was picked up.’
&nbs
p; Vaughan nodded. ‘I’ll text you.’ He hesitated. ‘Doesn’t seem like you’re exactly best of friends with the other guy.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘You should give him all the information he needs. DC Moran is a good detective. We just got off on a bad foot.’
32
JUNE 2012
Sawyer side-stepped through the crowd, holding his plate aloft. He squeezed through to a raised block of paving at the far end of the outdoor pool, where Frazer Drummond presided over a charcoal barbeque, the forks and spatulas toy-like in his hulking hands.
‘Can I interest you in some protein?’ Drummond flipped a line of burgers in succession and tugged at the neck of his short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. ‘Hotter than Satan’s arsehole today, Sawyer.’
Sawyer held out his plate and prised open his sesame bun. ‘You don’t get that quality of customer chat at McDonald’s.’
Drummond sniffed. ‘You don’t get PGI Scotch beef at McDonald’s.’ He slid a burger onto Sawyer’s bun.
‘What’s PGI?’
‘Protected Geographical Indication. It’s a benchmark. Assurance that the beef was reared and processed in Scotland. If we’re going to justify our place at the top of the food chain, we should at least give the animals a decent life. A bit of dignity.’
‘Before we kill them?’
Drummond lifted his sunglasses onto his shiny forehead and narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t recommend trying to eat live cow.’
Sawyer looked across to the house’s cantilevered porch, where the hired DJ nodded to the music: seventies funk, disco standards. ‘So are you exclusive to Keating now?’
Drummond dug a fork into a bowl of salad, mushed it around. ‘For police work, yes. Home Office-registered, finally.’
‘Prestigious.’
Drummond shrugged. ‘Few more letters after my name.’
‘More numbers on your bank statement.’
‘Cheeky fucker. But, yes. It’s why we can afford this place. Just. I hear you’re off down to the Smoke soon?’
Sawyer took a bite of burger. ‘London calling.’
‘You’ll learn a lot more there. Ditching the yokels for the mean streets, eh?’
Sawyer pointed down to the distance, beyond the rolling open fields at the side of the house. ‘What’s that?’
‘Broomhead Reservoir. Sophia always said she wanted to live near water. I think she meant of the salty variety, but it’s a start. As for me…’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you know one of the things that attracted me to this place, Sawyer? The address. We are technically in the area of Wigtwizzle.’
‘Isn’t that a kids’ TV show?’
Drummond laughed and took a slurp from a can of beer. ‘I was born in a place called Queenzieburn. North of Glasgow. But I think this is actually an upgrade, in the comical place name stakes.’
‘Detective Sergeant!’
Sawyer turned. A young woman in a paisley beach dress glided out from a porch at the back of the house. She stopped just short of Sawyer, tipped her tortoiseshell shades down her nose, and stuck out a hand.
‘Sophia’. He smiled and shook her hand, jingling the array of gold bangles looped around her slender wrist.
‘Well done, you. I was so thrilled when I heard the news.’ She swished away her long black hair. ‘You’ll soon be Chief Constable.’
Drummond mock-choked on his drink. ‘His hair’s too long for that. And he hates uniforms.’
Sophia smiled. ‘True to your own spirit, eh, Jake?’ She winked and angled her head back towards the house. ‘Let me give you the tour.’ She took Sawyer’s hand and guided him back across the porch into a large dining room with a view of the reservoir below. ‘I’m in love with this house. Ben and Emma can’t quite believe we actually live here. The other day, Emma asked me if we’re still on holiday. I’m dreading them growing up. I wish kids could just stay kids forever.’
A gaunt man in slack shorts and a loose white T-shirt turned from the wooden bannister at the edge of the porch. He took off his silver-framed glasses and used the edge of the T-shirt to clean the lenses, all the while watching Sawyer and Sophia Drummond as they entered the house.
Inside, Sawyer followed Sophia through the dining room into the cavernous kitchen. The central bar had been crammed with bottles of liquor, and the work surfaces held several bowls of mixed salads and finger foods.
Sophia flipped shut the blind that looked out onto the pool area, where the guests had formed a number of cliques in the suntrap at the top of the garden. She turned to Sawyer, tilted her head back. ‘Do you like my new earrings?’
He leaned in and lifted them both, resting them flat on his fingertips. Jewelled angel wings. ‘Divine.’
She smiled. ‘You smell good.’
‘Higher pay grade. Ditched the Lynx Africa for Eau de Lacoste.’
Sophia lifted Sawyer’s hands away from the earrings and rested them on her shoulders. ‘It’s been a hectic few weeks, with the move. The kids have been difficult. Too much work, not enough play.’
He nodded. ‘Probably not a good time. Sex among the crudités. Could get messy.’
Sophia sighed and pulled back, letting his hands fall away. ‘Do you still see me as “play”?’
‘Plato said that life must be lived as play.’
She moved to the bar, poured two glasses of red wine, handed one to Sawyer. ‘Montoya Cabernet. Frazer’s favourite.’
Sawyer sloshed the wine around in the glass. He took a sip, winced.
She laughed. ‘No?’
‘You want to cool things off a bit.’
‘What?’
He set down the glass. ‘You’re looking for affirmation, in a setting where there’s little chance of anything getting too heated.’ Sawyer stepped closer to her. ‘New house. New beginnings. Husband drawing greater respect. You take the Observer, vote Lib Dem, but I think you’re more status-centric than you care to admit, Sophia. Must be confusing, now I’ve been elevated, too.’
Sophia sipped her wine, stalling. ‘It all feels too reckless now. Risk is only exciting when the worst-case scenario is endurable.’
‘I’m moving.’
‘Where?’
‘To London. The Met.’
‘When?’
‘Few weeks.’
She took a slug of wine. ‘Well. These things happen for a reason.’
He moved in close. ‘No. They don’t. Things happen because we make them happen. There’s nobody behind the scenes, shuffling the pieces around on some celestial gameboard.’
Sawyer slipped his hands around her hips. Sophia set down her glass. She leaned forward, rested her chin against his shoulder and whispered in his ear. ‘I can’t let you leave without—’ She startled and pulled back. ‘Ross.’
Sawyer turned. The thin man from the porch stood at the door, smiling. ‘Sorry. Just using the bathroom.’ DC Moran nodded at Sawyer and hurried away, back out to the porch.
Sophia closed her eyes and snatched up her wine, draining the glass in a single gulp. ‘Fuck!’
Sawyer gripped the edge of the sink. ‘Does Frazer—’
‘Of course he fucking doesn’t.’
‘It’s just a drunken clinch.’
She barked a bitter laugh. ‘Good story.’
‘Your housewarming party. Bit too much to drink. Plausible deniability.’
‘Yeah. For you, maybe. I’ll still get the grief.’
Sawyer headed back out of the door, onto the porch. He squinted at the glare from the low afternoon sun, and shook away a twinge of nausea. The DJ had upped the tempo. ‘Tossing and Turning’ by Windjammer. Melancholic pop soul.
He walked towards the pool, towards the silhouetted guests. A small group danced beneath the trees at the end of the driveway, arms whirling.
‘Jake!’
Sophia from behind. Sawyer kept moving, looking for Moran.
He tried to push through the crowd, but a large, bear-like hand squeezed his shoulder, spinning him round.
Drummond sh
oved him out into the open and drew back his arm.
Sawyer stepped across Drummond, out of the punch’s range, causing Drummond to stumble forward, off balance.
They faced each other: Drummond with flushed red cheeks, breathing hard. He stared Sawyer down, venom tainting his pale blue eyes.
‘Frazer!’
Keating’s voice from somewhere, off near the front of the house.
A shout of distress from Sophia. Gasps and murmurs, as the crowd tuned in to the confrontation.
Drummond launched himself at Sawyer, who stepped to the side, onto a puddle of pool water. He tried to steady himself, but slid forward onto the tiles at the rim of the pool.
Sawyer heard a loud crack, and yelped at a shot of pain through his chest. He tried to push himself upright, but the pain scythed up into his shoulder and he flopped back down.
A hand on the back of his neck, trying to drag him upright.
He managed to flip onto his side, as Drummond was jostled away by Keating and two other men. He broke free, and held both hands up in the air, indicating submission.
Drummond crouched beside Sawyer. ‘You’re one lucky fucker, you know that? I’m hoping it’s your collarbone, but you’ve probably only chipped a rib or two.’ Sophia stood beside them, hands over her mouth. Drummond glared up at her. ‘You think I didn’t suspect something?’ His head swayed, and he blinked in drunken slow motion, stabbing a chunky finger in Sawyer’s direction. ‘You made a good choice there, my love. This one. He’s fucking poison. Takes pleasure where he feels like it. Doesn’t care if it causes other people pain. Easier than dealing with your own pain, eh, Sawyer?’ Drummond stood up. ‘Hurry up and fuck off down to London, where nobody gives a shit about anyone but themselves. You’ll fit right in.’
He wheeled away, pursued by Sophia.
Sawyer rolled over, wincing at the pain in the side of his chest. The guests watched at a safe distance as he hauled himself upright.