by Andrew Lowe
Bullmore hesitated. ‘I did. But as I remember, he stopped coming to our sessions and we fell out of touch. He was desperately ill, Mr Sawyer. Mental illness is not necessarily a precursor to criminal behaviour, of course, but the inadequate management of a mental illness can lead to poor choices, often criminal in nature.’
‘What was his background?’
Bullmore drew in a deep breath, held it, released. He browsed the folder. ‘I believe that he was suffering from an integration disorder. As I say, changing labels. Back then, we called it schizophrenia. But there’s more sensitivity now, given the stigma attached to that term.’
‘Rightly so?’
Bullmore nodded. ‘Oh, indeed. There are many other examples. “Health anxiety” over “hypochondria”. The focus today is on the behavioural dysfunction over the diagnostic vernacular. Since his time in HMP Doncaster, Scott had been self-medicating with alcohol and marijuana. Sadly, those habits form in prison, as I’m sure you know. When he started at ProPak Foods, he seemed relatively stable, and his supervision was high quality. But I assume you’re more interested in what sent him to prison in the first place?’
‘He killed his father,’ said Sawyer, glancing out at the garden. ‘Domestic abuse?’
‘Yes. He was fourteen at the time. He had suffered dreadful physical and emotional violence from his father. And a CT scan showed frontal lobe impairment, possibly as a result of the violence. Scott found solace in nature and animals. It’s common among children whose domestic world is rendered toxic. The simplicity and predictability of the natural world, in contrast to the ever-shifting realities at home. In our conversations at Norfolk, Scott told me he dreamed of becoming a vet, treating and caring for animals. He said he’d wanted a pet of his own, but his father wouldn’t allow it. He retreated into the rural areas around his home, studying animals and wildlife, identifying with them.’
‘Projection.’
Bullmore smiled. ‘Not quite. It’s a defence mechanism, but perhaps closer to displacement, or sublimation. It’s certainly delusional. As we mentioned before, there’s a strong element of empathy. Some people believe that they have more in common with other species, and that they are in the process of transforming into one. They call it clinical lycanthropy. It’s a rare disorder, but I felt that Scott’s complexities fell close to the diagnosis. In crass terms, you might suggest that for someone with literally nowhere to run or hide from domestic abuse, they retreat into an alternative reality. One which feels safer.’
‘An animal self.’
‘Yes. With a deep enough delusion, there might even be a sense that the animal self acts as a screen, or filter, justifying behaviour. Or at least as a way of muting the worst excesses. Many people wear clothing that identifies them with animals, and some achieve sexual satisfaction through costumes and masks.’
Sawyer held Bullmore’s gaze. ‘Tell me about his father.’
Bullmore wrinkled his nose. ‘One of those people who gets described as an “authoritarian”, “fierce”, “strong character”, “a man’s man”. All codified language for an abuser, of course. According to his mother’s testimony, Scott’s father did allow him to own a stray dog that followed him home one day, but then killed it when it fouled the carpet.’
‘How?’
‘He beat it to death with a heavy pan, in front of Scott. To his father, that would have been a decisive action, a show of strength to demonstrate to his son what happens when he dares to dilute his affection. His mother was frequently beaten in sight of Scott and his older brother, Philip. And one day, after he watched his mother take a particularly vicious beating, Scott took the same pan and bludgeoned his father to death with it. Apparently, he struck him once to the back of the head, and the force was sufficient to kill him instantly.’
Sawyer shuddered at a flash of his childhood dog, Henry, snuffling into his own belly. Exposed intestines.
‘As a minor, where did he go before Doncaster?’
Bullmore checked his notes. ‘Aldine House Secure Children’s Centre, Sheffield. Basically a prison for children. Not the best suited for treating trauma. Scott began to experience auditory hallucinations at this point.’
‘Hearing voices?’
Bullmore shrugged. ‘Again, Mr Sawyer. Labels. Then Doncaster Young Offenders, then to grown-up prison when he turned eighteen. I felt there was a degree of progress in our work together, but over my many years in the profession, I’ve come to the conclusion that there may be some trauma which is too deep-seated to overcome, particularly the type that develops in formative years.’
The skin on the back of Sawyer’s neck prickled. Bullmore: reclining in his chair and talking, talking. He seemed simultaneously near and distant.
Not enough air.
‘Did Scott tell you what the voices were saying?’
Take deeper breaths. It’ll pass.
‘For many people with integration disorder, their internal chatter begins as benign. As if they are invoking an imaginary friend as a coping strategy.’
The space in front of Bullmore’s desk shimmered, as if a heat haze was forming.
‘But often, a trauma might render the voices malevolent.’
Sawyer screwed his eyes shut, opened them again. The room had compressed into a circular tunnel view, surrounded by a blurred aura.
‘And some say it’s like they have a devil in their head, speaking to them and directing their actions.’
Bullmore’s speech pattern remained normal, but he appeared ballooned and bloated at the centre of Sawyer’s vision of the room.
Inhale slowly, five seconds.
Exhale slowly, five seconds.
‘This is why there’s a high suicide rate among schizophrenics. Anything to silence the voices or visions.’
Sawyer sprang to his feet. ‘Do you mind if we open a window, Dr Bullmore?’
‘Of course not.’
Sawyer stumbled towards the window and turned the handle up, then down. No luck. He looked around for a latch.
Bullmore’s words now floated in from behind, faint and wavering, fighting for clarity at the centre of a familiar audio collage: his mother’s screams, his dog barking.
Metal on skull.
Metal on teeth.
‘People talk about escaping their demons, Mr Sawyer. Purging themselves of darkness. But with mental illness, like any dark force, I believe that if you turn away, if you simply try and run, then you’ll never be free of it.’
He found the latch, threw open the window.
The fresh air hit him like a jet of icy water.
‘I used to think that the idea of “evil” was just a tabloid buzzword. But it does exist. And it relishes darkness, secrecy. You have to pursue it, hunt it down, bring it out into the light. And sometimes you do have to fight evil with evil.’
Inhale.
Exhale.
Sawyer turned. The room had normalised, the sounds receded. Bullmore tidied the papers into the folder.
He looked up, smiled. ‘Now. Mr Sawyer. Are you going to tell me why you’re interested in Scott?’
Sawyer took a slow, steady breath. ‘I think you’re right about evil, Dr Bullmore. And I need to bring Scott out into the light.’
40
DS Shepherd took a steadying breath and stepped into the interview room. DCI Farrell sat behind the central desk, typing on a laptop, with DSI Keating beside him in full uniform.
Shepherd waited by the chair, keeping his eyes away from Keating’s gaze.
Farrell finished his typing, striking the final key with a flourish. He looked up. ‘Have a seat, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He settled into the chair.
Farrell waved a hand towards the two men at the temporary desk in the corner. ‘As before, IOPC Lead Investigator Callum Whitehead. Federation rep DC Simon Gail. And of course you know DSI Keating well.’ He leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on the desktop, knitting his fingers together. ‘Questions. Let’s
get the big one cleared up first. Were you, or were you not, in attendance on the day that DI Sawyer conducted his… independent investigation into David Bowman’s kidnap of Stephanie Burns?’
Shepherd glanced at Keating. No help. ‘In attendance?’
Farrell offered a waspish smile. ‘Did you go with him to Dovestone Reservoir?’
DC Gail held up a hand. ‘DS Shepherd, you’re not under caution, but if you choose not to answer—’
‘I choose not to answer.’
Keating raised his eyes.
Farrell typed as he spoke. ‘I had Digital Media Adviser Karl Rhodes take a look at your IT.’ He looked up. ‘Due diligence. Completely within remit. Nothing to definitely place you at the scene with DI Sawyer, but something caught my eye. I had Rhodes run some software on your HOLMES system, tracking recent activity. DS Shepherd, have you shared your login details with anyone else?’
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘Well, can you explain why your account has been accessed three times over the past week, from a location in the Edale area? As far as I’m aware, your family home is in Thornhill. Some distance from Edale. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And so would you have any idea why your HOLMES account might have been accessed by someone in the Edale area?’
Shepherd locked eyes with Keating. ‘No, sir.’
‘Really think, Detective,’ said Farrell. ‘Are you sure you didn’t share your login details with someone? With, perhaps, DI Sawyer? Doesn’t he live in the Edale area?’
‘He does, sir.’
‘I’m guessing that if we impounded DI Sawyer’s laptop, then my suspicion would be confirmed. And, given your association, it would be difficult to prove that you hadn’t shared your login details with him.’ Farrell tapped out a short drumbeat on the desk with his hands. ‘Please think very carefully, Detective Shepherd. I do understand your loyalty. But it would seem that Detective Sawyer doesn’t reciprocate the respect you clearly have for him. Granted, he has apprehended some dangerous criminals, and proven himself an excellent detective. But his actions on the Bowman raid are unacceptable, and as an upstanding—’
‘Julius Newton confirmed his connection to Bowman,’ said Shepherd, avoiding eye contact with Farrell. ‘He insisted that he knew where he would be holding Stephanie Burns. DI Sawyer felt that we needed to take swift action to preserve life. He assured me that we would call in assistance if there was any concrete sign of Bowman.’
Farrell bristled. ‘Assistance? You mean inform your commanding officers. Or, in this case, me. As the senior officer in charge of the Greater Manchester area.’
‘Sir.’
‘And so what exactly happened?’
‘While DI Sawyer was otherwise detained, Julius Newton attacked me and got away, confronting Bowman at the house. By the time DI Sawyer had caught up with him, Bowman had been alerted.’
‘What do you mean by DI Sawyer being “otherwise detained”?’
Shepherd shuffled in his seat. ‘He stepped out of the car, to… take a phone call.’
Farrell took out his canister of breath mints and popped one into his mouth. ‘Was DI Sawyer, I wonder, talking to Tony Cross?’
‘Sir?’
Farrell studied Shepherd, rolling the mint around his mouth. ‘We have a ballistics report showing that the axe wielded by David Bowman was struck by a high-calibre bullet. Given DI Sawyer’s connection with Cross, it seems plausible that he might have called him in for back-up.’
‘Tony Cross… appeared when Sawyer pursued Newton after he attacked me.’
‘“Appeared”? In a puff of smoke? DS Shepherd, I suggest that you and DI Sawyer travelled to the Dovestone location with Julius Newton. DI Sawyer then had Tony Cross attend to provide armed back-up. A wise decision, given Cross’s eventual contribution.’ Farrell dug his fingers through his oily hair. ‘I also suggest that DI Sawyer had an agenda that he was reluctant to share with you. An ill-advised confrontational approach to the apprehension of Bowman based on the similarities of Bowman’s crimes to the method of Jessica Sawyer’s murder—’
‘DCI Farrell…’ Keating turned to face him.
Farrell continued. ‘And, given the widespread testimony on DI Sawyer’s recent behaviour, I would also question his mental state at the time.’
Keating held up a hand. ‘Okay. Let’s wind this up.’
Farrell composed himself. ‘I apologise for the voracity. But you’ve been extremely helpful, DS Shepherd. It’s my view that you’ve been mismanaged by a highly skilled manipulator, and your testimony will ensure that he receives a firm but fair sanction.’
Shepherd glanced at Keating: again, no help. ‘What do you mean by that, sir?’
‘I’m hoping to secure further evidence to support my view that DI Sawyer executed this operation with the full intention of eliminating David Bowman with prejudice, and that his claims of self-defence are spurious at best.’
‘If that holds, sir, DI Sawyer might lose his job.’
‘He might even go to prison,’ said Whitehead.
Farrell took a breath. ‘I take no pleasure in this, DS Shepherd. But if that does transpire, then you should see it as the wider force benefiting by disciplining an officer who either feels that the rules don’t apply to him or is mentally unfit to follow them. We are civil servants. We are salaried to serve the public. Given his actions, if Detective Sawyer is taken out of service, then it will be his loss but the public’s gain.’
41
Sawyer eased the Mini into a tight space at the corner of the Evelyn Medical Centre car park. The facility, on the edge of Hathersage village, was a standard rural clinic: one-storey, stone-built to blend with the surrounding cottages. Several windowless Portacabins had been set up in a recessed area off the far side of the car park, and Sawyer’s position by the perimeter path gave him a good view of anyone entering or leaving.
He squinted to read a sign beside the single door leading into the cabins: a large pink letter A with an underscored legend.
ACTION AGAINST ADDICTION
After a few minutes, a short and skinny twentysomething man emerged from the door and walked out onto the path, a little unsteady. He wore an ageing black Adidas hoodie, ill-fitting tracksuit trousers, scruffy red-and-white trainers. Sawyer studied him as he shambled past, stopping to light a cigarette near the front of the car. But it was difficult to see any facial features with his hood up.
Sawyer got out of the Mini and called to the man. ‘It’s The Great Explorer!’
The man stopped and turned. ‘Eh?’
Sawyer walked over, through a small iron gate. He offered a broad smile. ‘YouTube. Urbex. I’m a big fan.’
The man flipped his hood back. He was pallid, prematurely aged, with sunken, heavy-lidded eyes and a patch of blond fluff on his chin. Up close, his sportswear was stained, with sagging pockets.
Sawyer stepped forward and held out a hand. ‘Lloyd Robbins. Don’t worry, Stuart. I’m not a serial killer or anything. Just looking for a bit of information.’
Sutton eyed Sawyer’s hand, looked him over, then submitted his skeletal fingers for the shake, allowing Sawyer to move in a little closer.
Gold stud in right earlobe.
‘Are you a copper or something?’ said Sutton, checking the car park behind.
‘I’m a journalist, Stuart. I’m writing a book about a lad who went missing a few years ago. Darren Coleman. I believe you were good friends, weren’t you?’
‘I don’t do the exploring any more. I’ll have to take that shit down.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘More of an inner voyager, eh?’
‘What?’
Sawyer nodded to the Portacabins. ‘Supervised Injection Site.’
‘They call them Drug Consumption Rooms now, and I’m not doing it for a laugh. I’m an addict and I don’t need your judgement.’
Sawyer held his hands up. ‘I’m not judging. Just trying to make a connection with something.’
<
br /> Sutton frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You did a bit of urbex with Darren, didn’t you?’
Sutton hesitated, wiped his forearm across his nose.
‘It’s a rhetorical question, Stuart. It’s on YouTube, remember?’
‘Yeah. Fucking long time ago, though.’
‘How fucking long? When was the last time you saw Darren?’
Sutton’s eyes drifted to the side, back towards the car park. ‘About the time we did the last video.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not!’
‘You’re still lying.’
Sutton flipped his hood back up. ‘Look. I was good mates with Darren for a bit. It was ages ago. I remember doing the urbex, and the video shit.’
‘And you got him to buy drugs for you. Didn’t want to risk it yourself.’
‘He helped me out, yeah. But addicts do shit like that, okay? It don’t mean that I done him in or something.’
‘You were close. Was he in any other trouble? Did he mention anything?’
Sutton shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘No. You know what? These are seriously sounding like copper questions. I’ve got to go.’
‘On one of the videos, Stuart, you say that the place is haunted. Do you remember that?’
Sutton scowled. He looked ready to run. ‘Just saying shit to freak him out. I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘How about demons? Devils?’
Sutton barked a laugh. ‘Right. You’re freaking me out now. I’m going to say goodbye, yeah?’ He offered a sarcastic salute. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’
Sutton hurried away down the path. Sawyer watched him all the way to the front gate of the medical centre. As he turned and walked through onto the pavement, he glanced back over his shoulder, then disappeared behind the main wall.
Sawyer jumped into the car and drove out of the gate, keeping his distance as Sutton crossed the road and entered a side street behind the tall, Neo-Jacobean building on the corner, which now contained the Bank House pub. He waited for Sutton to gain some ground, then crawled the Mini along the same route, until he saw him enter a flat block off a hill that climbed towards the sunset hotspot of Surprise View.