by Andrew Lowe
‘Hardwick and Bishop were in horrendous states, but Sally and crew have found no trace evidence.’ Drummond tugged at his short-sleeved shirt, loosening the fit. ‘Flaying has been around for a long time, you know. The Aztecs did it, the ancient Greeks, medieval Europe. You’ve got around a thousand nerve endings in one square inch of skin. We don’t have any living testimony, of course, but it has to be one of the most painful ways to die.’ He leaned forward. ‘You have to soften the skin first, to loosen it from the muscles and make it easier to peel off. The Aztecs just left the poor bastards out in the sun until the skin reddened and burned. Of course, that also tenderises the skin and makes the pain worse. Our medieval cousins were a bit more efficient. They dipped the victims alive in boiling water, but pulled them out before they were boiled alive. Because that would have spoiled the fun. Although they would probably have been blinded, suffered nerve damage, scorched lungs. That’s before anyone has even made a cut. This is not someone drowning in compassion here, Sawyer. If he doesn’t enjoy it, then he’s chosen a pretty stressful method of murder.’
Sawyer’s eyes drifted to the streaks of damp in a top corner of the break room. ‘Maybe the suffering is the point. He’s been refining it over a long period. He’s tried different approaches, taken breaks. But now something has changed. Something has tripped a switch.’
‘You think he’s killed more but we haven’t found them?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘So why are we finding them now? The half-burials. It’s almost as if he’s inviting discovery, upping the risk. It’s sloppy, in contrast to the rigorous control of the sadism and torture. I also think he captured someone and let them go, because he couldn’t go through with it, for some reason.’ He looked up, held Drummond’s eye. ‘He’s either tired of it, or something is pushing him to stop.’
44
A mid-morning mist hovered over the farm fields surrounding the Manifold Valley. Sawyer trudged through the soggy earth and joined the well-trodden walking track from Wetton village, keeping a respectful distance from the clusters of grazing sheep. The sun was stirring later now, with a dampened intensity, taking its time to burn off the cloud. But, despite the early showings of fallen leaves, the air was still balmy and rich with pollen, and the grass remained untarnished.
The ground steepened, and he left the track, stumbling down the final section in an unflattering crouch. He jumped down onto the roadside, screwed in his earphones, and followed the old railway track to the stairs embedded in the crag, up to his childhood safe space.
Thor’s Cave was a natural karst cavern at the top of a peaked limestone crag. Its ten-metre-high circular front entrance had stared down on the valley below for ten thousand years. Sawyer took out his earphones and scaled the smooth rock, deep into the central cavern, where he perched on his favoured flattened section of rock and looked out through the cave mouth at the swaying treetops.
He sank into the isolation, listening to the rushing river, the plangent hoot of a curlew. He inhaled the cave’s primordial essence: empty peat, blank stone. Undisturbed, unchanging. It was an emotional epicentre; a place where he could quiet his mind, dismantle a case, study the moving parts.
A wind whistled through the slitted natural window at the side of the cave, and Sawyer hitched up his hoodie, covering his head, tunnelling his vision to the centre of the valley view.
‘The first time we brought you here, you didn’t want to come in.’
He turned towards the sloped chamber at the back. Sunlight reflected off the patches of rainwater, revealing his mother’s silhouette, curved into the rock wall.
Sawyer turned away, looked back out of the cave mouth. ‘I’d fallen in the river. Got soaked.’
Jessica chuckled. ‘It was a hot day. You dried off quickly. You got over it. You asked me if bears lived here. Dad said there were monsters. He was joking, but that only made it worse. So you climbed the path that goes up around the top. The really steep bit, with sheer drops. I was terrified, but you were too far ahead for me to follow and stop you.’
He smiled. ‘Making things hard for myself again.’
‘And now you’re seeing things, my darling. Hearing things. Talking to yourself.’
‘First sign of madness.’
‘You’re close. To remembering.’
‘I’m scratching the surface. Nothing’s showing.’
‘You’re fixating. You’re not paying enough attention to the surface. You’re too focused on what might be under the layers, lurking in the darkness. Like you were with this place.’
‘What if I pulled back? Viewed it from a distance?’
He turned. The chamber was empty.
Sawyer took the steep road back up to Wetton, turning near the top to look back across the valley to the cave entrance. He stood at the roadside for a few minutes, staring, straining for focus. Thor’s Cave loomed across the valley, implacable. The impassive façade: a portal to history.
A car swished by behind, and he turned, quickening his pace, forcing himself up the final, flattening section of road as it met the edge of the village. He found the Mini where he’d parked it by the road and leaned on it as he took out his phone.
Text message from Walker.
SUTTON IS FLAT 14, LOOKS LIKE HIS GIRLFRIEND’S PLACE
Sawyer closed his message inbox and made a call. The phone rang for a long time before it connected.
‘Paul Barton.’
‘Paul. It’s Jake Sawyer. We met at the coffee shop a few days ago to talk about urbex. I was wondering if the word “Devil” made any connection for you. Any association.’
Barton hesitated. ‘Yeah, I remember.’
Sawyer took a breath. ‘You do remember, Paul. You have a thing you do with your hands. Lathering them together as if you’re washing them. When I mentioned the word “Devil” it was the only time in our chat that your hands stopped moving for a few seconds.’
‘I… Look, I really don’t—’
‘There’s a desperate mother, Paul. She needs to know what happened to her son. This might really help. Strictly between you and me.’ Sawyer got into the car and closed the door.
Barton puffed out a breath. ‘It’s a stupid thing. You just reminded me of… You hear stories. Silly legends. Things get passed on, and take on their own logic. The facts get twisted and exaggerated. There’s a place down by Ashbourne. Lots of urbexers have tried to get in, take some pictures. Some claim that they have, but I’ve never seen a decent visual report with definitive pics. One or two dirty shots, couple of Goon Tuber vids.’
‘So most definitely a hot place?’
‘Most definitely. It used to be a slaughterhouse. Abattoir.’
‘Sherratt & Sons.’
‘Yeah. It’s one hell of a prize, because the rumours are they never really took it apart, so there’s bound to be some amazing stuff in there. But it’s really well secured and there’s this stupid legend that keeps people away.’
A sharp glare of sunlight pierced the clouds overhead, and Sawyer flipped down the driver’s eye shield. ‘What’s the legend, Paul?’
‘It’s going to sound stupid. People say they see a beast. A creature. With horns. Something that walks upright. Urbexers say they’ve seen it inside the abattoir building, and also around the grounds. I’ve heard various reports, but most people say it’s tall and looks pretty powerful.’
‘Horns? Like the Devil?’
Barton sighed. ‘Yeah, like a demon. Or a minotaur or human bull or something. Seriously, I’ve heard a lot worse. It’s just bullshit. It was probably put about by the building owners to keep people away.’
Sawyer started the engine. ‘Paul, that’s a huge help.’
‘I don’t see how—’
‘So, you don’t believe the stories?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Do you believe in the Devil, Paul?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’
45
Sawyer drove into Hathersage and parked b
ack at the Evelyn Medical Centre. He walked through the fading daylight, down into the village, and bought a cheap PAYG phone from an electronics shop, and a notepad and pen from the newsagent next door. On the way out, he slipped a miniature can of Diet Coke into the pocket of his hoodie.
He headed back to the Medical Centre and sat on a low wall near the car park, slurping from the can and sketching in the notepad. A group of medical workers eyed him as they separated and climbed into their cars.
Sawyer pulled out his own phone and took a photo of his sketch. He sent the image to a number, which he called as soon as the transfer was complete. The call connected immediately, but the reception was vague and crackly.
‘Lewis?’
‘Mr Sawyer. Let me just get outside.’ Noises as Lewis Vaughan opened a heavy-sounding door. The reception fluttered, then cleared. ‘Sorry. I’m at the hospital. Service is—’
‘Are you with Virginia?’
‘Yes. They’re not keen on phones in the ward. Reception is bad, anyway.’
‘How is she?’
‘Not good, Mr Sawyer. She sleeps a lot. Still under sedation. I’ve been here pretty much since she was brought in. The bruising has eased a bit on her head, but I don’t think it’s her physical injuries that they’re worried about.’
‘Has she spoken?’
Vaughan sighed. ‘Nothing that makes much sense. She knows who I am, and we talk a bit. One-word answers, mostly. She… won’t let me touch her. She just pulls back her hand whenever I… The other guy, Moran, was here, trying to get something out of her. He asked if she was driven to the place where she was found, and she nodded. I think they’re getting a trauma specialist or something. But the doctors want her left in peace to recover.’
‘Is she awake now?’
‘Yes. She’s just had some food.’
‘Can you go back in to see her, Lewis?’
‘Okay, but she won’t—’
‘I want you to show her something.’
‘I’m here.’ Vaughan kept his voice low. The phone reception stuttered again.
‘Did you get the picture I sent?’
A pause. ‘Yes. Okay. What’s this?’
‘Could you show it to Virginia? Ask her if she recognises it.’
A crackle as Vaughan moved the phone.
‘Baby? Could you open your eyes for a second? One of the policemen, he wants you to take a look at something.’
A long pause. The reception faded, but hung on.
A loud crack, distorted. Ruffling and crunching. Vaughan’s voice, imploring. And another sound: Virginia, screaming and shouting in Spanish.
‘Baby, baby. It’s okay. It’s okay.’
A loud thud and a dramatic drop in volume. More screaming, from the background, fuzzed over. Another female voice, urgent.
The sounds receded. The heavy door squealed open again.
‘Mr Sawyer,’ said Vaughan. ‘She went crazy, wide-eyed. What was it? Why did you—’
‘I saw Lillian Fowler. One of the couple who picked up Virginia and took her to the hospital. She said she was whispering and muttering in the back of the car. She caught the word “Deborah” or maybe “Dabbler”.’
Sawyer looked down at his sketch: an oval head shape with two large curved horns sticking up at the top.
‘Diablo. Devil.’
46
Sawyer slipped into the main doors of Kotecha House, past a departing male resident with his head in his phone. He climbed a poky stairwell to the first floor and tapped on the door of Flat 14.
Murmurs from within. A young woman threw the door open wide. Angry eyes, unwashed bleach-blonde hair hustled into a ponytail.
She angled her head at Sawyer. ‘Yeah?’
‘Looking for Stuart.’
‘And who are you?’
‘His hairdresser.’
Stuart Sutton peered over the woman’s shoulder. He rolled his eyes at the sight of Sawyer. ‘Mate. We’ve had our chat, yeah? Piss off and write your book.’
Sawyer took out his phone and accessed a copy of the video shown to him by Darren Coleman’s father. He turned the screen to Sutton, and let the first few seconds play out.
‘Right. Yeah. We’re here again. There’s me, The Great Explorer. And my colleague, who has promised not to shit out this time when he hears a little noise.’
‘Fuck off, Stu.’
Sawyer stopped the video, stared down Sutton. ‘I can tell your time is precious, Stuart. If you can spare me a few more minutes, I promise you’ll never see me again.’
They sat in a small, stale bedroom with eye-straining black-and-green criss-crossed wallpaper; Sutton on the bed, Sawyer in a chair in the corner. Sutton’s girlfriend thumped around next door in the sitting room, then left the flat, slamming the door.
Sutton lit a cigarette. ‘Off to work.’
‘What does she do?’
‘Tesco. All sorts.’
‘Do you rent this place?’
Sutton shrugged. ‘She does.’
‘You trying to get clean?’
He dragged a forearm across his nose. In the overhead light, the cracked skin was visible. Track marks, dark veins. ‘Nobody gets clean. You’re always between fixes. You just try and make the gap longer. Fucking lost a whole score the other day. Lucky it was just after I’d been to the injection site.’
Sawyer leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘Help me find Darren, Stuart. Give your soul a spruce-up for autumn.’
Sutton tapped his cigarette into a tin ashtray on the bedside table. ‘Look. If you’re looking for a bit of honesty, let’s have some from you, too. You are a copper, aren’t you? Way too confident for a fucking journalist.’
‘I’m a detective, yes. My real name is Jake. I’m not on duty at the moment. I’m helping Darren’s mother.’
‘Sam.’
‘Yes. It’s been over seven years. So the case is officially cold, and Darren is registered as dead. Whatever happened to him, you can’t undo it. But you can close the circle for her, give her some answers. On the video—’
‘Where did you get it? I didn’t put it up online.’
‘Darren’s father took it from his camcorder.’
Sutton nodded, bowed his head, revealing the razor nicks across his scalp. His shoulders tremored, and when he lifted his head again, his eyes had reddened. He screwed up his face, forcing back tears. ‘Ah, fuck.’ He sniffed and swiped his arm across his nose again.
‘How long have you been an addict, Stuart?’
Sutton gave a bitter laugh. ‘All my life. Anything to numb the fucking pain. I had a sister, couple of years younger. Josie. She was run over when I was little.’ Tears trickled down both cheeks; he rubbed at his eyes. ‘I saw it happen.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Seven or eight. Fuck knows. One day she was there and the next she wasn’t. I never heard her voice again. Never heard her laugh. She was lovely. I was too far away.’
‘To help her?’
Sutton caught Sawyer’s eye. ‘Yeah. Other side of the road. Car sent her flying. Oh, fuck. Fuck.’
‘Take your time. And don’t be embarrassed by the tears.’
Sutton composed himself, sat upright; a pose of dignity. ‘I got into the drink. Fighting, all that. Started smoking my nan’s fags. Then some lads at the youth club gave me a bit of smack. I snorted it. Fucking horrible. Then got into smoking it, then injecting. Classic, really.’
‘And you were friends with Darren?’
‘Yeah, we were really tight. Watched a lot of mad horror together. Zombie stuff. We got into urbex and I started the channel. When I got kicked out of school, I was cautioned to stay away from known dealers.’
‘So Darren started to get the drugs for you.’
He winced. ‘Yeah. He was younger than me. Hard to believe it now, but he used to look up to me. Not the best choice of role model.’
‘The video was filmed at the old abattoir, wasn’t it? Down near Ashbourne.’
‘
Yeah. We got in with cutters, through the mesh fence. The urbexers wouldn’t be happy with that. You’re not supposed to do any damage. I suppose I thought I could get a of a reputation as an outlaw. Stand out from the crowd a bit.’
Sawyer kept a close watch on Sutton’s eyes. ‘It looks like you tripped an alarm in the YouTube video.’
‘Yeah.’ He laughed. ‘Shit us both right up. We got out of Dodge straight away. Good for the vid, though.’
‘And you tease Darren about the place being haunted, saying there’s a “weird guy” who haunts the place. A demon.’
Sutton raised his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Just taking the piss.’
Sawyer stood up and walked to the window, peered around the edge of the thin curtains. Almost dusk. ‘A strange figure has been seen around there, though. I’ve heard the stories. Is it printing the legend, or no smoke without fire?’
Sutton held his head in his hands, scraped his knuckles over his scalp. ‘I don’t know—’
‘When did you last see Darren, Stuart? Really?’
Sutton took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘We… We went up there one night. I took the cutters. I wanted to try and get into a different part of the main building, see if we could find anything really harsh. Fucking animal skulls or whatever. I cut through the fence, and Darren slipped in first. While I was tidying up the fence, I lost sight of him. I followed, around the edge of the main building, thinking he was hiding, messing around. I heard him cry out.’ Sutton turned his bony face to Sawyer, his cheeks shining with tears. He grimaced, bit into his bottom lip. The angle of light rendered his features haggard and cadaverous. ‘I saw that fucking thing, dragging him away.’
‘Thing?’
‘The man with horns. Big and strong-looking. He was a long way off, under a bright security light, so it was mostly shadow. But he’d got Darren. And he was pulling him up a ramp, by the fucking legs. Dragging him inside.’