by Andrew Lowe
‘It could be random,’ said Shepherd. ‘And he got lucky she was alone.’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Think about what stands out. The meticulousness. The cauterising. The respect for Susan’s body.’ He looked up at the handsome, three-storey limestone house and thought of Ronald, rattling around, dragged from cosy, middle-class companionship and dropped into a hollow half-world of regret and sympathy. ‘There’s no opportunism here. Drummond said it felt impassive, emotionless. Like a dirty job that had to be done. But there’s a bigger picture. This is not the work of your standard empty soul getting his kicks from the big three. Domination, manipulation, control. He’s not killing because he wants to. He’s killing because he needs to.’
9
Sawyer spooned out a clump of raspberry jam and daubed it over his buttered teacake. He had planned to head home and kick back with a binge of J-horror, but Maggie had dragged him to their favoured breakfast spot: the Nut Tree, a comfort café on the edge of The Roaches.
She spread a napkin across her knees and dug in to her avocado and salmon. ‘I hear you were a bit wobbly at the briefing.’
He shrugged. ‘It was Shepherd’s gig. I should have prepared better.’
‘You should hand over more. Take some weight off your shoulders.’
Sawyer squashed together both halves of the teacake and took a bite.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. ‘Jam sandwich.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘More of a doughnut, I think. And, yes. I’m trying to pull back, train up the support troops. Keating has made me his neighbour at Buxton. I get the feeling he wants me where I can’t cause trouble. The very idea.’
Maggie sipped her tea.
Sawyer nodded to the cup. ‘Twig and thistle? Wormwood and peat?’
She smiled. ‘You’re not happy.’
‘No?’
‘No. You’re off balance. Making bad decisions. Your self-awareness isn’t quite on the channel.’
A waitress handed Sawyer a mug of milky tea. He tossed in a couple of sugar cubes. ‘Mags, I appreciate the concern. But I’m not having a breakdown.’
‘You do realise that if you were, you’d be the last to know?’
He slurped his drink, keeping his eyes on her over the rim of the mug. ‘I had a tough case. Had to put myself back together.’
‘You’ve isolated yourself.’
‘It’s self-care.’ He shook his head. ‘This is how it always goes with you therapists. You mould the evidence towards your theories. You always see the worst in people.’
Maggie laughed. ‘I suppose that’s because we usually only see people when they’re at their worst.’
Sawyer took another bite of his teacake, braced for a bollocking.
‘You were harsh with that poor man.’
‘Harsh?’
‘Insensitive. Mean. You’re never mean.’
‘He needed to know what happened.’
‘Do your job, Jake. Gather the evidence.’
He sighed. ‘Leave the emotions at the door?’
‘Save them for someone else.’
He held her gaze, pushed out a half-smile.
Maggie stared down into her cup. ‘The last time we sat here, you said you felt something you’d never felt before. In the cave with Crawley.’
‘I hadn’t slept. I was trying to keep a nine-year-old boy safe from a multiple killer. And I was halfway to hell. Underground.’ He shrugged. ‘Stress.’
‘It was something new. Something you’ve been told is beyond your emotional functioning. And yet there it was. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen in the cave. Maybe it was one of the most stressful situations you’ve ever experienced. It hardly matters why it happened: now you know it’s in there somewhere. You know that you’re not completely beyond fear. It must feel like a strange new toy. And I bet you want to bring it out for a second look.’ She caught his eye again. This time he flinched, looked away. ‘You can’t do that yourself, Jake. You need a professional.’
Sawyer stirred his tea. ‘We talked about this. Keeping our friendship strictly personal.’
‘I told you. I know someone who I think could help you.’
He sighed. ‘The flashbacks are getting stronger. And I’m dreaming of the murder. It’s feeling more vivid.’
‘Are you sleeping?’
‘Barely.’
She sat back. ‘If I tell you a secret—’
‘Will I promise not to tell?’
She nodded.
Sawyer looked up at her. ‘Is it that Keating has asked you to keep an eye on me?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t want him to know that I know.’
‘I would rather you sought help for yourself. Not because someone else wants you to. I’m telling you about Keating’s concern as a trust thing.’
‘And to bank a favour.’
Maggie’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’m not that cynical. But if that’s how we’re doing this, then yes. I would like you to return the trust by taking a trial session with a therapist who is excellent at tailoring to individual client needs.’
He took another bite of teacake, chased it with a slurp of tea. ‘I’m not doing EMDR.’
‘People scoff at that. But it is the kind of therapy that could help you to detach the traumatic memory and give you the freedom to move forward. I’m talking about something else, though. The therapist I’m thinking of is more psychodynamic.’ She opened her purse and slid out a card. Creamy background. Sky blue border. Black text.
Sawyer took it and turned it over in his fingers.
ALEX GOLDMAN
Goldman Counselling Centre
‘I’ll send you the address. It’s not far. Tuesday at one?’
He laughed. ‘I hope you’re getting a commission.’
She lifted her chin in triumph. ‘And in the meantime, you can use me as a buffer between yourself and your boss. Just be happy that he wants the best for you.’
‘And you’re the best?’
‘Oh, you don’t know how lucky you are. The both of you. Have you finished the book yet? The Gift Of Fear?’
‘Started it. Lost it in the move. I’ll get a new one.’ Sawyer’s phone buzzed and he took it out. ‘It’s Shepherd. I have to get back.’
He stood, whipped on his jacket. Maggie reached a hand across the table, but he snatched his away and deflected by fumbling in his pocket.
‘Whatever you’re going through, Jake, try to be decent to people. You know how it works. True to your own spirit. Don’t compare other people’s gains to your own loss. Susan Bishop had a good life, but it didn’t end well.’
Sawyer leaned down to the table. ‘Nobody’s does.’
10
Sawyer pushed through the double doors into the MIT unit and propped himself against the wall outside his office. He watched as DC Walker fussed with the whiteboard. Shepherd gathered the team and motioned for Walker to take a seat. He complied, with some reluctance.
Shepherd turned to the room and cleared his throat. ‘We’ve spoken to Susan Bishop’s husband, Ronald. Susan’s first husband, Peter, died ten years ago. Ronald claimed that there was some domestic abuse, but I can’t see any relevance.’
Walker rose in his chair. ‘And we see no reason why Ronald himself might be involved.’
‘Apart from the fact that he’s the husband and the most likely suspect?’ DC Moran tilted his head and looked round for support.
‘Story holds up.’ Sawyer ran a hand over his cropped hair. ‘He was crushed.’
‘He runs an acting agency,’ said DC Myers. ‘Might be a decent performer himself.’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Not even close. I bought every word.’
‘Or he sold you,’ said Moran, not looking at Sawyer.
‘They had dinner,’ Sawyer continued. ‘He went out to play bridge. He came home late and didn’t realise she wasn’t there. Separate bedrooms. If he’s a murderer, Moran, then you’re a ballet dancer. There’s no eviden
ce he was ever at Fairholmes.’
‘There’s no evidence that anyone was there,’ said Sally O’Callaghan, parked on the edge of the desk beside Shepherd. ‘Way too many footprints to trace and eliminate, and nothing on the route from the road to the scene. Nothing on the holdall or materials. Cleanest scene I’ve ever worked on. It’s like he’s winched the poor woman in place via helicopter.’
‘Any more from Drummond?’ said Shepherd. ‘Sexual assault?’
Sally sighed. ‘He says not. Single stab wound. No other violation.’
Sawyer pulled open a bag of Skittles and scattered a few into his palm. He spoke without looking up; his position in the room forced the others to turn slightly. ‘And the Bishop house?’
Sally eased herself up off the desk. ‘My team are wrapping up now. There’s no evidence of intruders. Nothing in Susan’s bedroom, or the garden. She must have gone outside of her own—’
‘So we’re looking for a ghost?’ Sawyer tossed the Skittles into his mouth. ‘Is that your professional opinion, Sally?’
She angled her head. ‘It’s not an opinion, DI Sawyer. I’m just laying out the forensic findings to date.’
‘You missed something.’
Chairs scraped as the others turned to Sawyer, away from Shepherd and Walker and their whiteboard.
Sally took a breath, trying to reclaim the moment. ‘My team do not “miss” things.’
Sawyer stared at the floor, chewing. ‘Are your team human beings, Sally?’
‘Yes, they are.’ She looked away for a second, then counterattacked, bright and sarcastic. ‘Wait a second. That would mean that they might make mistakes, right?’
Sawyer smiled and raised his eyes to her. ‘She was targeted. It was close to dusk. She didn’t go for a stroll and get jumped. Wherever he killed her, he wanted it to be private, efficient. No mess. No fuss.’
‘Sterile?’ said Sally.
‘Yes. No contamination, either physical, or potential compromise from the public. He did it there and then. Either inside the house or somewhere private close by.’
‘Vehicle?’ said Shepherd.
‘A mobile murder lab,’ said Walker. ‘Fits his psychology. It’s like he wants complete control over every single detail.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Including what he leaves behind. Killing inside a vehicle gives him that privacy. He can take his time. No danger of getting caught in the act.’
And then, there he was, in the lane. Crawling. Clenching at the soil.
Henry, his dog. Twitching. Trembling. Was he cold? He wanted to cover him.
Michael, his big brother. In a heap, near to their mother.
At once, Sawyer was in two separate places: his physical form in the MIT room, but his perception had shifted in space and time.
He could hear his mother’s cries. Her sorrow and agony. Her submission.
Sawyer looked up at Sally. Her mouth was moving but he could only hear the ambience from that day, like an aural imprint on his six-year-old eardrums: birdsong, a distant car engine, leaves rustling in the breeze.
The impotence. The screams, dwindling to sobs, braced for each hammer blow.
Metal on bone.
‘DI Sawyer?
A rumble of nausea.
He swallowed the half-chewed sugary mush and screwed his eyes closed, grinding his teeth together. He pinched at the flesh around his thigh muscle, focusing on the physical sensation.
‘DI Sawyer, are you with us?’
He was. The nausea faded. He retuned back into the room. ‘Yeah. Sorry. Bit of heartburn.’
Sally squinted at him, nodding. ‘I said, do you want me to tell my team to take another sweep?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘And if there’s still nothing?’
Sawyer blinked the moisture from his eyes. ‘DS Shepherd?’
He was ready. ‘Myers. Get time of death from Drummond, as close as you can. Work with Rhodes on CCTV and ANPR, two hours either side. Larger vehicles: vans, people carriers.’
‘What about victimology?’ said Sawyer. ‘What’s he got against Susan Bishop?’
‘Not a lot coming up,’ said Moran. ‘Focused mostly on her TV past. She was easy on the eye in her younger days. Lot of casting couches around back then. We’re talking to a couple of her old directors later. Maybe there’s still a beef or two over spurned advances. They’re knocking on a bit now, though.’
‘This is a younger man,’ said Walker.
Moran scoffed. ‘Good job we’ve got Poirot on our side.’
Walker ignored him. ‘Even if he did murder Susan in her own home, he still had to carry the body to a vehicle, and then from Fairholmes to the deposition.’
Moran widened his eyes. ‘Deposition? Haven’t heard that one since training college.’
‘What about Susan herself?’
‘Pretty boring,’ said Myers. ‘One daughter, Charlotte, now nineteen. Studies in America. Flying back later today. Susan was part of a local book club. Romance. Kept an allotment near Chelmorton. Lots of walking. Weekly group hikes. The group leader said she used to go every week but she hadn’t seen her much since the heart op.’
‘Tell me about that,’ said Sawyer.
Myers shrugged. ‘Husband’s story checks out. Transplant last year at Wythenshawe. Records are confidential, but Ronald showed me the paperwork, photos.’ He checked his notes and struggled with the pronunciation. ‘Cardio… my… o… pathy.’ He looked up, satisfied. ‘Heart struggles to get blood around the body.’
Moran turned back to face Shepherd and muttered into his desk. ‘It’s certainly doing that now.’ A couple of titters from his colleagues.
‘DC Moran.’ Sawyer took a step towards him and pivoted his chair around. He leaned in, close to Moran’s shoulder. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
Moran squeezed out a weak smile. ‘You’re the boss.’
Sawyer leaned back, stood upright over Moran. ‘Have you ever lost someone?’
Moran shrugged. ‘My cat died when I was twelve.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘You say you went to training college. But I’m not sure your victim awareness skills are up to speed. When we’re done with this case, let’s get you on one of the new support courses. There’s a really good six-weeker. You can do it weekdays, before or after work.’
Moran smiled, fronted it out. ‘Sounds lovely. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot. Sir.’
Sawyer turned away. He caught the eye of Stephen Bloom, seated in the corner. Bloom flinched and averted his eyes. ‘DS Shepherd.’
‘Sir?’
Sawyer kept his gaze trained on Bloom. ‘Are you ready yet?’
Shepherd frowned. ‘Ready?’
‘To tell me. I’d say it’s something media-related. You were probably waiting to tell me privately after this. Let’s get it all out in the open, though. We’re all friends here.’ He smiled at Moran, who responded with an even bigger grin.
Shepherd slumped. ‘Local press are running something tomorrow. Exclusive. Death Of A TV Star-type thing. Dean Logan.’
The temperature dropped. Sawyer let the information settle. Dean Logan was a Derbyshire Times hack who delighted in stirring up petty crusades against the police. He was a Wapping reject with a nostalgia for pre-Leveson tabloid culture. ‘DC Walker. Special mission for you. I want to know more about Susan’s heart transplant. Did she milk her celebrity and jump the queue? If so, is there anyone who got bumped down the list or maybe even died? Any unhappy relatives who might have a problem with Susan? Look into connections with the surgeon, the hospital. The stab in the heart might be a coincidence but I want to be sure.
‘And, Stephen?’ Bloom rose to his feet. ‘Get Logan under control. If ITN spoke to Fairholmes, I imagine they summoned him as their local bin-dipper and he’s shafted them for the exclusivity.’ Bloom nodded, nervous. ‘Either that, or someone in this room wasn’t listening when I said I didn’t want the press involved.’
11
Back at the cottage, Sawyer ab
andoned Audition for The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, a film the back cover review quote insisted ‘should come with a free change of underwear’. He’d seen it before, as a student, and had found himself more interested in the reactions of his flatmates than the content of the film. This time, it felt slow and pointless, with too much screaming.
He stripped to boxer shorts and headed into the bedroom, where he’d laid out a rubber training mat, a barbell and bench. In the corner, he had jammed a full-size Wing Chun training dummy, with protruding wooden poles to simulate an opponent’s arms and legs. He used Wing Chun techniques for meditation, and as a base discipline for his beloved Jeet Kune Do. The ‘wooden man’ was a powerful tool for honing technique, combination blocks and strikes, and to improve sharpness.
His back muscles cracked and pulsed as he worked, distorting the Greek tattoo across his back: Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού (‘True to his own spirit’). He had lost some weight since the Crawley case, but his hand speed was exceptional, and he revelled in the pain as he worked his core and upper body, driving his wrists and forearms into the dense wood.
He completed a flurry of movements. As he rested, he tuned in to a soft, intermittent drilling sound from the sitting room.
Sawyer took a hand towel and swiped at his forehead and neck, then hurried next door and snatched up his vibrating phone.
He checked the Caller ID and took the call. ‘Eva. I’ve told you. You have got to stop pestering me like this.’
She laughed: soft and sweet, with a hint of indulgence. ‘How are you? You sound out of breath.’
‘Working out. If you want to find out how I am, you could just read through the string of messages I’ve been sending.’
‘You mean the stalking?’
He took a slug from a bottle of water. ‘Semantics. Honestly, these days you can’t relentlessly pursue a woman without being accused of harassment.’
Eva sighed, but didn’t laugh this time. ‘We have to be quick.’