by Andrew Lowe
Ryan drew in a deep breath through his nose. ‘You don’t know our price yet, Mr Robbins.’
A commotion rose up from the McDonagh table. A tall, wiry character sprang to his feet and tore off his T-shirt, revealing a surprisingly muscled torso.
‘Here we fuckin’ go,’ said Wesley. ‘Danny McDonagh. Joe’s baby brother. Thick as pigshit in the neck of a bottle.’
Danny was pointing at the Casey crew, opening his arms out wide, tipping his head back in defiance. ‘Hey! Hey! No class. No fuckin’ class! Yiz got a lucky shot on an old man, Wesley Casey. Don’t make you a fighter.’
Wesley waved him away. ‘Behave yerself.’
Danny kept it up. ‘Honour! Honour!’ He pointed at the ring, beating his fist into his chest. ‘You and me!’
Ronan stepped forward. He called to the defeated McDonagh champ and patriarch, sitting bruised and bowed at the centre of his group. ‘Joe! If you want another taste, your boy can take on our cousin, Lloyd.’ He turned and grinned at Sawyer. ‘Get the fuck in there, Mr Robbins. Shut this fucker up, will ya?’
Ryan hauled himself upright. He stumbled over to Ronan and clapped an arm round his shoulder. ‘No, no, no. We can’t risk the name. Let him blow himself out. He’s a gobshite.’
Ronan shifted away from his father and called to the McDonaghs. ‘Yiz are shitting out, then?’
Wesley got up and steadied Ryan back to his seat. He sat slumped, glaring at Ronan, breathing heavily.
‘Come on, then!’ Danny climbed through the rope into the ring. He hustled the teenagers out and pointed at Sawyer. ‘Get this Lloyd fucker in with me. Yiz’ll see a proper fight!’
Ronan looked down at Sawyer and angled his head towards the ring. Sawyer sighed. He stood up and took off his jacket. Wesley lifted it away and draped it over the back of his chair.
The group of onlookers gave a cheer and shuffled forward. Joe McDonagh raised his head as his family and seconds leapt to their feet, whooping and waving. The sparring teenagers ran back towards the farmhouse, shouting.
A stocky but elderly man in a white dress shirt and yellow tie stepped in front of Sawyer. He crouched and looked him in the eye, studying. ‘I’m Chris, son. You okay for this? You had a drink?’
‘No drink,’ said Sawyer. ‘Let’s go.’ He lifted off his T-shirt, revealing a lean, lightly muscled torso that looked flimsy compared with Danny’s bulky, gym-pumped definition.
He climbed through the ropes in a daze of disbelief. And again: nothing. No apprehension or anxiety. Just the familiar internal chill; a numbness. More spectators gathered, herded in by the teenagers. The crowd bayed and roared, but it seemed to Sawyer that they were gathered around the exit of a long, thin tunnel: a squirming huddle, their shrieking mouths inches from his ears, but their bodies distant.
Chris stepped into the ring, between Danny and Sawyer. Danny danced and waved at the crowd. Up close, he was taller than Sawyer, with long, beefy arms. He was barefoot, in shabby grey sweatpants. One of the McDonagh group restrained him and wrapped his fists in gauze bandage.
Sawyer dropped his gaze to the ground and the churned-up grass and mud, glinting in the light from the ring’s corner torches. Chris wrapped the protective bandage round his hands and bobbed his head around, trying to make eye contact. But Sawyer held his focus, and sank into the familiar glow: inner calm in the face of chaos.
One of the crowd called out. ‘That some Egyptian shit?’ They were referring to his tattoo. Camera phones flashed.
The Caseys in the embossed hoodies gathered around the corner of the ring near to Ryan, who was now leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring up at the ring.
Chris pulled Sawyer and Danny close, within touching distance. ‘Let’s have a fair fight, boys. No biting. No hits with the head. Show fair play, now. There’s no rounds. No gloves, no rest. I’m here to keep it fair, but I’m not allowed to stop it. You keep going until one of you says he’s had enough, okay?’
They nodded, and Chris shoved them apart. Sawyer backed away, keeping his eyes on Danny. It was a wise move; as soon as Chris was clear, Danny lurched forward and pulled back his elbow, winding up a right hook.
Sawyer switched into JKD fighting stance and side-stepped, turning to face Danny in case he corrected himself for a follow-up attack. But he stumbled, overbalanced, and had to steady himself with a hand to the ground.
A cheer went up: more for the audacity of the attempt than for Sawyer’s agility and anticipation.
Sawyer righted himself and held up his fists: clenched, thumbs tucked. One defensive, close to his face; the other angled forward, ready to strike. He danced on the balls of his feet, getting a feel for the give in the ground. He would need to favour the firmer sections nearer the edges; the solid foothold was worth the risk of getting caught on the ropes.
Danny bobbed forward. He kept his fists low, near his chin, but was smart enough to keep his head moving in dips and circles. He drew back his right elbow again. Sawyer stepped into his left side, on a diagonal, and Danny tottered, striking at air.
The crowd jeered as Sawyer shifted his stance instantly to face Danny side-on, fists up and ready. Danny steadied himself on the ground again, keeping his head down, open to a shot. But Sawyer waited for what he knew would come from Danny’s humiliation: an all-out attempt to land something.
Danny stayed bent forward, turning his head to look up at his opponent. Sawyer saw him drop his right shoulder. He grunted and whipped his body up and around, bringing the punch with him: a full-on haymaker. Sawyer shuffled back, diagonally, feeling a whip in the air as Danny’s fist swung past his chin. Now, Danny was twisted around, with the right side of his face exposed.
Sawyer pushed off his back foot and jerked the full power of his core up and to the right, thrusting a direct jab into the left side of Danny’s face. Danny’s head snapped to the right and he dropped down into the mud. Sawyer shuffled back, still in fighting stance, pointing his fists down, ready for retribution.
Danny’s seconds rushed over and dragged him to his feet. He pushed them away and lifted his fists back in front of his face. But the light had gone out of his eyes. He blundered around, confused, as if he was struggling to locate Sawyer. On instinct, he twisted back his arm for another punch. But the movement overbalanced him and he staggered backwards, sat down in the mud, and fell onto his back, unconscious.
Chris held his arms up high and waved them left and right, in crossover.
Cheers and jeers from the crowd. Sawyer winced beneath a shower of warm beer. Uproar from the McDonagh side, as Joe and the other family members gathered around Danny, reviving him.
Hands on Sawyer’s shoulders, pulling him to the ropes. Ronan Casey. Outside the ring, Wesley grabbed Sawyer’s hand and threaded him through to a beaming Ryan.
The McDonaghs dragged Danny to the other side and propped him up on the ropes, rousing him with splashes of water. He winced as he came round, and held a hand to his jaw which seemed to be stuck half-open. Joe looked him over and shook his head. He shouted to one of the teenagers, who took out his phone and made a call.
Ryan Casey pulled Sawyer into a bear hug. ‘A good, good fight, son. Floatin’ like fuckin’ Ali in there.’
Ronan laughed and locked an arm round his brother’s neck. ‘Looks like they’re calling him an ambulance.’
Ryan leapt to his feet, suddenly sober. ‘Come on, boys. Get this ring cleared. Torches out.’
Wesley slapped Sawyer on the shoulder. ‘I didn’t even see that punch!’ He spoke to his father, gesturing back at Sawyer. ‘Thought he was a streak of piss, this one. But you know what? He’s a fuckin’ beast.’
Ryan smiled and nodded. ‘He’s a Casey.’
Sawyer sank low in the Mini, as the ambulance jinked its way up the lane and turned into the farm. It juddered along the dirt track, directed by a mixed group of Caseys and McDonaghs.
He phoned Klein. It was late, and he was surprised when the call connected immediately.
‘Mr Ro
bbins?’ He sounded surprised, vague. Sawyer thought of Alex’s line about self-medication.
‘Just a quick update. I saw the Caseys again. There’s an old bothy near Magpie Mine in Sheldon.’
‘The ruined place?’
‘Yes. Ryan Casey tells me that the bothy is sometimes used by travellers and homeless. It’s also used as a neutral meeting spot. Organising fights, settling disputes. There’s a meeting there tomorrow afternoon. Owen Casey is going to be there. I can pick you up at three? Usual place. We find Casey, see what he knows. All shall be well.’
Klein shuffled around, coughed. ‘I thought Ryan said he hadn’t seen Owen in years?’
‘He lied. People do that.’
45
Dry soil, on his lips. The sunlit world around: fading up, swelling into focus.
The sickening silence.
He raised his arm, dug his fingers into the earth, hauled himself up onto his knees.
He coughed, spraying soil and blood. Her blood?
His brother lay motionless. Powder-blue T-shirt. More blood. Like paint, scattered across the grass.
His dog. Flat, on his side, legs out straight. Like he was asleep by the fire at home.
He crawled forward. Every movement triggered a spike of agony from the wound at the back of his head.
His mother. Black hair. Orange jacket. Red, red, red.
Her face. Always kind, always open and curious. Always alert to the love she might give. Now replaced by something collapsed and unspeakable.
The man with the hammer had gone.
Another male voice, behind. A woman’s scream, ripping through him.
His brother jolted at the sound.
He reached out and rested his fingers on the palm of his mother’s upturned hand. Warm. Wet.
Behind, the man talking. Urgent.
The woman. Whimpering.
Her hand on his back. He shrugged it away.
Sawyer opened his eyes. Something was wrong. It was too bright for an autumn morning. Bruce paced around the bed, miaowing, pining for food. Sawyer winced at the pain from the hand that had punched Danny.
He reached for his phone, saw the time, and jerked upright.
He scurried around, diving into clothes. As he brushed his teeth, Bruce protested from outside the door, as if chiding him for indulging in hygiene when he was half an hour late for work.
He fed and watered the cat, and hurried out to the car.
Phone. Text to Keating.
Flat tyre. Nightmare. Be in soon.
Sawyer threw the Mini around the narrow lanes, taking corners at top speed, scouring the asphalt. His hand throbbed; the skin around the knuckle had already turned an alarming dark purple, despite the bandage protection. He let his thoughts drift to the case: there was something off-key about Rebecca Morton’s murder. It didn’t sit neatly along the rest of the narrative. The revenge logic made sense, along with the wounding and cauterisation. But there was too much left behind. Too much mess, and with little evidence that he had been disturbed and forced to abandon the scene.
Like the man in the balaclava: so present in his recent nightmare, but absent in his long, exhausted sleep last night. He had taken the hammer, slipped off the edge. Could Owen Casey help Sawyer pull him back into the frame?
He made the half-hour drive to Buxton in less than twenty minutes. The MIT floor was busy, and someone had written ‘JOSEPH DAWSON’ above the photographs on the whiteboard.
He dashed down the corridor between the desks, catching a wry smile from Moran, and slipped into Keating’s office. Shepherd and Sally O’Callaghan stood at the desk.
Keating opened his arms out wide. ‘Honoured by your presence, DI Sawyer! I’m afraid that DS Shepherd has had to brief the team without your steadying—’
‘He’s local.’ Sawyer leaned on Keating’s desk and addressed all three. ‘He had time to clean up the Rebecca Morton scene, but he didn’t bother. He didn’t even bother to move the body. That was London, though. Here, he’s a lot more careful. Surgical. He’s determined to cover his tracks, leave no trace. The proximity is spooking him.’
Shepherd studied him, squinting. ‘I’m not so sure, sir. He has left us things. At the Brock scene. The fibres, gum.’
Sawyer looked at Sally.
She shrugged. ‘Fibres are from a generic brand of carpet. No DNA match.’
‘Probably because he’s not on record,’ said Shepherd.
Sawyer nodded. ‘Or it’s not even his DNA.’ Blank looks. ‘He planted them, to throw us off. Hard to imagine he would clean up everything else so meticulously, but leave something he knew we would find… unless he wanted us to find it. Sally found traces of a specialist clean-up chemical at the Palmer scenes. We kept it private because we wanted to check out one of our own contractors, the clean-up company, CTS Decon. Their employees checked out, but if our man is willing to go to the trouble of obtaining a specialist chemical to decontaminate the scenes, why would he leave chewing gum and fibres behind?’ He turned to Sally. ‘What about the lock? The one he replaced at Simon Brock’s house?’
‘No forensics on it.’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘We checked recent purchases at local shops. Indies and chains. Hundreds. Some cash, some card. There’s an intel cell working on it, but it could take weeks to narrow down, check CCTV. Some of the shops won’t have CCTV.’
Sawyer sighed. ‘He’s clever enough to use a shop without CCTV and pay cash. Go lateral. Have the cell check those instead. We might get a description. E-fit.’ He stood up off the desk. ‘Sorry I’m late, by the way.’
‘All quiet from the observation points,’ said Shepherd. ‘Ingram is still being an arsehole. But Walker is handling him well. Kim Lyons’ mother came to visit. Amy and Ava Scott are happy to have the officers around.’
‘What about Dawson?’
‘Still tracing, still eliminating. I spoke to Sophie and Andrew about the money they transferred from his parents. Five figures.’
‘Account trace?’ said Sawyer.
Shepherd shook his head. ‘He emptied it a few months after he left home.’
‘Not enough to sustain him over ten years. He must have done something with his life.’
‘Might have changed his name,’ said Sally. ‘Easily done. You can do it by deed poll from the age of sixteen or seventeen, I think.’
Keating stood up and took up his cap from the desk. The overhead light bleached the grey from his hair, rendering it a furry film of white. ‘Chief Constable meeting.’ He nodded at Sawyer. ‘I’d like a word with my DI alone now, please.’
Sally and Shepherd left. Keating walked to his window and looked out. ‘Tyre really flat? Or did the dog eat it?’
‘Really flat.’
‘Which one?’
He was looking down at the parking area, and Sawyer couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t check. ‘Wasn’t as bad as I thought. Just had to put some air in it.’
Keating turned. ‘So not really flat?’
‘As it turned out, no.’
‘DI Sawyer. I know you seem to think press conferences are optional, but I’d appreciate it if you would at least adhere to the agreed working hours. We’re not exactly nine to five round here, but we’re in the middle of a complex case that is drawing national attention. Conduct leaks out. We have to be airtight.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Sir.’
Keating approached him. ‘You’ll forgive me for wondering why your hand is injured for the second time in seven days.’
‘Hitting things. Exercise. Overdoing it.’
Keating nodded. ‘More “glitches”?’ He straightened his cap. ‘Your extracurricular activities are none of my business, of course. But they’re starting to impact on my investigations. Consider this an informal verbal warning. I’m sure it’s not your first.’
46
The guest in Room 38 angled his head at the gentle knock on his half-open door. Chris Hill, Operations Manager at Rosemary House, edged into the room. Hill ha
d the look of a flustered local councillor: unflattering, off-the-peg suit; fuzzy ginger facial hair caught between stubble and beard. He wore a pair of baroque half-moon glasses, and was in the habit of hitching them down the bridge of his nose and tipping his head forward when he wanted to make a point.
Sawyer hung back in the corridor, feeling queasy at the institutional odours: ageing linoleum and boiled food, with a whiff of faeces from the communal toilet opposite his brother’s room.
He stepped inside, where the smell wasn’t much better: old socks and cheap coffee. As ever, Michael sat before his muted TV, wall-mounted at head height. The screen showed a recording of an old football match—eighties, judging by the strip and height of the shorts—but Michael kept his gaze down on a handheld gaming device, which trilled and bleeped as he played.
‘We haven’t been too well lately,’ said Hill. He pulled a cord at the window and raised the slatted blind, over-lighting the charmless en suite room. ‘A bit irritable, perhaps. Oh well. Every day a fresh start, eh, Michael?’ Without waiting for a response, Hill turned to Sawyer. ‘Would you mind keeping it quick? We have a training session in fifteen minutes, and we need to secure the rooms.’ Again, no wait for a response. ‘Many thanks to your father for settling the fees, by the way.’
As he left, Sawyer heard his bright demeanour slip as he berated a young orderly over preparations for the meeting. Their voices faded as they moved along the corridor, until they were silenced by the double doors which led to reception.
Sawyer picked up an angular wooden seat and moved it around into Michael’s potential eyeline. He sat down on the cushion: solid and unyielding. ‘Still playing that one? Is there a global leader board? You can’t be far off the top spot.’
Michael glanced up and nodded. His handheld fell into a tantrum of discordant twittering. He recoiled in anger, and tossed it onto his bed. He looked up at the TV.
‘Mike.’ Sawyer shifted closer. ‘I’d like to get you a speech therapist. I know we’ve tried them before, but sometimes you have to try things more than once.’