by Andrew Lowe
‘Yes. How do we know this isn’t another diversion?’
‘We don’t. But at least this time the facilities will be better. Their pies are good.’
Klein laughed. He sounded brighter. ‘I can be there in half an hour.’
Sawyer waited, in the corner of the Barley Mow’s main bar area by the front doors. At the far end, behind the bar, another door opened out to a fenced private car park. It was nearing midday, but the room was empty, apart from a couple of hardy solo punters with their pints and racing papers. It was a claustrophobic space, further shrunk by the suffocating clutter covering most of the wall and ceiling: beermats, local photographs, trophy plaques, sports emblems. A fading handwritten poster behind Sawyer’s seat advertised the annual Barley Mow hen racing event.
The front door swung open and Klein walked in. He was more layered than usual, fitting the weather.
He took off his cap and sat down next to Sawyer. ‘Any sign?’ He used his sleeve to wipe condensation from his glasses.
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Only a few minutes late. If they don’t show this time, I might look into the licensing for their vehicles. Put some pressure on.’
Klein gave a grim smile. ‘How would that help?’
Sawyer caught himself. ‘I could report them. Or threaten to report them.’
‘They don’t seem the type to respond to threats. Drink?’
‘I’m fine.’
Klein seemed deflated. ‘I might have one if they don’t show soon. Working late last night. Been doing some online teaching. Skype. Course writing. It’s good to feel gainful again.’
‘No trouble with background checks?’
‘Not at all. I appreciate all you’re doing, I really do. But I’m starting to think that I can maybe rebuild my reputation independently. Without the need to “clear my name”.’
Sawyer winced at his air quotes. ‘The conviction may still limit your opportunities in the long term.’
Klein shrugged. ‘Easy does it. Build to each job by way of the last. Eventually, it will be further and further behind me. I’m actually feeling rather optimistic. For the first time in years.’
Sawyer kept his eyes on the bar. ‘Have you seen the car again?’
‘No. I thought I saw it behind me today, but I’m pretty sure it was a different model. Same colour, though. I had my eye on it in the mirror, but it turned off a few minutes out of town.’
The door behind the bar crashed open. Ryan, Wesley and Ronan Casey led the way, flanked by the two men who had been guarding the farm on Sawyer’s second visit. They flipped open the bar entrance and crowded into a booth.
Ronan spotted Sawyer. ‘There he is! Wild Man Robbins.’
The others laughed, loud and theatrical.
‘Mr Robbins.’ Ryan Casey nodded. ‘Mr Klein. What can I get you?’
Sawyer held up a hand. ‘Staying sober, Ryan. You called me over in the middle of work.’
‘Ah. Hell of a shame.’
A nervous-looking young woman emerged from behind the bar and took Ryan’s drink orders. Wesley Casey called over. ‘One for yerself, Chrissie!’
The door behind the bar opened again, and a short, wiry man walked through. He was in his late forties, dressed in cheap-looking blue jeans and a PVC jacket zipped up to his chin. His face was pitted with acne scars, and a bushy grey moustache twitched beneath his flattened nose. He squeezed into the far end of the booth, between Wesley and Ronan. The other two men sat in front at either side, creating a two-body buffer zone.
Ryan turned and beckoned to Sawyer and Klein. They headed over and pulled up a couple of chairs.
Ryan handed round the drinks. He plonked a pair of tumblers in front of Sawyer and Klein. ‘Jameson. Can’t have you not drinking, now.’ He gestured towards the new man. ‘Lads, this is my nephew, Owen. Owen, this is Mr Klein, Mr Robbins.’
‘How was the mine, boys?’ said Wesley.
Sniggering between Wesley and Ronan.
‘I’ve always wanted to see it up close,’ said Sawyer. ‘Thanks for sending us somewhere interesting.’
They looked a little put out.
Owen Casey pointed at Sawyer, then Klein. ‘Which one’s the cunt who put down Danny McDonagh?’ His voice was sharp, nasal.
Ryan slapped Sawyer on the shoulder. ‘Broke his fuckin’ jaw, no less.’
Another round of laughter.
Owen raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that!’
Klein eyed Sawyer, confused. Sawyer nodded at him, and they complied with the toast. The whiskey scorched his throat, but gave him a spike of resolve. He leaned forward and fixed a stare on Owen. He had shrunken, accusing eyes. Sawyer thought of the line from Get Carter: ‘Pissholes in the snow.’
‘Now,’ said Owen. ‘What do yiz fuckin’ want from me?’
‘Mr Casey. I’m writing a book about Mr Klein’s case. He suffered a terrible injustice, thirty years ago.’
Owen nodded, impatient. It occurred to Sawyer that he was already drunk. ‘Heard about that. The fuck’s it got to do with me?’
‘Mr Klein was wrongly convicted of the murder of a local woman. We believe you might have acquired an item for someone. Perhaps for the person who really committed the crime. He’s obviously keen to find out more about this person. So he can clear his name.’
Owen frowned. He took a sip of his whiskey, swilled it round his mouth. ‘What “item”?’
‘A hammer,’ said Sawyer. ‘From Mr Klein’s home. It was then used in the murder, and traced back to him.’
Owen slammed down his glass. ‘Are you sayin’ I stole this?’
Ronan spoke up. ‘Owen’s never stolen a fuckin’ thing in his life, have you?’ He broke into a smile and wrapped his arm around his cousin.
Owen smiled, sheepish. ‘I might have done a bit of “liberation” to get by. But that’s when I was a young boy. Respectable businessman, these days, mind.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Sawyer. He pulled his chair closer to the booth. ‘But around June 1988, you were arrested for an aggravated burglary.’ Sawyer could feel his tone slipping, but he was too close now to care. ‘The police don’t have any record of that arrest. For some reason, they didn’t want it to go on record. But they forgot that you were mentioned in a separate victim’s statement. That makes me think you did some kind of a deal. You did a job for one of the officers to get you off this serious charge. I think the job was to steal the hammer from Mr Klein’s house. Is that right?’
Owen scowled, and cracked a smile. ‘This is up in Buxton?’ Sawyer nodded. ‘I remember the fella from the house catching me. Fat fucker. I was out of shape, like. Police took me in. The guy who made the arrest was a young fella, and he left me in the cell for fuckin’ ages. Then this other guy came in. Older. He said I was looking at five to ten years. I thought, fuck that! He sent the other one out, said I could do a job for him. Easy work.’
‘What did he look like?’
Owen shrugged. ‘Big guy. Hard to tell age. Thirties, forties. Everyone just looks old when you’re a kid. I was nineteen, but I still felt like a kid. I don’t know. Suit. Scruffy hair. Brown. Big fuck-off watch. Bushy moustache. Not much to remember, really.’ He sipped his drink.
Sawyer edged further forward. ‘What did he ask you to do?’
‘Take a hammer. He described it. Black handle. Said it would probably be in a tool box or an outhouse somewhere. He wanted to know if I could get in and out without being seen or leaving evidence. I said, no problem. I’ll be like a fuckin’ shadow. He gave me an address. Place near Tideswell somewhere. Purple door.’
Sawyer looked at Klein. He nodded.
‘Piece of piss, in the end. Got in through the back. It was in a little work-room area just off the kitchen. Sitting there on a workbench, out in the open. Not exactly a big treasure hunt. I met the guy in some pub car park, handed it over.’ Owen drifted, caught himself. ‘You know what, Mr Robbins. This fella didn’t just get me off the charge. He paid me pretty well.’
‘How did he get you off?’
‘Fuck knows. He had me out of the cop shop in a couple of hours. Never spoke to anyone else after that. I did hear him arguing with someone outside, though. Another bloke.’ Owen set down his glass. His hand was trembling.
‘Did he say what he needed the hammer for?’
‘No. And I didn’t ask. He was sweetness and light when he was telling me the deal. In the car park after, though, he turned pretty fuckin’ nasty. If I ever told anyone, then my miserable life wouldn’t be worth living. Blah, blah, blah. It’s not as if I would tell anyone, anyway. It was a sweet job. I had cash in my pocket and I wasn’t banged up. It was an easy way out. I wasn’t exactly connected to current affairs at the time. I didn’t even know about the woman’s murder until a few years later. Look, fellas. This guy. He’ll be crackin’ on by now. You’d better get a move on if you want to question him. But what’s the point? He’s already lived ninety per cent of his life.’
Sawyer felt a jolt of anger. ‘The ten per cent is important to me. And to Mr Klein. Owen? This man. What was his name? He must have introduced himself when he first came into the room. Do you remember his rank? Was he in uniform?’
Owen shook his head. ‘No uniform.’ He drained his glass and looked from Klein to Sawyer. ‘I do remember his name, yeah. Surname, anyway.’
‘What was it?’
He smiled. ‘You know what? I’m getting the feeling this means a lot more to you than you’re letting on, Mr Robbins. I’ve lived under this fella’s threats for a long time now. Who’s to say he’s not still out there, keeping tabs on me?’
Sawyer raised up slightly in his seat. ‘Owen. What was his name?’
Owen shook his head. ‘I need guarantees. Compensation for all the distress I’ve suffered—’
Sawyer lunged out of his chair and climbed over Ryan Casey. Glasses scattered; one fell to the floor and smashed. He grabbed Owen by the lapels of his jacket. Wesley and one of the bodyguards hauled Sawyer away, holding him back.
‘Easy now!’ Ryan stepped around Sawyer and stood in front of Owen.
Sawyer wriggled away from the bodyguard, but Wesley managed to keep him back. He was flushed, raging. ‘Distress? You think you’ve suffered?’
Owen smiled. ‘Get yourself under control, Mr Robbins. This is a seller’s market, yeah? You can’t just come in here, ranting about “injustice”. You come up with a number and I’ll give you a name.’
Wesley and Ronan Casey took an arm each and dragged Sawyer back to the front door, shadowed by Klein. For the first few steps, he kicked at the floor. But as he reached the door, he calmed and went limp. Wesley and Ronan released him, and Wesley stood in the centre of the room, blocking his path.
Sawyer glared at them both. He closed his eyes, slowing his breathing.
‘You might wanna cool off, Mr Robbins,’ said Ronan. ‘Long time ago to be caring so much.’
Outside, a low sun had cracked through the shroud of cloud. Sawyer stood with Klein at the edge of the car park, by a disused red telephone box. Sawyer leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool glass.
‘I can get some money together,’ said Klein. ‘He probably won’t ask for much. I’ll get Ryan’s number. Make an offer.’ Sawyer was silent. ‘I didn’t realise you were this passionate about the case.’
Sawyer stood up and turned. ‘I’ll help with the money. My publisher might be able to come up with something.’
Klein smiled. ‘Why don’t we stop this now, Mr Sawyer? I know who you are. I read the Derbyshire Times piece, with the section on your story. But I knew before then. Back at the Casey farm, you said, “all shall be well”. That was Jess’s phrase. She used to say it all the time. It was from some prayer.’
Sawyer nodded, sighed. ‘You can see why—’
‘Of course. It actually makes all of this easier. It’s always been hard to believe that some stranger would come out of the blue and want to help me, after thirty years. Like I said, I’m ready to move on. I can see how I might start to rebuild things, have some kind of life again. But it does feel like we’re close to the truth now. I’ll make some calls. Find the money. Then we can get that name. And hopefully it won’t lead us to a tombstone.’
61
Sawyer crawled the Mini along the dirt track that led to his father’s house: a refurbished 1700s mining cottage, isolated on a hillside above Upper Midhope. He parked by Harold’s laurel green Volvo and climbed out, eager to take in some air after the long drive. He walked to the end of the short path that led to the front door and looked down into the valley, where the Langsett Reservoir basked in the feeble sunshine, grey and swollen.
The door opened, and Harold appeared. His gangly German Shepherds, Rufus and Cain, bounded out to greet Sawyer.
‘I swear you’ve got a hidden security camera somewhere around here,’ said Sawyer, fussing the dogs. ‘I come within ten feet of the place and you pop up like a bloody vampire.’
Harold smiled. ‘Lovely to see you, too.’
Inside, Harold made tea and served it in his reading room with colossal French windows that looked out across the valley and the top end of the dirt track.
Sawyer stood by the windows and sipped from his mug. ‘This is good.’
Harold nodded and fell into a sky-blue armchair beside one of the walls of bookcases. ‘Fresh leaf tea. Strained. Tea is one of the joys of life. It’s worth a bit of care. Patience. Too many things are all about speed, these days. You can’t fast-track your pleasures.’ He studied his son. ‘How are you, Jake? Are you healing?’
‘Physically, yes. Took a beating in this case.’
‘Got your man, though.’
‘Not the one I’m really looking for.’ He sat down, on the stool of a generic upright digital piano. ‘This is new.’
‘Always wanted to learn. It’s relaxing, meditative. The guy who gives me lessons looks about twelve. When I first called him, he said, ‘Good for you’. Cheeky fucker.’
Sawyer laughed. ‘You have left it a bit late.’
‘Like I say, patience. Rejoice in hope. Be patient in tribulation. Be constant in prayer.’
‘Sounds like a lot of work to me.’
Harold sipped his tea. ‘Romans.’
‘The Bible: a handbook for personal providence, and full of top tips for tea brewing. It’s almost as if you’re moulding its wisdom to fit your situation. Astrologers do that.’
Harold sighed. ‘For once, can we stay away from religion? Find some common ground?’
Sawyer opened the piano lid. The keys were pristine: shining black, gleaming white. ‘I dropped in on Michael last week.’
Harold raised his eyebrows, waiting for more.
‘He’s okay.’
‘I’m just glad I managed to transfer the money without having to talk to that little shit, Chris Hill.’
‘I still want to try speech therapy.’
Harold scoffed, irritated. ‘Did he speak to you again?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there’s not a lot for a therapist to work with, surely?’ He ran a hand through his long, greying hair. For all of his talk about patience, Sawyer had the impression he was eager to get back to something.
‘How did the paintings do?’
Harold brightened. ‘Good! Sold them all. Worked up some reproductions. They’ve sold, too. I got myself an agent, Arnold. You met him in Ashbourne. Bit tweedy, but he knows his stuff. So, who’s this man you’re really looking for? Owen Casey?’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘I found him. Quite a charmer.’
‘And did he help you “catch the end of the thread”?’
‘I think he did, yes. He knows the name of the man I’m looking for. The man who killed your wife. Mum. He won’t give me the name, though. Says he wants compensation.’
Harold nodded. ‘So, this time you are here for money?’
‘No. I have a couple of questions.’
‘Do I need to get a lawyer?’
; Sawyer ignored him. ‘When you worked at Buxton, under Keating, who were the senior officers? In the run-up to the year of mum’s death?’
Harold looked up to the ceiling. More pantomime of recall? ‘I was a DC, then. Keating was DI. It was a standard station, though. No Murder Investigation Unit or whatever you call it, these days. There was a DCI, a Chief Superintendent. They don’t have them any more, though.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. We never really saw the brass. They came and went. Not like these days, where I imagine Keating is hands-on.’
‘Anyone with a moustache? Big watch?’
Harold shook his head. ‘Nobody comes to mind.’
‘And if you wanted to use an informant, who would handle that? How would it be signed off?’
‘That’s changed a lot, too. As you can imagine. Source handling used to be a lot less formal. Off the books. Mainly to protect the sources.’
‘You would need senior sign-off to get charges dropped, though?’
‘Absolutely. Once an arrest has been processed and the charge is approved by CPS. You don’t just wipe that clean. It would be noticed, even in a small station.’
Sawyer stood up, restless. ‘So did you notice? Who arrested Casey? Who looked the other way, or was told to look the other way, so that somebody senior could do a deal with him?’
‘I told you. I don’t remember him. I don’t remember him being arrested. You know, son. It would be nice if we could talk about other things during our limited get-togethers. Reminisce, share life experiences. Look to the future, instead of this pointless, divisive obsession.’
Sawyer nodded, in a trance. ‘And here’s a supplemental question. Why would a senior police officer want my mother dead? A schoolteacher?’
Harold paused before answering. He lowered his voice, measured out his words. ‘Not a senior police officer. Another schoolteacher. Marcus Klein.’ He leaned forward. ‘Means. He’s young, he can wield the weapon, get away quickly. Motive. Jealousy, male rage, she was married. She rejected his advances. Opportunity. They worked together, had access to each other.’