by Andrew Lowe
‘One more thing.’ Sawyer set down his cutlery and nodded over his shoulder. ‘Can you leave first? Get a face picture of the big guy sitting at the café across the road.’
Jensen looked past Sawyer, through the window. ‘Guy with the baseball cap and ponytail? Bomber jacket? I don’t think he’s here for the scenery, Jake.’ He gathered his things, stood up. Sawyer got to his feet, and they man hugged. ‘Your car near here?’ Sawyer nodded. ‘Leave a couple of minutes after me. I’ll keep tabs on your friend for a while and send you the picture. Go easy, Jake. And get yourself cleared. Next time I see you, I don’t want it to be in a visiting room.’
42
Sawyer parked in the road by Alex’s house. He took out his iPhone and sent a text message to Maggie.
Thinking of you. Always here. x
He opened Jensen’s pouch. The spy camera was a black plastic cube around the size of a 50p piece, with a blue lens in the front and brackets around the back for fixing. Jensen had included a fold-out manual and a black cable tie, thin enough to thread through the brackets. He rolled the camera around between his thumb and forefinger, put it back in the pouch, and shoved everything into the glovebox.
His phone blipped. Text from Jensen, with a clear, high-quality picture of the man at the café. Sawyer zoomed in to his face: forties, well preserved, with deep-set, pinhole eyes. Flat expression, distant. Sawyer groped into his memory, searching for detail of the night with the car and the lake. But it was still vague and misted over. The short ponytail seemed familiar, but he couldn’t be sure it was the same man who had been in his house. He read the message.
Followed our friend for a bit after you came out. You drove off and he got into his car soon after. Same car park. Not sure if he followed you. Got his reg. See you soon. Don’t die. –Rich
Sawyer pulled back from the close-up of the man’s face and zoomed in to the café table. Newspaper, coffee cup, and a small bottle with a green logo of three concentric C symbols.
He zoomed out and swiped away the image. A second picture showed a close-up of a car registration. He tapped out a quick message to Max Reeves and sent him the images.
He got out of the car and walked up the path to Alex’s front door, looking from side to side. There was nobody waiting in any of the parked cars, and he hadn’t noticed anyone following him on the journey down from Castleton. If this were Dale’s man, he didn’t expect a high level of professionalism, but just because he hadn’t seen him didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
Alex poured the tea. ‘Did you get the scans from your father?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Haven’t had a chance to do much with them, though. Quite a few things going on right now.’ He kept his eyes down, on the thin beige carpet.
‘Did something happen?’
He looked up. ‘What?’
‘You’re barely here at all today, Jake. Four fifths of you is off elsewhere. Scheming, stressing.’
‘Sorry. Something did happen. The tingling sensation.’
She sat forward. ‘Fear? Panic? You felt it again?’
‘Yes. Like back in the cave, it was in a place with limited oxygen.’
‘That’s consistent with what we talked about. Studies have shown how patients with amygdala damage have an inhibited fear response, but not in situations where they’re deprived of oxygen. The low oxygen level seems to stimulate their amygdala and induce an extreme fight or flight response. In other words, a panic attack. The body convincing itself it’s in extreme danger.’
He snapped back his head. ‘I was in extreme danger.’
‘Really? And did this involve a lack of oxygen?’
‘Yes.’
She lowered her voice. ‘Is this something you can talk about?’
His eyes searched the walls. ‘Can, but won’t.’ He drew in a deep breath through his nose. ‘It’s ongoing.’
Alex nodded. ‘I know it might not seem like it right now, but this is good, Jake. It’s more evidence that the damage you suffered at the hands of the man who attacked your mother is repairable. The reliving therapy will help you come to terms with the psychological effects of what you witnessed, and you can now use the brain scans to explore the physiology.’
He glared at her. ‘And then what? Closure? A normal life? A normal fear response?’
She smiled. ‘Sometimes, there’s a tendency to embrace dysfunction, to hold on to it. There’s a feeling that it’s part of the package, the uniqueness. To fix it or lose it would make the person less exceptional.’
‘I don’t need fixing. I just want to find the bastard who murdered my mother.’
Alex took some time stirring her tea. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of Hans Eysenck. English psychologist, German born. He did some interesting work on extroverts and introverts. We think of extroverts as loud and outgoing, and introverts as shy and retiring. But he said that extroverts are just people with low levels of natural arousal, who need more stimulation from their environment. The standard rhythm of the world around them just isn’t enough. They often need to create this stimulation with aberrant or criminal behaviour.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘You’ve seen the papers.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re not guilty, and it will all be cleared up somehow. But how have you reached this point, with all this going on? The world hasn’t conspired against you. It’s your choices that have brought you here. Like we said before, you’re seeking out stimulation similar to the complexity of the feelings you have for your mother. And you’re constantly disappointed. And so you escalate. And this escalation keeps getting you into difficult, often life-threatening situations. And this new fear or panic that you’ve felt, in the cave and again recently… It’s exciting because it feels like a shortcut. All the feeling without the baggage, without the emotion.’
Sawyer held her gaze. ‘If it works, it works. Does it matter how or why?’
‘You can’t hack yourself, Jake. Modify your brain to only feel what you want it to feel. You are what you are, and our work is all about giving you the tools to accept that, before this desire to seek arousal, with no regard for consequence, leads you to a place you can’t talk or fight your way out of.’
43
Sawyer headed out for a late afternoon run, down through Edale village, along the edge of the farmland at the base of Kinder Scout. No headphones, no easy distraction. He had hoped the activity would clear his mind, but his worries tagged along, hounding him like gnats. He jogged along the sodden track: a wanted man, probed by his own colleagues, stalked by criminals.
On the path back down to the cottage, he was scoured by a deluge of icy rain. He bowed his head and drove forward; by the time he had reached the front door, a weak shaft of sunlight had squeezed through the blackening cloud. It would be dark by 4pm. He longed for the winter solstice, still weeks away; his side of the earth at its furthest tilt from the sun, but with the eternal promise of return and rebirth.
He towelled off and checked his phone: two messages, from Eva and Max Reeves, both asking him to call. He poured a glass of milk and opened a large packet of Revels. He pulled out a spherical chocolate. Coffee for Reeves; orange for Eva. He gnawed away the outer layer.
Coffee.
Reeves answered on the first ring. ‘Still a free man, then?’
Sawyer chewed on the sweet, wincing at the synthetic coffee flavour. ‘Always running, Max. Found anything?’
‘Strickland. Good call. Manchester vice are on it. Contact says they’re watching the Players club there.’
‘Are they planning anything?’
Reeves struck a match, cursed, tried another. ‘Don’t know. My source wouldn’t give me any more, which suggests they might well be.’ He puffed on a cigarette.
Sawyer laughed, chewed on a flat, saucer-shaped chocolate. ‘My “source”. You sound like someone else I know. What about the car and the guy from earlier today?’
Reeves paused. ‘Car was hired. Silver Ford Fiesta. Picked up at an Avis in Manchester last Thursd
ay. The guy in your pic was on a flight from Amsterdam the previous day.’
‘Why not pick the car up from the airport?’
‘Dunno. Too conspicuous? Not sure if he’d be staying until he’d been into town?’ Reeves blew out smoke. ‘Name of Austin Fletcher. Ex-Marine. Served in Afghanistan in the early 2000s. Tried to join the SAS and got as far as jungle training, but was bumped back to his unit after allegations of sexual assault from locals in a Brunei village. Then he really pissed on his chips. Put his commanding officer in hospital. Broken jaw. Anger issues, or the jungle heat?’
Sawyer took a slug of milk. ‘I’d go for anger issues. I think he takes creatine. Associations with Strickland?’
‘Nothing obvious at the moment. But he did go to the same college. Maybe that was the beginning of their bromance. Dropped out and joined the army. Look, do me a favour. Well, two favours. Get yourself off this charge so you can do some work of your own. And I know you’re a big boy, Sawyer, but don’t fuck with this geezer.’
Later, Sawyer made spaghetti, and resumed his previous episode of Life on Earth. He laid his laptop on the coffee table and opened the Google home page.
He ducked forward and shovelled in a mouthful of pasta.
Text to Eva.
Come see me tonight?
He typed ‘paedophiles grooming’ into the Google search box. The results were as grim as he expected: definitions, documentaries, explainer pieces for parents, articles on grooming methods via live streaming and YouTube.
‘A lioness begins to stalk, keeping low and almost invisible in the tawny, sun-withered grass.’
He browsed a Guardian article—Rise Of The Hunters—about the culture of paedophile hunter groups in London. During Sawyer’s time in the Met, his specialist unit colleagues had frequent run-ins with hunter groups and their high-profile stings: posing as children and tricking paedophiles into meetings that would be streamed live on social media; then informing the police and restraining the offenders until they arrived.
Sawyer typed ‘paedophile hunter manchester sheffield leeds’ and found a group based in Sheffield called JFK: Justice For Kids.
Text from Eva.
Can’t. Dale around. I’ll call tomorrow.
‘Predator exposure’… ‘Net justice’…
Sawyer tapped the blue F icon and found the JFK Facebook page. He logged in as Lloyd Robbins—his journalist alias account—and opened the Send Message box. He wrote a quick private note, with the number of his burner phone and a request for an interview.
‘But only one in five of these solitary hunts is successful. Scavenging is an easier way of getting meat.’
44
Sawyer hustled the Corsa up the track to his father’s house. As usual, Harold was already at the door with Rufus and Cain. He turned back into the hall as Sawyer approached, letting the dogs do the greeting for him.
In the reading room, Harold settled himself in the sky-blue armchair. ‘I saw you made the papers.’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Does anyone even buy newspapers any more?’
‘I do.’ He reached over to a side table and held up a chunky copy of The Sunday Times.
‘I don’t suppose I made the front page there?’
Harold shook his head. ‘You’re in the Home News section. Small piece. I expect they’ll push you nearer the front if you get charged.’
‘Any inside track on that?’ Sawyer walked to the French windows and looked down to the reservoir, shimmering through the morning haze. ‘From your old mate, Ivan?’
Harold waved a hand. ‘Keating is an old colleague. Hardly a “mate”. And, no. Nothing coming through on the Freemasons’ grapevine. I’ve been busy, preparing for a festival in Sheffield. Art student intake.’
‘You exhibiting?’
‘Yes. Seminars. Part of a panel discussion on analogue versus digital media. Did you do anything with the scans?’
‘I wanted to ask you about that, among other things. Since I’m not allowed to investigate other people, I’ve been working on myself.’
Harold nodded. ‘That’s good, Jake.’
‘Do you have any more stuff in your family file? Out in the studio?’
‘One or two bits and pieces, yes.’ He stood up and moved out into the hall. ‘I have a couple of letters from a therapist you saw in your teens.’ Harold looked over his shoulder and grinned. ‘Might be a few clues there.’
Sawyer followed his father into the studio. His work in progress hadn’t really progressed since Sawyer’s last visit: a neat grid of blended browns, reds and blacks, collapsing to a distorted blur in the centre of the canvas. Again, Sawyer leaned in close to the picture, studying the unusually jagged brush strokes. ‘Do you remember Charles Kelly, Dad?’ He watched his father’s back: no reaction.
‘Dr Kelly? He was a friend. Our family doctor for years. He was a huge support after Mum’s death.’
‘Another man of God?’
Harold laughed. ‘It is possible to embrace both science and religion, you know.’
Sawyer stood upright. ‘Doublethink.’
Harold opened another drawer. ‘What about him?’
‘Nothing. He just… came to mind the other day. There is something else, though.’
Harold turned. ‘Here’s the letters. I also have a couple of bits from school. Don’t know if it’ll help with your self-investigation, though.’ He handed Sawyer a folder and tidied the contents of the cabinet. ‘What else?’
‘You tried to visit Marcus Klein, at Sudbury. October, 1997. Klein refused the visit.’
‘Did I?’
‘You did. Nearly ten years after Klein’s conviction. Makes me wonder if some new information had come to light, and you wanted to ask him a few more questions. I’m assuming it wasn’t a social visit?’
Harold strolled over to the vermillion corner sofa and sat down. ‘Maybe some detail we wanted to clarify. Something that might have helped us with another case, and could have helped his pitch for parole. I don’t know. I don’t remember. It’s over twenty years ago, son.’
Sawyer pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the empty screen. ‘Need to take this. Private.’
He walked out to the back garden: a manicured patch of weather-beaten grass edged by a modest fence. The ground outside the fence sloped up to a flat private field, where a dry stone wall marked the start of a steep incline down into the valley. Sawyer held the phone to his ear and strode out to a group of trees that lined one side of the patch.
He turned to face the house. Harold’s studio was connected to a small outbuilding with a single window set high into the wall. A detached garage had been recently built, further up towards the road.
Sawyer couldn’t see into the studio, but his father would have no reason to follow or watch him. He turned to the thickest of the trees and took out the camera: pre-fixed with the black cable tie. He attached the camera to the thick end of the highest branch he could reach, pointing towards the main house and studio. He tidied the end of the cable tie into a groove at the back of the branch and took a few steps back, holding the phone to his head again. The camera was small enough to blend in to the texture of the wood. It would be easy to find if you were actively looking for it, but unlikely to be spotted in passing.
His phone buzzed, making him jump.
He walked back to the edge of the house and checked his messages. Text from Walker.
Another one. Crossbow. Briefing in half an hour.
45
Sawyer made it to Sheffield in twenty-five minutes: haring down through the Bradfield dales and popping out of the National Park, into the raised western suburbs. He parked at a Starbucks near the University and hurried inside, squinting through a shower of hail. By the time he’d settled with coffee and signed in to the Wi-Fi, he was a few minutes late for the briefing, but half an hour early for his other meeting.
He screwed in his earphones and opened the listening device app.
Shepherd was in full flow. ‘The
body was discovered off the side of the platform at Chinley Station, by a rail worker starting his shift at six this morning.’
‘Another nonce?’ Moran.
‘Parking attendant.’ Shepherd. ‘Barry Abbott. Thirty-nine. Did eight years for the sexual abuse of his nephew. 2005–2013. Quiet for a few years, but served with an SHPO earlier this year for sharing of indecent images and inciting sexual activity online, with a thirteen-year-old girl. Looks like he used lots of social networks, including MEETUPZ. Hopefully, we’ll have more detail when we get deeper into his computer history.’
‘Tell me more about the body.’ Keating.
Shepherd continued. ‘Again, single crossbow bolt to the back of the head. But this time, he’s gone further. Drummond is expediting the autopsy, but it looks like the attacker inflicted PM injuries. Several stab wounds to the back, and the back of the head.’
Sawyer took out the burner phone and texted Walker.
He’s angry. Something changed.
Walker spoke up. ‘The eye symbol is on the crossbow bolt. Still no joy on that. The bolts seem generic, customised.’
‘Keep the symbol private.’ Keating. ‘I don’t want to alert the killer to the fact we’re investigating it. DC Walker, any more on your theory that the killings and abductions are connected?’
‘Spoke to North Yorks contacts, sir. No abductions around the time of the Boyd and Manning murders.’
Keating sighed. ‘This new killing is too close to the new abduction. There has to be a connection. Where are we with Mia?’
‘Not a lot in the family computer.’ Shepherd. ‘Nothing to suggest that she was meeting someone. We’re talking to her friends. She may have been using computers elsewhere and arranged to meet that way.’