by Andrew Lowe
‘Of course. And no worries about infection from the burns.’
Drummond smiled. ‘Very good! Dead people don’t suffer from infections, though.’
‘Everything intact, internally?’
‘Nothing removed, no. Just the stab.’
‘Any way to tell the weapon from the wound?’
‘It’s hard to even tell the depth. And the cauterisation means it’s impossible to tell the shape of the blade. So, he knocks her out, positions the knife tip where he wants it.’ Drummond held up his left hand, fingers closed. He held his right-hand index finger over the gap between two left-hand fingers. ‘He drives the blade in…’ Drummond slotted his right-hand finger between the left-hand fingers, then reversed the motion. ‘He pulls it straight back out. And his aim was true. She would have been shocked awake by the stab, and then, as her heart wouldn’t have been able to pump enough blood to her brain, she would have lost consciousness again within seconds. Brain death in minutes.’
Sawyer hitched off the desk and walked to the windowed door. Gurney: surface recessed, like a shallow bathtub. Body drawers, stacked three high. All-seeing spot lighting. Stainless steel, and not a stain in sight. Not a molecule out of place. ‘Anything else?’
Drummond took a pen out of a holder and scribbled something into the file. ‘Heavy bleed into the chest cavity. To be expected. Grim Reaper ETA was less than two hours before she was dumped. Do you know what it takes to kill someone like this, Sawyer? Apart from really, really wanting to do it?’
Sawyer turned. ‘Precision.’
Drummond jammed the pen back into its holder. ‘Precisely. It has something of the abattoir about it, don’t you think? Efficient. Cold.’
‘But also specific.’
‘Well, yes. If you were just out to end someone, there are equally effective methods that aren’t quite so—’
‘Ritualised?’
Drummond angled his head. ‘That’s a reach.’
‘So why, then? Why do it that way?’
‘Out of my jurisdiction, Sawyer. I do the how. The why is your department.’
Sawyer picked up the file. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re holding something back?’
Drummond smiled. ‘Because I am?’
Sawyer frowned and flicked through the file.
‘I’m disappointed you didn’t spot the old scar when you looked over the body.’
Sawyer worked through the pages: read, swish; read, swish. ‘Cardiomyopathy?’
‘Bingo! Our fair Susan had ticker troubles. She had a transplant last year. Looks like the new heart was working well. Until someone stuck a knife through it.’
6
Amy Scott eased her ageing purple Corsa into a rare space a few doors down from her house in Crosspool, a bland suburb of Sheffield. She stepped out of the car and flattened down her nurse’s uniform. On the short walk up the steps, she stole a look at the sky. The light was fading earlier in the day now; autumn turning in for the winter slumber.
She let herself in, closed the front door, and called out. ‘Myra?’
A young woman—spindly thin with long, parted red hair—stepped out of the sitting room and pulled on a cheap-looking leather jacket. She flicked her hair over the collar and flashed a pained look at Amy.
‘I’m so sorry. It’s been a crazy day. Emergencies. And—’
‘It’s okay.’ Myra’s voice was tiny, constricted. She gathered her things, not bothering to soften her irritation. ‘Wish you’d called.’
‘I know. There wasn’t time.’
Another look. Doubtful. ‘Ava has been fine. Gave her tea, read a few stories.’
‘She likes Dr Seuss.’
Myra nodded, without smiling. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m really late.’ She pushed past and hurried out of the front door.
‘Here. Take something extra.’
Myra paused on the step. Amy turned to the empty hall table. ‘Oh! I must have left my bag in the car. Wait here. I’ll get you—’
‘It’s okay.’ Myra scurried down the steps and headed off along the narrow street, towards the main road and bus stop.
Amy bounded up the stairs, two at a time. There was still a chance that Ava would be only half asleep and she might get in a few last-minute cuddles before retiring with her lasagne and Netflix.
She eased the bedroom door open a few inches and poked her head into the darkened room. ‘Ava? Sweetheart?’
She slipped inside and closed the door.
Her eight-year-old daughter lay on her side, beneath a crumpled fuchsia duvet, using her battered old plush unicorn as a comfort pillow. Amy straightened the bedclothes and stood there for a while, basking in the sound of Ava’s slumber: her whispered breaths, regular and clear. She leaned in and pressed a light kiss to her forehead, then tiptoed out to the landing.
Back downstairs, Amy gazed into the wall mirror and saw a weary, winded character in a blue-and-white uniform. She winced at the dark smears beneath her eyes, the limp hair: unstyled and borderline mousey. She was a bright soul: kind, empathic, and, according to her friend Lisa, “a catch”. But lately, the job was washing out her colour, leaving her drained and desolate. During a recent video chat with a potential Match date, she had made the mistake of asking the man to guess her age (thirty-four). He had studied her image and announced, with confidence, that she was ‘somewhere in the early forties.’
She latched the front door and dashed down the steps to the Corsa.
The handbag sat in full view on the passenger seat. She rolled her eyes and unlocked the driver’s door.
As she leaned in to retrieve the bag, something caught her eye. One of the windscreen wipers had been lifted and an item placed underneath. She took the bag, locked the car and moved around to the windscreen.
Pinned beneath the wiper: a single red rose with a small card in a plastic wallet taped to the stem.
Amy lifted away the flower. She stripped off the wallet and took out the card.
On one side, in smudgy lettering, the sender had used an old-school typewriter to mark out a single sentence.
A reminder of our arrangement.
7
Sawyer leaned on the wooden bench and stared out at the sweep of yellowing fields and balding trees. He had dug the Mini into a lay-by off Bradshaw Lane and finished the last ten minutes of the journey on foot. The dusk was settling and the Barrel Inn car park was only half full, but the car’s distance gave him a psychological buffer; it allowed him to step out of his detective role and slip into the shoes of Lloyd Robbins, investigative journalist. It was an uneasy masquerade, but necessary. For now. Until all was well.
He squinted and tracked a white van as it slid along a farm track towards Wardlow, his home village, but then turned left, away from his old house and his mother’s old school; towards the lane and the end of his old world.
Sawyer had over four hundred years on the Barrel Inn, but it caught the top of his head as he ducked inside, scraping the albino patch at the back of his scalp. The place engulfed him like an embrace: oak-beamed bar, nail-studded doors, flagstone floor, a maw of a log fire. Marcus Klein had found a spot in a dark corner, near the entrance to the restaurant. His rectangular glasses were unchanged, but he had taken to wearing a tweed cap over his salt-and-pepper hair, had grown a neat beard, and was leaning so far over the top of his jug of bitter, Sawyer thought he might be asleep.
Sawyer slid into the seat opposite Klein. Just inside the restaurant entrance, a group of three men—chunky farm types—raised a rowdy toast. Two of them were perched on chairs, but the biggest of the three had taken a bench for himself. He downed his drink and sat back, manspreading over the width of the seat. Sawyer caught his eye for an awkward second.
‘Mr Robbins.’ Klein raised off his chair and held out his hand. Sawyer gripped it. Lean, bony. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again. How are you? How is the book?’
Sawyer wriggled out of his jacket and draped it over the chair. ‘Fine. I’ve been busy wit
h research for a few weeks.’
Klein took a sip of beer, wiped the froth from his moustache. ‘Do you have an editor? A deadline?’ His voice wavered; not far from a whisper.
Sawyer nodded and glanced over at the big man, who was laughing about something with his two colleagues. ‘Both. My editor is a big help. The deadline, not so much. I need to deliver it early next year.’
‘Who is publishing?’
‘Small press based in London. Mostly non-fiction. The case is quite old and my agent didn’t have much success with the bigger places. No need, these days, anyway. The story is evergreen and the marketing will be easy. A strong human interest, too. As well as the murder and attempted murder, there’s also the injustice suffered by yourself.’
Klein sighed. ‘There’s one person I doubt you’ll get a sale from. Harold Sawyer. He tried to block my release. It was fine in the end, though. I transitioned in a Cat D for a few weeks. I’m living at my brother’s place near Castleton now. He’s away a lot so it’s easy.’ He looked wistful for a second, then gathered himself. ‘I got a dog.’
In the restaurant area, the big man bellowed at the waitress. ‘All on me tab. No danger! You won’t get these cheap bastards paying for anything, anyways.’ Bristled head poking from a black polo-neck. Flushed. Already half-cut.
‘Mr Klein, I just wanted to check that you’re up for this? The investigation?’
Klein flinched and the overhead light caught his forehead wrinkles: pronounced, premature. Sawyer had heard that every year in prison puts half a year on you. Klein had only just turned twenty-four when he had been convicted of the murder, thirty years ago. ‘I would like to clear my name, yes. I did not kill Jessica Sawyer. As you know.’
‘I do. And I’ll try my best to keep you on the side lines. But I don’t know what I might uncover once we get going. If the real killer is still out there, then there’s a chance he might be nervous about you being out.’
‘After all this time?’
‘He’s got away with murder for this long. He’ll want to keep it that way.’
Klein took a long drink. ‘Christ, I wish you could still smoke in these places.’ Sawyer eyed him, waiting for an answer. ‘Yes. I’m up for it. No fear. What have you found out?’
Sawyer rose. ‘Let me get a drink and I’ll fill you in.’ As he turned, he had to step around the group of three men as they headed for the bar with their drinks. The big one took a sidestep at the last second and shouldered into Sawyer. Most of his drink sloshed over the rim of his glass and splatted onto the stone floor.
‘Fuck’s sake, mate!’ He stepped towards Sawyer, eyes bulging. He was close in height but almost twice Sawyer’s width.
Sawyer looked down at the puddle of beer and lifted his eyes to meet the big man’s. ‘Looks like you need another drink.’
The big man’s companions exchanged a look.
He moved in closer. Beer breath, unbrushed teeth, stale sweat. A few grains of white powder clung to his flaring nostrils. ‘Yeah. Cheers. Pint of Grolsch.’
Sawyer smiled and moved around him. The barman raised his eyebrows. ‘Just a lemonade, please.’
The barman eyed the big man. ‘Half or pint?’
‘Half. No ice, thanks.’
Sawyer turned his back on the group and looked up and around the room as the barman took up a soda gun and aimed it into a glass. ‘How old is this place, exactly?’
The barman stole a nervy glance over Sawyer’s shoulder. ‘1597. Highest pub in Derbyshire.’
‘Has it changed much?’
The barman placed the full glass on a beermat. ‘Used to have a thatched roof, I think. Tiled now. Two-forty, please.’
‘Hey!’
Sawyer ignored the shout from behind him, and paid, taking his time. The barman caught his eye and Sawyer offered a slight nod, hoping it conveyed reassurance.
He turned, straight into the big man’s leering face. The three had formed a tight cluster, blocking his way back to the table. Sawyer took a sip of his drink. ‘Can I get past, please?’
The big man tapped at his earlobe. ‘You got a hearing problem, pal?’
Sawyer took a breath and closed his eyes, listening to himself. Still nothing. But he saw it all: the Jeet Kune Do solution.
Move first. End it quickly. A swift biu jee strike to the big man’s nose, probably dislodging a clump of unsnorted coke. Drop back, create distance. One of his pals tries a haymaker. Sidestep, gut punch, follow up with an elbow to the back of his neck. Second guy wades in. Drop further back and dodge. Stomp kick to his knee, side on. Break his leg. Longest weapon to nearest target.
He opened his eyes and leaned to the side, peering around the group. Klein had shifted his chair, watching the show.
Sawyer faced the big man. ‘Are we really doing this? The old, “you spilled my pint” routine?’
‘What’s that?’ He nodded at Sawyer’s glass. ‘Shandy? Tough guy eh?’
Laughter from the other two.
The barman spoke up. ‘Shaun. You’ve been barred once before. Leave it.’
Shaun leaned in closer, forehead to forehead with Sawyer. ‘I said, a pint of fucking Grolsch.’
Head-butt. Elbow into one of the other two. The third will probably bottle it.
Sawyer flicked his eyes over Shaun’s shoulder. Klein was transfixed. ‘Okay. My fault.’ He held out a hand. ‘No trouble. Fresh pint of Grolsch for Shaun. On me.’ He pulled out a five-pound note and flicked it onto the bar. ‘Stick the change in the tip jar.’ Shaun accepted the hand. Sawyer shook and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Have a good night.’ He picked up his lemonade and squeezed past, back to Klein. He sat down, with his back to the group, watching Klein’s eyes.
Shaun slurred a parting shot. ‘Too fucking right! Watch where you’re going next time.’
The barman poured Shaun’s drink and the group shuffled to a table near the back of the bar.
Klein puffed out a whistle. ‘Nicely done, Mr Robbins. You should offer yourself to the UN.’
Sawyer smiled and took a deep drink. ‘Arseholes. Forget about them. Let’s talk about what matters. Where were we?’
Klein gathered himself. ‘You were telling me what you’ve found out.’
Sawyer glanced over his shoulder. Shaun and his boys were grinning to each other, relaxed, enjoying the victory. ‘The last time we spoke, you said you remembered the summer before it happened. It was a hot night and you were restless and couldn’t sleep. You heard a noise downstairs. As I said, I think that was someone stealing the hammer that was used to kill Mrs Sawyer. It was either the killer or someone told to steal it by the killer.’
‘I used the hammer to fix a number to my door a few weeks before, and then I didn’t use it again. I didn’t see that it had gone missing.’
‘Yes. I think someone saw you do that and used the hammer in the attack, implicating you.’
Klein took off his glasses, revealing ruptured, bloodshot eyes. He pulled out a handkerchief and pinch-cleaned the lenses. ‘So how are we going to find out who this might have been? Have you spoken to anyone else involved in the case? Family members? Police?’
‘As far as the police are concerned, it’s a closed case. We wouldn’t get any cooperation because it would be embarrassing if we unearthed anything. Best to keep it freelance.’ Sawyer took a slug of his drink. ‘I approached the sons. They were both present at the murder, as you know. I did get one of them to speak to me. Michael.’
Klein sat forward. ‘Anything?’
‘Let me lay it out for you, Mr Klein, as I understand it. Someone sees you with the hammer. They somehow steal it, probably on the night you say you heard the noise. A few weeks later, Jessica and her sons are walking with their dog along the lane near Wardlow. A lane they often use. The killer, wearing a balaclava, ambushes them. He kills the dog, attacks the two boys. Michael is hurt but, as he tells me, he hears Jessica say something to the attacker as he’s killing her. The killer is interrupted by another walker and
he has to leave. He dumps your hammer and it’s found later, convicting you.’
‘I like the way you call her “Jessica”. Not “Mrs Sawyer”.’
Sawyer dropped his gaze. ‘Too easy to forget the victims.’
Klein pulled himself closer and replaced his glasses. Fumbling fingers. Unsteady. He smelt of perfumed soap and tobacco. ‘So what did Michael hear Jessica say to the killer?’
Sawyer found Klein’s eyes. ‘He says he heard her say one word: “Why?”’
Klein slumped. ‘How does that help?’
‘A lot. I think she knew him. Most people would say, “Stop!” or, “Don’t!” or, “No!”. But “Why?” implies confusion, outrage, maybe disappointment. Some kind of connection.’
‘Romantic?’
Sawyer sloshed the remaining lemonade around in his glass. ‘When I saw you at the prison a few months ago, you said that Jessica told you she was trying to “change her life”. Get out of something difficult. Was your relationship obvious? You were both teachers at the same school. Would other staff have noticed? Might her husband have suspected something? Was it possible she was involved with someone else who worked there?’
Klein took off his cap. The hair on his head was too long. Silvery, waxed and parted. He propped his elbows on the table and massaged his temples. ‘We thought we were pretty discreet. But, you know. It’s hard to gauge it. You think she knew her killer. Well… She knew me. Didn’t make much difference in the end, but I suppose I’m lucky that didn’t come out in the trial.’ He tipped back his glass and drained the drink. ‘You still think I’m innocent, Mr Robbins?’
Sawyer blinked. ‘Of course.’
‘So what’s the next step?’
‘I have a good police contact who might be able to get me access to the local arrest records from a year or so around the time of Jessica’s death. There may be something that sticks out. I think you were burgled, Mr Klein. There may be a burglar who was active at the time who was involved in taking the hammer. Career burglars in the area who might know something.’
