by Andrew Lowe
Klein shook his head. ‘It was a long time ago. It sounds like a long shot.’
‘You know how it goes. You miss every shot you don’t take.’
‘Mr Robbins. A question. What if we do find a link to the person who did it? You say the police won’t even be interested in investigating because of the embarrassment.’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Depends what we find. They might have good reason to not want to re-open the investigation. You might get compensation.’
Klein grimaced and dropped his chin to his chest. ‘I was a good teacher, Mr Robbins. It was an asset that kept me sane, and alive, inside. I don’t want money. I just want a clear name. So I can work again.’
Sawyer sat back. ‘We’ll get you justice. But we have to keep it low profile.’
They talked for another half an hour, mostly around Klein’s prison war stories. Sawyer maintained his persona by reworking old case detail into tales from his days as a ‘local crime reporter’.
Sawyer turned his head at the sounds of an altercation from Shaun’s table. The men were arguing amongst themselves, with Shaun’s the loudest voice, sounding a note of protest and apology.
He smiled and stood up, pulled on his jacket. ‘I have to go. I’ll be in touch if my police friend discovers anything.’
Klein stood, shook Sawyer’s hand. ‘I’m going to stay and read my book by the fire for a while. I’m learning about online teaching. Something I can do anonymously. Probably best we don’t leave together, anyway, eh?’
Sawyer grinned. ‘You’re getting the hang of it already.’ He turned and headed for Shaun’s table.
‘Guys! I always pay my fucking share!’ Shaun was on his feet, pleading with the other two. ‘I’ve never had this before. Honest!’
The two seated men caught Sawyer’s approach. Shaun saw their attention shift and pivoted to face him. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Just hoping I can help,’ said Sawyer. ‘Sounds like you’re having trouble paying.’
Shaun pushed his chair out of the way and took a step towards Sawyer. ‘What the fuck has it got to do with you?’
Sawyer slid Shaun’s tatty black wallet from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table. ‘I think you must have dropped this, tough guy.’
Outside, the fields had been smothered by starless night, and an impish wind swooped around the high ground. Sawyer used the light of his phone to navigate down the lane to the lay-by. He started the Mini and cued up a playlist recently shared by Maggie: The Flaming Lips.
As he crunched onto the A road towards Edale, a burgundy BMW pulled out of the Barrel Inn car park and rumbled its way down the lane, keeping a cautious distance.
8
Ronald Bishop poured himself a whisky and limped over to the sofa. He paused and gazed into the glass. The liquid caught the light from a wall lamp and cast a golden shimmer across his crumpled forehead. Maggie Spark stepped in and guided him down onto the sofa. She took the glass from his trembling hand and transferred it to a side table.
Sawyer sat opposite, beside Shepherd on a second sofa. He had suited up, but Shepherd was dishevelled, in an ill-fitting overcoat with jacket and tie underneath. Ronald hadn’t opened his curtains, and the features of the vast, high-ceilinged room were sunken beneath the low wattage gloom. Cloth-covered piano, stone-cut fireplace, black-and-white portrait photos hung in elaborate frames: a young Ronald and Susan with dogs gathered at their feet; Susan in various costumes and guises; Ronald with clients, mostly TV stars of the eighties.
Maggie strode over to the French windows. ‘Quite a nice morning out there, Ronald. Remember what we said yesterday? We should let the day in.’
‘Just a little.’ Ronald knitted his fingers together and writhed them around, as if washing his hands. He kept his gaze straight ahead, avoiding Shepherd and Sawyer. He was approaching seventy, with a dense mane of oyster-grey hair framing a rugged face set in a permanent squint. His tone was military, dampened by grief. ‘Suzie loved Sundays. When we were younger, it was our running day.’ His eyes flashed up to Sawyer and Shepherd. ‘She had to keep fit, you see. She was forever on diets. Then it became our walking day. That’s how it goes. You slow down, scale back. It all catches up with you in the end.’ He sighed and reached for the whisky.
Maggie parted the curtains halfway. Watery sunshine seeped in. The front garden was modest: tightly mowed with multicoloured fringes and a low hedge bordering the lane into Miller’s Dale village.
‘How did you meet Susan, Mr Bishop?’ said Shepherd.
He winced. ‘Ronald, please.’ His gaze drifted. ‘Twenty-five years ago. I was looking after her first husband. Magician. It was the end of the working relationship, and they’d ran their course. I later found out he was… physical with her. He died many years ago. Cancer, I think.’
Maggie walked over and lowered herself into an armchair. She had grown out her rust-red hair a little since Sawyer had last seen her, and pinned it back into a stubby ponytail. She caught him watching her and narrowed her eyes.
Sawyer sat forward. ‘Your agency. Everything amicable there? Any clients or ex-clients who might have issues with you or Susan?’
Ronald shook his head. ‘Not that I can think of. Suzie took on more of the admin. I kept up with the “warm” work. Meetings, casting directors, ego massages, what have you. A lot of the younger performers bypass agencies, these days. Bloody technology lets them manage themselves. We mostly have the old hands on our books.’
‘Can you take us through your activities yesterday evening?’ said Shepherd. Ronald glared at him. ‘We need to account for everyone and everything. You understand.’
He took a sip of whisky. ‘In the afternoon, I was working in the office. Suzie had been home most of the day. Gardening, reading. She made us an early dinner. Salmon. I left just before seven to drive to a friend’s house in Chapel, where we played bridge. I came back around midnight, very tired. Suzie’s door was closed and I assumed she’d gone to bed. I went to my room, didn’t sleep well. I took her some tea early in the morning and was shocked to see she wasn’t there. Her bed hadn’t been slept in, and her purse was still in the drawer. As far as I know, she wasn’t planning to go out anywhere. Is there evidence? Of intruders?’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Not that we can see. Was your bridge evening a regular event?’
‘Yes. Every Saturday.’
Sawyer looked up and ran his eyes around the patterns of the interlocking oak beams. ‘Mr Bishop, did you and your wife enjoy a transparent relationship?’
Ronald looked at Maggie, then Shepherd, then back to Sawyer. ‘What does that mean?’
Sawyer trained his gaze on Ronald. ‘Romantically. Is there a possibility that your wife was seeing someone else?’
‘Certainly not. I was devoted to Suzie, and the feeling was mutual.’
Sawyer could feel Maggie’s eyes on him. ‘I’m not making any moral judgement. I just have to explore every possibility, palatable or not.’
Ronald tilted his head back. ‘Consider that possibility fully explored, Detective.’
Shepherd pointed at one of the portrait images of Susan Bishop. ‘Can you tell us what happened with your wife’s heart transplant, Ronald?’
‘She developed cardiomyopathy after the birth of our daughter. She was in her forties and it was difficult. Unplanned. She managed the condition for a long time, but, as I say, things catch up with you. It became worse last year and the transplant became necessary. She had the operation at Wythenshawe Hospital in Manchester.’ Ronald took a drink. He screwed his eyes shut, weathering something. When he opened them again, they were filled with tears. ‘Why would someone do this to my Suzie? What… what happened to her?’
Maggie reached forward and squeezed Ronald’s hand. ‘We’re still working that out.’
‘She was stabbed.’ Sawyer brushed down his orange tie and looked at Maggie.
Ronald gasped and reeled back. ‘Stabbed? Why? Did she suffer?’
Maggie
glared at Sawyer. He peeled his eyes away and focused on Ronald. ‘I don’t believe so. I would tell you if I thought otherwise.’
Ronald rubbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I’m sure you would.’
Sawyer strode through the Bishops’ back garden, ahead of Shepherd and Maggie. He heard Maggie tell Shepherd to wait by the house for a second.
He stopped and turned, denying her the lecture. ‘Get a contact for his bridge buddies. Look into their agency. Cross-ref for anyone with a record or arrests.’ He paused. Shepherd took out his notebook. ‘Find some detail on the transplant. Is someone unhappy that she got higher up the list? Maybe because of her minor celebrity?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Disgruntled patient. Or patient relative?’
‘Or maybe it’s symbolic. A jealous lover stabbing her through the heart. Creative. She broke his heart, and so he’s doing the same to her. Get a victimology cell on Susan Bishop’s showbiz history. Anyone who sticks out. Trace and eliminate. And check out the ex-husband.’
Shepherd looked up. ‘He’s dead, sir.’
‘Do it, anyway. Connections. Grudges.’ He glanced at Maggie; she stared him down. ‘We need to know more about their relationship. Can you find out more?’
Maggie folded her arms. ‘Shall I push him on their sex life? Now you’ve “softened him up”?’
Sawyer sighed, held her stare. ‘Okay. I was a bit heavy-handed. But it’s better that he knows now. Then he can start getting used to it. Rather than living in limbo.’
Maggie stepped forward. ‘It’s better that he’s given time to absorb the blow of his wife’s death before he learns of any—’
‘No sign of a break-in. So, Ronald’s out playing bridge. Someone calls, probably not too long after he left. Not too late, or she might not answer the door. It fits what I said in the briefing. He knocks her out, cuffs her, delivers the stab wound, waits for her to die. He wraps her up, gets her into a vehicle, and cleans the scene. Sanitises the body, cauterises the wound, dumps her up at Fairholmes.’
Shepherd frowned. ‘Why would he risk her husband coming back?’
‘Ronald said the bridge night was a weekly event. The killer must have known he’d have time to do his work in the house, then get her out to the car. As you can see, it’s pretty private round the back here. This was planned. She was targeted. We need to find out why and we need to find out who’s doing the targeting, the stabbing, the sanitising. Because whoever it is, is certainly arrogant enough, fearless enough, to do it again. I want Sally here with a full forensic team as soon as possible.’
‘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 p
sychodynamic.’ She opened her purse and slid out a card. Classy. Creamy background. Sky blue border. Deep 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.’
