by Andrew Lowe
‘Apart from the fact that he’s the husband and the most likely suspect?’ DC Moran tilted his head and looked round for support.
‘Story holds up.’ Sawyer ran a hand over his cropped hair. ‘He was crushed.’
‘He runs an acting agency,’ said DC Myers. ‘Might be a decent performer himself.’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Not even close. I bought every word.’
‘Or he sold you,’ said Moran, not looking at Sawyer.
‘They had dinner,’ Sawyer continued. ‘He went out to play bridge. He came home late and didn’t realise she wasn’t there. Separate bedrooms. If he’s a murderer, Moran, then you’re a ballet dancer. There’s no evidence he was ever at Fairholmes.’
‘There’s no evidence that anyone was there,’ said Sally O’Callaghan, parked on the edge of the desk beside Shepherd. ‘Way too many footprints to trace and eliminate, and nothing on the route from the road to the scene. Nothing on the holdall or materials. Cleanest scene I’ve ever worked on. It’s like he’s winched the poor woman in place via helicopter.’
‘Any more from Drummond?’ said Shepherd. ‘Sexual assault?’
Sally sighed. ‘He says not. Single stab wound. No other violation.’
Sawyer pulled open a bag of Skittles and scattered a few into his palm. He spoke without looking up; his position in the room forced the others to turn slightly. ‘And the Bishop house?’
Sally eased herself up off the desk. ‘My team are wrapping up now. There’s no evidence of intruders. Nothing in Susan’s bedroom, or the garden. She must have gone outside of her own—’
‘So we’re looking for a ghost?’ Sawyer tossed the Skittles into his mouth. ‘Is that your professional opinion, Sally?’
She angled her head. ‘It’s not an opinion, DI Sawyer. I’m just laying out the forensic findings to date.’
‘You missed something.’
Chairs scraped as the others turned to Sawyer, away from Shepherd and Walker and their whiteboard.
Sally took a breath, trying to reclaim the moment. ‘My team do not “miss” things.’
Sawyer stared at the floor, chewing. ‘Are your team human beings, Sally?’
‘Yes, they are.’ She looked away for a second, then counterattacked, bright and sarcastic. ‘Wait a second. That would mean that they might make mistakes, right?’
Sawyer smiled and raised his eyes to her. ‘She was targeted. It was close to dusk. She didn’t go for a stroll and get jumped. Wherever he killed her, he wanted it to be private, efficient. No mess. No fuss.’
‘Sterile?’ said Sally.
‘Yes. No contamination, either physical, or potential compromise from the public. He did it there and then. Either inside the house or somewhere private close by.’
‘Vehicle?’ said Shepherd.
‘A mobile murder lab,’ said Walker. ‘Fits his psychology. It’s like he wants complete control over every single detail.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Including what he leaves behind. Killing inside a vehicle gives him that privacy. He can take his time. No danger of getting caught in the act.’
And then, there he was, in the lane. Crawling. Clenching at the soil.
Henry, his dog. Twitching. Trembling. Was he cold? He wanted to cover him.
Michael, his big brother. In a heap, near to their mother.
At once, Sawyer was in two separate places: his physical form in the MIT room, but his perception had shifted in space and time.
He could hear his mother’s cries. Her sorrow and agony. Her submission.
Sawyer looked up at Sally. Her mouth was moving but he could only hear the ambience from that day, like an aural imprint on his six-year-old eardrums: birdsong, a distant car engine, leaves rustling in the breeze.
The impotence. The screams, dwindling to sobs, braced for each hammer blow.
Metal on bone.
‘DI Sawyer?
A rumble of nausea.
He swallowed the half-chewed sugary mush and screwed his eyes closed, grinding his teeth together. He pinched at the flesh around his thigh muscle, focusing on the physical sensation.
‘DI Sawyer, are you with us?’
He was. The nausea faded. He retuned back into the room. ‘Yeah. Sorry. Bit of heartburn.’
Sally squinted at him, nodding. ‘I said, do you want me to tell my team to take another sweep?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘And if there’s still nothing?’
Sawyer blinked the moisture from his eyes. ‘DS Shepherd?’
He was ready. ‘Myers. Get time of death from Drummond, as close as you can. Work with Rhodes on CCTV and ANPR, two hours either side. Larger vehicles: vans, people carriers.’
‘What about victimology?’ said Sawyer. ‘What’s he got against Susan Bishop?’
‘Not a lot coming up,’ said Moran. ‘Focused mostly on her TV past. She was easy on the eye in her younger days. Lot of casting couches around back then. We’re talking to a couple of her old directors later. Maybe there’s still a beef or two over spurned advances. They’re knocking on a bit now, though.’
‘This is a younger man,’ said Walker.
Moran scoffed. ‘Good job we’ve got Poirot on our side.’
Walker ignored him. ‘Even if he did murder Susan in her own home, he still had to carry the body to a vehicle, and then from Fairholmes to the deposition.’
Moran widened his eyes. ‘Deposition? Haven’t heard that one since training college.’
‘What about Susan herself?’
‘Pretty boring,’ said Myers. ‘One daughter, Charlotte, now nineteen. Studies in America. Flying back later today. Susan was part of a local book club. Romance. Kept an allotment near Chelmorton. Lots of walking. Weekly group hikes. The group leader said she used to go every week but she hadn’t seen her much since the heart op.’
‘Tell me about that,’ said Sawyer.
Myers shrugged. ‘Husband’s story checks out. Transplant last year at Wythenshawe. Records are confidential, but Ronald showed me the paperwork, photos.’ He checked his notes and struggled with the pronunciation. ‘Cardio… my… o… pathy.’ He looked up, satisfied. ‘Heart struggles to get blood around the body.’
Moran turned back to face Shepherd and muttered into his desk. ‘It’s certainly doing that now.’ A couple of titters from his colleagues.
‘DC Moran.’ Sawyer took a step towards him and pivoted his chair around. He leaned in, close to Moran’s shoulder. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
Moran squeezed out a weak smile. ‘You’re the boss.’
Sawyer leaned back, stood upright over Moran. ‘Have you ever lost someone?’
Moran shrugged. ‘My cat died when I was twelve.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘You say you went to training college. But I’m not sure your victim awareness skills are up to speed. When we’re done with this case, let’s get you on one of the new support courses. There’s a really good six-weeker. You can do it weekdays, before or after work.’
Moran smiled, fronted it out. ‘Sounds lovely. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot. Sir.’
Sawyer turned away. He caught the eye of Stephen Bloom, seated in the corner. Bloom flinched and averted his eyes. ‘DS Shepherd.’
‘Sir?’
Sawyer kept his gaze trained on Bloom. ‘Are you ready yet?’
Shepherd frowned. ‘Ready?’
‘To tell me. I’d say it’s something media-related. You were probably waiting to tell me privately after this. Let’s get it all out in the open, though. We’re all friends here.’ He smiled at Moran, who responded with an even bigger grin.
Shepherd slumped. ‘Local press are running something tomorrow. Exclusive. Death Of A TV Star-type thing. Dean Logan.’
The temperature dropped. Sawyer let the information settle. Dean Logan was a Derbyshire Times hack who delighted in stirring up petty crusades against the police. He was a Wapping reject with a nostalgia for pre-Leveson tabloid culture. ‘DC Walker. Special mission for you. I w
ant to know more about Susan’s heart transplant. Did she milk her celebrity and jump the queue? If so, is there anyone who got bumped down the list or maybe even died? Any unhappy relatives who might have a problem with Susan? Look into connections with the surgeon, the hospital. The stab in the heart might be a coincidence but I want to be sure.
‘And, Stephen?’ Bloom rose to his feet. ‘Get Logan under control. If ITN spoke to Fairholmes, I imagine they summoned him as their local bin-dipper and he’s shafted them for the exclusivity.’ Bloom nodded, nervous. ‘Either that, or someone in this room wasn’t listening when I said I didn’t want the press involved.’
11
Back at the cottage, Sawyer abandoned Audition for The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, a film the back cover review quote insisted ‘should come with a free change of underwear’. He’d seen it before, as a student, and had found himself more interested in the reactions of his flatmates than the content of the film. This time, it felt slow and pointless, with too much screaming.
He stripped to boxer shorts and headed into the bedroom, where he’d laid out a rubber training mat, a barbell and bench. In the corner, he had jammed a full-size Wing Chun training dummy, with protruding wooden poles to simulate an opponent’s arms and legs. He used Wing Chun techniques for meditation, and as a base discipline for his beloved Jeet Kune Do. The ‘wooden man’ was a powerful tool for honing technique, combination blocks and strikes, and to improve sharpness.
His back muscles cracked and pulsed as he worked, distorting the Greek tattoo across his back: Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού (‘True to his own spirit’). He had lost some weight since the Crawley case, but his hand speed was exceptional, and he revelled in the pain as he worked his core and upper body, driving his wrists and forearms into the dense wood.
He completed a flurry of movements. As he rested, he tuned in to a soft, intermittent drilling sound from the sitting room.
Sawyer took a hand towel and swiped at his forehead and neck, then hurried next door and snatched up his vibrating phone.
He checked the Caller ID and took the call. ‘Eva. I’ve told you. You have got to stop pestering me like this.’
She laughed: soft and sweet, with a hint of indulgence. ‘How are you? You sound out of breath.’
‘Working out. If you want to find out how I am, you could just read through the string of messages I’ve been sending.’
‘You mean the stalking?’
He took a slug from a bottle of water. ‘Semantics. Honestly, these days you can’t relentlessly pursue a woman without being accused of harassment.’
Eva sighed, but didn’t laugh this time. ‘We have to be quick.’
‘How’s Luka?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Difficult. Playing up at school. He’s having some counselling but he doesn’t want anyone to know. Especially his mates.’
‘No ill effects from the car accident?’
‘He’s had check-ups. He’s fine. They think he might have ADHD.’
‘I could talk to him.’
Eva jumped in. ‘We’re separating. Me and Dale.’
Sawyer switched the phone to speaker and set it down on the coffee table. ‘Is he moving out?’ He opened his wallet and shuffled through the contents: coffee shop loyalty schemes, bank cards, expired V&A Museum membership. He dug into the inner pocket and took out the tatty polaroid of his mother, standing at the gate on Christmas morning, 1987: awkward smile; orange bathrobe; coal-black hair bundled into the hood of the robe, with a few strands spilling over her shoulders.
‘He wants to live closer to Manchester. Still keen to see Luka. I told him not to tell Luka yet. But he did, anyway.’
Sawyer pulled out a European Health Insurance card. ‘Gives him the moral high ground. Makes it look like his decision, like you’re too difficult to live with. If you’d spoken to Luka together, it would have seemed too mutual and made him look weak.’ He studied the front of the card.
Name: BROOKS
Given names: SHAUN CHRISTOPHER
Eva sighed. ‘I don’t care about any of that.’
‘You just want him out. You think he’ll be a better influence on Luka with occasional access. Summer trip to the Heights of Abraham.’ She didn’t answer. He heard the clink of a Zippo lighter. ‘You’re smoking?’
‘Yes. That’s still legal, right?’
‘Depends where you are. I can talk to Luka, you know. He might listen to the guy who rescued him from an underground cave network.’
She puffed out smoke. ‘I don’t want to put him in that awkward place. Between you and his dad.’
‘Is that how you see Dale? There’s your father, and there’s your dad? One is biology. The other is a relationship. Sometimes they go together. Not in this case.’
‘Is this an audition for stepfather?’
He laughed. ‘Does Dale know someone called Shaun Brooks?’
‘Haven’t heard the name, no.’
He replaced the cards and photo and closed the wallet. ‘Come and see me.’ The crackle of burning tobacco, another puff of smoke. ‘You know you want to.’
‘It was a mistake. You know it can’t be repeated. For everyone’s sake.’
‘Including mine?’
‘Especially yours.’
Sawyer pulled on a T-shirt. ‘You can’t just plot your life from moment to moment. Neat little segues from one phase to the next. It’s messier than that.’
‘No, but I want the separation to be smooth. Dale knows it’s over, but he also knows about you. He’s wary.’
‘I’m a big boy. Dale likes to intimidate people. It’s his currency. Bullies need victims, though, Eva. He doesn’t scare me.’
She barked out a laugh. Contemptuous, exasperated. ‘Always the same with men. It all comes down to a pissing competition in the end. I work for an accountant, remember? Not everything is zero sum.’
‘You don’t make a “smooth” separation from people like Dale. I did a bit of checking. Jason Haig. The driver of the car that hit Luka. Accidentally, remember? It was Luka’s fault?’
‘Jake…’
‘Haig was badly beaten in his own house a couple of weeks ago. In front of his wife and son.’ Sawyer picked up Shepherd’s tactical pen from a pot on the table and doodled on a stack of Post-it notes. ‘The lad was ten years old. They threatened to hurt the bloke’s wife unless he joined in with the beating.’
‘Please.’
‘They made a ten-year-old boy punch his own dad in the face. That’s not a robbery with violence. That’s calculated humiliation.’
‘You don’t know that Dale had anything to do with that.’
‘Yes, I do. And so do you.’ Silence at Eva’s end. ‘Come and see me.’
He checked the phone. She had hung up.
12
‘Is it in?’ Keating tapped something into his corner computer with a flourish. He pivoted his chair to face Sawyer and Shepherd.
Sawyer glanced at Shepherd. ‘You haven’t seen it online?’
Keating waved a hand. ‘I don’t look at anything online. There’s just too fucking much of it.’
Sawyer smirked. ‘Of what?’
‘Of…’ He sighed. ‘People. And their opinions. What does it say?’
On cue, Stephen Bloom entered, trailed by DC Walker. By his standards, Bloom was dressed down: dark blazer, white shirt, no tie. Walker was Monday-morning fresh, and Sawyer wrinkled his nose at his excessive cologne.
Bloom laid the morning edition of the Derbyshire Times on Keating’s desk. The front page showed a large archive shot of Susan Bishop as Suzie Swift, clearly taken sometime during her TV heyday: beaming in period dress, huddled in for a promo shot with TV variety star, Ronnie Barker.
The headline was a screamer. A Logan classic.
TRAGIC TV SUZIE FOUND DEAD IN DERWENT
Keating scanned the story. ‘How does he know she was stabbed?’
‘We saw the husband yesterday, sir,’ said Shepherd. Keating raised his eye
s to Sawyer, then across to Shepherd. ‘We gave him the details. ’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Logan must have doorstepped him.’
Keating sat back. ‘Evidently. When you say “we” gave him—’
‘I told him,’ said Sawyer.
‘And you didn’t think it might be worth keeping that private? Cards close to chest? At least until Drummond has finished his work.’
‘He’s her husband. He has a right to know.’
‘Yes. But he also has a right to expect us to catch the bastard who killed his wife. And that’s a fuck of a lot easier if the killer doesn’t know what we know.’
Walker stepped forward. ‘Shall I arrange some support for the FLOs at the Bishop house, sir? There’s bound to be more press interest now.’
Keating smiled. ‘That’s up to your case manager, son.’ He flashed a glare at Shepherd. ‘Let’s stay ahead of the story from now on. I’d rather the public got their details from us, not from serpents like Logan. Any hard news?’
‘Just spoke to Sally,’ said Shepherd. ‘Her team have completed two sweeps of the Bishop house and surroundings. Nothing.’
Sawyer turned to him. ‘Don’t you find that a bit strange?’
‘He might have forced her outside,’ said Walker. ‘Weapon threat.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Or he’s just meticulous. It’s happened before. Killers who do their homework. They know what we look for. One guy in Baltimore used a black light torch to make sure he’d caught all of the fluids.’
‘I agree with Walker,’ said Sawyer. ‘He surprised her. Forced her out to a vehicle. Subdued her.’
‘Find me the vehicle,’ said Keating. ‘This could be pretty straightforward if he’s stupid enough to be driving something we can link to him directly.’
‘Myers is on it, sir,’ said Shepherd.
Walker cleared his throat. ‘I spoke to the husband about Susan’s heart transplant. He said there was no hint of any resentment, no accusations of queue jumping. They were asked if they wanted details on the donor, but declined. The operation was textbook, apparently. He said her condition went from life-threatening to being as manageable as something like asthma.’
