by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer sat down, leaving himself and Keating as the only ones not standing. ‘And nobody in her life was opposed to organ donation on religious grounds or whatever?’
All eyes were on Walker. ‘I didn’t pursue that angle. I’ll look into it.’
‘I don’t think any religions are opposed to organ donation,’ said Shepherd, ‘apart from Christian Scientists. They let their kids die rather than submit to medical care.’
Bloom spoke up. ‘They wouldn’t see it that way. They would see their child as being chosen by the Lord.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘And He has that “mysterious ways” disclaimer. Handy. Although, of course, there’s also that inconvenient commandment about not killing. Which is what the parents are doing to their kids by refusing the medical help.’ His phone buzzed. He stood up and spoke to Shepherd. ‘I have to take this. Brief the team and call an update for 3pm.’
He strode into his office and closed the door. The low autumn sun flared through the half-closed window blind, mottling the room in solid strips of shadow.
He sank into his chair and connected the call. ‘Max.’
‘Jake. Good to hear you.’ Male voice. Middle-aged. London, close to cockney. ‘How are things up North? Grim?’
‘Green. Just about.’
‘Winding down for the winter?’
Sawyer rummaged through a drawer. ‘Hardly. Plenty of excitement up here lately.’
‘Bloodshed at the Nell Gwynn Tearooms?’
Sawyer laughed. ‘Fawlty Towers.’
DI Max Reeves tutted down the phone line. ‘Still can’t get much past you. I’ve been busy. Got your message. Not like you to come running. You must have got the internet up there, by now?’
‘I’m calling in the favour.’
Reeves went quiet for a second. ‘I’ve got the files for your mum’s case, from general registry. They were outsourced to the Met about fifteen years ago. Also dug out the Buxton station records for a year either side, as you said. And I’ve sniffed out a few repeat burglars from that time. And when I say “that time”, Sawyer, we’re basically talking fucking Jurassic era on the police admin clock.’
Sawyer pulled out a notepad and pen. ‘I get that it wasn’t easy, Max. You can lose the crown of thorns.’
Reeves laughed: too loud and long. ‘This is a lot more than calling in a fucking favour. I don’t see why you couldn’t do this yourself. Bit of research not beyond a man of your talents? Or do I not want to know?’
Sawyer squinted through the blinds. ‘It’s personal. I don’t want anyone knowing that I’m looking into it.’
Reeves sighed. ‘Like I say, a few names pop up. If you could tell me a bit more about what you’re looking for, I could narrow it down.’
Sawyer scratched out a doodle in the corner of a clean page. ‘I’ll cover that.’
‘Top of the table of repeat appearances is one Owen Casey. No fixed abode. Notes say he was part of a community of Irish travellers that settled around Uttoxeter in the seventies and eighties. He was nineteen at the time of his last arrest. June 1988. A few weeks before…’ He trailed off. ‘Now. Apart from being so prolific, here’s the thing that makes Casey stick out. I think he was used as an informant, around this time. June.’
‘Unusual for travellers.’
‘Yeah. I thought that. Not usually a rich seam of snitches. But this last offence was pretty nasty. Aggravated. And yet he was released without charge. Homeowner chased and caught him. Given his history, it’s unthinkable that he would have just walked.’
Sawyer wrote the name Owen Casey on the top page of the pad. ‘Any paperwork? Anything formal? Any record of a specific enquiry he might have helped with?’
‘Not a scrap. Source handling was different then. You know that. These days, it’s regulated up the arse by RIPA. Back then, it was all informal. Snouts down the pub.’
Sawyer sat back. ‘I didn’t realise you were that old, Max.’
Reeves snorted. ‘Comedian. Are you not getting this, Jake? I’m catching the bad smell from here.’
‘Who nicked him?’
Reeves slurped at a drink. He was building to something. ‘Ready for the fun bit? The arrest record. I went through hundreds from that period. With respect to your humble beginnings, Jake, this is Buxton, Derbyshire. It’s not Bogota, Colombia. Out of all the records outsourced to the Met from that station at that time, including the murders, this is the only arrest record with no paperwork. I only know Casey was nicked because he’s mentioned in the victim statement. Someone didn’t want his arrest to go on record—’
‘But they forgot to bury the victim statement.’
‘Yeah. The victim clearly knew Casey, because he mentions him by name. Must have done him over before.’
‘Is he still around?’
‘Kenneth Townsend. Died about ten years ago.’
Sawyer sketched jagged lines around the O of Owen. ‘So where is Casey now?’
Reeves laughed. ‘We are so square now, Sawyer. In fact, I think it’s you that owes me a favour.’
13
Amy Scott slotted her phone into the dashboard cradle and pulled out of the hospital car park. It had been a busy shift: an endless staff meeting on new NICE guidelines, training up an assistant nurse, fighting a few minor admin fires, and a depressing end-of-life care meeting with the parents of a twenty-nine-year-old who would not be seeing thirty. Her friend Lisa worked in oncology, and although Amy’s work never directly involved breaking bad news, their roles often overlapped.
For lunch, she had inhaled a bowl of greenery from the hospital M&S, and she was craving a hit of carbs. Ideally, with a glass of something red and barely affordable, in the company of someone with half a brain.
Amy glanced out at the ugly modern church on the corner of Barnsley Road. A sign advertised the latest Alpha Course: Bear Grylls on some mountainside, staring off into the distance, surrounded by think bubbles (‘Is there more to life than this?’, ‘Does God exist?’, ‘What happens next?’).
She unlocked her phone screen. ‘Hey, Siri. Call Lisa.’
The phone’s virtual assistant confirmed her request and connected the call.
‘Hey, babe.’
Lisa was loud and lively, and Amy squeezed the volume decrease button a couple of times. ‘You still in?’
‘Tell me about it. I feel like I’ve only just got here! Won’t be out until at least seven, at this rate. We’ll have to do another night. Sorry, darling. No hot dates on call?’
‘Oh, I’m fighting them off. Got to have a break sometime, though.’
Lisa laughed. ‘Seriously. Anyone on the scene?’
‘Had two good ones recently. The first seemed okay in messages, but then we did a live chat and he was pretty dull. Didn’t directly respond to what I was saying. Just seemed to use my messages as a sort of bridge to get to what he wanted to say next.’
Lisa made a buzzing sound; shorthand for ‘rejected’. ‘What about the other one?’
‘He was really nice.’
‘And?’
‘I mentioned Ava.’
Lisa sighed down the phone. ‘Schoolgirl error. They’re men. They’re looking for sex. Don’t make them think of bedtime stories.’
‘I want more than just—’
‘The more than just sex stuff comes after the sex, not before. Look. You wanna get off Match. Soulmates is loads better for your type.’
Amy laughed. ‘Easy for you to say, with the steady consultant boyfriend.’
Lisa coughed. ‘It’s an open relationship.’
‘Does he know that?’
‘He seems okay with it when it comes to his wife.’
Amy’s phone screen showed an incoming call waiting, from ‘Broomfield’.
‘Oh. It’s Ava’s school. I’ll have to take it. Call you later.’
Amy tapped the End & Accept icon. ‘Hello?’
‘Ms Scott? It’s Rose from the school office. Are you able to collect Ava today?’
A
my recognised the voice. Chatter in the background. ‘Of course. I’m on my way. Is there a problem?’ She checked the time: 3:06. The drive was barely ten minutes. Pick-up at 3:20.
‘No. Everything is fine. But Ava’s uncle called. He left a message.’
‘Uncle?’
‘Yes. He seemed to think he was picking up Ava today?’
Amy’s mind spun through the options. ‘I don’t have any brothers. Are you sure you’ve got the right Ava?’
A pause. Muffled conversation. ‘Yes. Ava Scott. We don’t actually have any other children called Ava.’
Amy squeezed the accelerator. She bullied her way around a queue of turning cars and crossed over the Neepsend canal bridge. ‘What was the message?’
More muffled conversation. ‘The caller asked if we could write it down and pass it on to you. He said, “I can’t take Ava today. But I can do it any other time.”’
14
Keating took a chair at the side of the MIT whiteboard and shifted it side-on, to give him both a presiding position and a full view of the room. Sawyer sat at the desk outside his office, behind the perched Sally O’Callaghan and just out of Keating’s eyeline. Sally didn’t turn to acknowledge him; surely she wasn’t still sulking after their exchange yesterday?
‘We’ve completed two full sweeps of the scene at Fairholmes and the Bishop house. Susan’s killer has barely left a blade of grass out of place.’
‘I’ve never known a scene like it,’ said Sally. ‘No blood, no DNA. No fibres. No prints. Patent, latent or impressed. Susan was naked, so we couldn’t use any soil samples from footwear. K9s found a few spliff butts at the Derwent site, nothing else.’
‘Did you use different personnel for each sweep?’ said Sawyer, behind her.
Sally didn’t turn. She tilted her head and addressed her response to Shepherd. ‘I didn’t, actually. They’re professionals, and if there was anything to find then they would have found it. We completed several searches. Linear, grid, quadrant, spiral. We’re testing the soil samples under her fingertips but I’m guessing it’ll be from her allotment. If the killer has left any trace, then Almighty fucking God himself would have trouble finding it.’
‘Tyre tracks?’ said Keating.
‘Plenty. But both the road outside the Bishop home and the Derwent scene were wet. Even if we could separate them, the results would be too distorted to be meaningful.’
A brief, despairing silence. Myers raised his hand. ‘Rhodes has been busy on passive data that fits time of death. No ANPR near either scenes. Couple of larger cars caught on shop CCTV in the village, but no plates in view.’
Shepherd sighed. ‘Moran? Victimology?’
‘I spoke to Ronald Bishop’s bridge buddies. Everything tallies. They were a bit touchy about the questions over Ronald’s relationship with Susan, but they’re adamant that there was nothing going on. Solid as a rock. I also looked into their talent agency. He still does it all by paper. Not too many clients south of sixty. Hardly A-listers. A couple of tax avoidance cases, all wrapped up now. Nothing to suggest any problem with Susan or Ronald. And not a whiff of Yewtree. Surprising, given the demographic.’
‘Local press are all over it,’ said Keating. ‘Stephen is managing the nationals. Let’s keep focused and dead-bat any badgering. Usual reasons. We don’t want the murderer to know what we know.’
‘Hardly worth knowing at the moment, anyway,’ said Moran.
Keating glared at him. ‘I trust that Logan has got his information from the husband and he isn’t enjoying any insider access? Until we decide to actively involve the press, I want all information confidential, on HOLMES, and I do not want to find out that somebody in this room is leaky.’
Walker stood up, taking an attention-drawing trick from Bloom’s book. ‘I’m looking into the heart transplant. Meeting a consultant at the Wythenshawe heart unit later.’
‘Find out what you can about the donor,’ said Sawyer. Keating leaned forward, craning his neck to see where Sawyer was sitting. ‘I’m not seeing much relevance, but it’d be good to get the full picture.’
‘I also called Ronald Bishop.’ Walker awkwardly switched his gaze between Shepherd, Sawyer and Keating. ‘We talked about the organ register and I said I was on it, and that I was in favour of the opt-out system. Seemed to strike a chord. He’s willing to talk to me later.’
Sawyer’s phone buzzed once in his pocket. ‘Nice. You warmed him up. Go easy.’
He looked at the screen. Voicemail.
Sawyer listened to the message as Shepherd wound up the briefing.
‘Detective Sawyer. My name is Dean Logan. I'm the crime correspondent on the Derbyshire Times. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes to talk? I understand you're currently in a meeting, but I'm downstairs at the police station. Happy to wait for five minutes. I think you'll be very interested in what I've got to say, but I would prefer to keep it private.’
Sawyer met Logan in reception and led him into one of the ground floor interview rooms. He was a vast, ogreish man in his late fifties, shovelled into an unflattering grey suit, unimproved by a lopsided statement tie. The handshake, as expected, was damp and flabby, and Sawyer made a mental note to head for the bathroom hand sanitiser once they were done.
Logan sat at the table in the centre of the room and tilted his chin up, fixing the standing Sawyer with a constipated perma-squint. He smiled, for effect.
‘Let’s start with my private number,’ said Sawyer. ‘How did you get it?’
Logan’s eyes found the table top. He shrugged, and held his shoulders high for a few seconds before letting them slump. ‘You know better than that, DI Sawyer. I’m a journalist. I don’t reveal my sources.’
Sawyer sat down. ‘“Journalist” is a lofty term for what you are.’
Logan sighed. ‘And what term would you use?’
‘You’re a hack. You know it, too. Which makes you a pretentious hack.’
‘Now you’re getting high minded. I use journalistic skills to unearth stories that are in the public interest. Just because something is popular, that doesn’t mean it has no worth.’
Sawyer sat back, warming to the debate. ‘I’d say that journalism is a noble calling. Getting to the truth. Sniffing out the bad guys. Exposing them. For the greater good.’
Logan slid a notepad and pen from his inside pocket. ‘For someone who’s spent so much time in the big city, you don’t half sound naive.’
Sawyer smiled. Logan was getting defensive, maybe winding up for a low blow. ‘Do you seriously think you’re reporting the “news”? You’re a muck-spreader. It’s why you fit in so well round here.’
Logan opened his pad. ‘One of my old editors said that “news” is what someone, somewhere doesn’t want you to print. And the rest is just PR. Puff pieces.’ He clicked his pen. ‘I’m a bit more base than that. My philosophy is simple. If it bleeds, it leads.’
‘Or the more literary version. “Happiness writes white.”’
‘Eh?’
‘French writer. De Montherlant. You’d like him. Went blind and shot himself.’ Logan tapped his pen against the table and stared. ‘Why are you here? And it’s not an existential question.’
‘I’ve got a proposal for you.’
Sawyer leaned forward, ready to raise himself off his chair and show Logan out. ‘Talk to Bloom. You won’t get much. He’s already been chewed out for this morning’s front page.’
Logan laughed. ‘You boys really do live in the seventies, don’t you? You probably think Life On Mars was a reality show.’ He shook his head. ‘“Media relations”. An analogue job in a digital age. You still think you can “manage” information? You’re like those fuckers in the dome at the end of The Crystal Maze.’
Sawyer stood up. ‘Do what you need to do. But you won’t get an inside track from me. Now, Mr Logan. I’m busy, trying to deny you another lead.’
Logan looked down at his notepad. ‘It’s not about the Bishop case. Boring. Probably tu
rn out to be a jealous younger lover. She looks like a cougar type to me.’
‘You should retrain. Come and work for us. We could use that kind of insight.’
‘It’s about you.’
Sawyer sat down again. ‘Me?’
Logan nodded, kept his eyes on the pad. ‘I want to do something on you. The Crawley case is a good hook. Tragic past of hero cop. And it’s got a great backstory.’
‘Backstory?’
Logan looked up. ‘Yes. The public loves a bit of the old triumph over adversity. Young boy sees his mother horribly murdered right in front of him. Barely survives the attack himself. His brother suffers a breakdown. But he rises up, becomes a bigshot policeman. Now fights the kind of monsters who robbed him of his mother.’
Sawyer raised his eyebrows, nodded. ‘Plenty of blood, too. An ocean of claret. It would definitely make the front page.’
‘I expect so.’
‘Warm blood. Not the type that runs through your veins.’
Logan sat back in his chair. ‘I would have thought that ad hominem attacks were beneath a man of your reputation.’
‘Why would I even consider this?’
‘Interest. The public’s. But mainly mine. See, I’m wondering why you’ve come back to your old stomping ground around the time of the release of the man convicted for your mother’s death.’
‘Long time ago. Justice has been done.’
Logan studied him. Sawyer’s eyes sparkled, unwavering. ‘He who fights monsters, Detective. I’m sure you know your Nietzsche.’
Sawyer stayed silent, waiting for more.
Logan wrote a number onto the pad. ‘Your father tried to block Marcus Klein’s release. But you didn’t.’ He tore off the paper. ‘You’ve got to admit, that is kind of interesting.’
Sawyer took a deep breath. ‘Like I said, I’m busy and I’m afraid I will have to respectfully decline your request for an interview. Now, unless you have any other information relating to the current case…’
Logan stood up. He pushed the strip of paper with the number across the table towards Sawyer, and tucked his pad and pen back into his pocket. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not making judgements. You’ve given me plenty to write about. The local body count has certainly spiked since you’ve been back.’
