by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer stood, opened the door.
Logan walked towards it and paused in the frame. He turned to Sawyer and took a step forward. ‘Hacks. Journalists. Whatever you want to call us. We follow our instinct. And my instinct is screaming at me to leave you well alone, DI Sawyer. But I’m the stubborn type. I like trouble. And trouble certainly seems to follow you around.’
15
Sam Palmer bundled his kitbag into the boot and looked back at the floodlit training ground. The Astro pitch was pea-green and shimmering under a fine spray of evening rain. A few of the Chesterfield first team had stuck around to work on set pieces, and their coltish shouts filtered through the tall wire fencing.
It had been a good session. The players were sharp and hungry for his insight. His assistant had carried the team through pre-season and managed the first few match days. But he’d struggled (two losses and a draw), and Sam was keen to re-impose his defensive philosophy: sit back, steal the ball in midfield, use width to counter-attack.
Sam drove out of Hasland and aimed for Bamford. His stomach flipped at the thought of the midweek game: his first in charge since his recovery. The team were ready, but was he? Had he come back too quickly? Probably. But it would soon turn around: the football and his health. He was an optimist, and as he told the players, he believed that ‘mistakes are the building blocks of learning’.
He stopped at a temporary light on the Baslow Road. The rain scattered across the windscreen: light but relentless. He set the wipers to a two-second delay and cued up a Roxy Music album. He would call in at the Angler’s Rest for a meal and then head home. He was meant to avoid pubs, or any situation that lent itself to alcohol. But he had a stubborn streak, and felt that if he could cope in trickier settings, then it would make everyday life less of a trial.
The light changed, and he moved off, turning onto a single-lane track at Eastmoor, slotting in between the low stone walls. He entered the National Park to the incongruous strut of ‘Love Is The Drug’.
At the Angler’s Rest, the dining area was busy and noisy, and the waitress seated him at a lousy table on the edge of a central lane of staff, scurrying between the kitchen and bar. But he was hungry and there seemed to be few other options. He took a steadying breath in through his nose and slipped on his glasses to study the menu. It was a challenge. It would all be a challenge from here.
He ordered the beef wellington and called Judy. As he waited for the call to connect, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see a red-faced man in a blue-and-white Chesterfield FC polo shirt.
The man grinned. ‘The real Big Sam!’ He was happy drunk. He leaned down and Sam caught his alcohol breath: sweet and heartbreaking, like an ex’s perfume. ‘Be good to get you back in that dugout. First win of the season on Wednesday, eh?’
Sam smiled. ‘That’s what we’re working for.’
The man backed away, offering an exaggerated palms-up gesture of deferral. ‘Ah. Course you are. It’s a tough job. Up the Spireites! Can I get you a drink?’ He winced. ‘Soft drink, of course.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Ah. No problem. I’ll leave you in peace, mate.’ He bowed his head, too close to Sam’s ear, and patted him on the back. ‘Take care of yourself.’
Sam nodded. ‘I will. Thank you very much. Hope we can give you a reason to celebrate on Wednesday.’ He turned his back slightly. The man hovered.
‘Hello?’ Judy answered. ‘It’s noisy. Where are you?’
Sam pointed at the phone and smiled. The man gave him a clumsy thumbs-up and staggered away. ‘Angler’s Rest.’
Judy sighed.
‘It’s okay. I’m not daft. Getting something to eat.’
‘Glass of Coke, right?’
‘Not even that. Water.’
‘How was training?’
He sipped his drink. ‘Better than I thought it would be. It’ll take time.’
‘You need more time. It’s only football. And don’t give me the Shankly crap. It’s not more important than life and death.’
‘I agree.’
‘You didn’t used to!’
‘Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. I’m feeling good.’
She paused. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Really. Let’s go out.’
‘Fischer’s?’
He laughed. ‘I’ll save that for the proposal.’ She scoffed. ‘Look. This is why I’m calling from here. It’s the new, transparent me. It helps with the recovery. To be more accountable.’
‘You could get a proper sponsor, Sam.’
‘I’m not doing that. I can fix this myself.’
‘Nobody is giving out medals for martyrdom. This is in your blood. You need help.’
‘Honestly, love, I’m good. I really do feel like I’ve been through the worst. I’m looking forward to things. Football. Us.’
She sniffed, warming to him. ‘In that order?’
‘Jude. I’ve been given a second chance, I know that. I’m not going to screw it up.’
Sam passed through the rural suburbs of Bamford and turned into the twisty lane that led to his single-storey semi. The path tapered into a cul de sac as it reached the house, set deep at the back of a neat front garden, behind high hedges, almost fully moulted for the chill to come. He had been born here, forty-one years earlier, and his parents had handed it down when they’d moved to a less isolated place near Onecote. It was perfect for Sam and his dog, Buddy: a small but tenacious Staffordshire Bull Terrier.
He parked at the end of the drive and killed the engine.
Barking.
It was Buddy, inside the house. A local vet friend called in to feed the dog on training and match days, but he would have left a couple of hours ago.
Sam frowned. Buddy wasn’t a noisy dog; he only barked when there was something to bark about. And this was persistent. Full volume. Ripping and roaring. Barely pausing for breath.
He opened the door and walked round to the boot to retrieve his kitbag. The rain had stopped, but a damp mist hung in the air.
A movement down the lane made him turn his head. A small van, dark purple, had parked up on the scrap of pavement. The back doors were ajar, and someone was sitting by one of the back wheels, head in hands.
Sam squinted through the darkness. The figure was short and slight. A child?
He closed the boot. ‘You okay there?’
He moved towards the van.
The figure looked up and rose to its feet. A man. Chunky black hiking jacket. Dark-striped beanie. No more than five-three. Sam had at least forty pounds on him, and he barely reached up to his shoulders.
The man smiled. Worried but friendly eyes. He gestured towards the van. ‘Oh, hi. Are you local? I’ve come up from Nottingham. I’m trying to find a friend’s house but my phone’s just died. Used all the charge on Google Maps.’ He leaned to the side, looking round to Sam’s parked car.
Barking.
‘What’s your phone?’ said Sam.
‘Galaxy. Can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.’
‘I’ve got an iPhone. I don’t think the charger—’
The man stepped towards Sam. ‘Can I just use your phone to have a quick look where I am? Ten seconds and I’m gone. Just need to get my bearings. I’ve got his postcode.’ He fumbled in his pocket. ‘Happy to throw you a few quid. I’m desperate, mate.’
Sam shook his head. ‘No. Don’t worry. No problem at all.’ He dug out his phone. ‘Just tell me the postcode. Where does your mate—’
In the time it took for Sam to glance at his phone screen and find the Google Maps app, the man dashed forward from the van, and stopped within touching distance. The smile had gone. The long, broad blade of a hefty kitchen knife extended beyond his hand by at least an inch at the hilt.
‘I’m sorry, Sam. But I need you to put these on.’ He withdrew the knife to his hip and held out a pair of sturdy handcuffs.
Sam stared at the cuffs, frozen. ‘And why would I do that?’
&nb
sp; ‘Because if you don’t, within ten seconds, then I’ll stab you with this. And then I’ll drag your body around that wall and you’ll die, Sam.’
The man was still and steady. Waiting. Almost polite. It all felt like some woozy hallucination.
Barking.
‘What happens when I put the handcuffs on?’
The smile again. ‘That’s a surprise. But there’s your choice. Certain death or possible survival.’
Sam felt a little bloated from the food, but he could take this guy. He had the size advantage; the man had the knife. He looked skinny, though, underneath the jacket. Barely strong enough to lift the knife, let alone do any damage. But the man’s attention was focused. If Sam complied now, he could disarm him later, when he was distracted.
Sam took the cuffs and examined them. ‘I’m not putting on handcuffs and getting into a van with a stranger.’
The man nodded. ‘Ten… nine…’
‘Look. Where are we even going? What do you want?’
‘Eight… seven…’
Barking.
Was he an ex-player with a grudge? Someone who hadn’t made the grade?
‘Six… five…’
There was no menace in the tone of the man’s countdown. He seemed more irritated by the delay.
‘Okay!’ Sam put on the cuffs but kept the strands unfastened.
The man paused. ‘Click them into place. Through the ratchets.’
Sam bluffed it. ‘I’ve put them on, okay? Now what?’
The man regarded him. ‘Four… three…’
Sam carefully clicked the strand through the end ratchet, leaving the cuffs locked but with maybe enough room for manoeuvre.
The man was on him in a flurry. He felt something flat clunk against his forehead. Had he been punched?
His fingertips touched the ground: stony, wet. Then his cheek.
Then.
Barking.
Black.
Sam awoke with a ferocious headache, and opened his eyes, into stinging white light.
He was in the van, his mouth sealed by thick gaffer tape.
The panic reared up and he snorted a breath in through his nose.
He blinked to find focus. He was laid out on the floor, prone on a sheet of plastic. Polythene. He had been stripped to the waist and his cuffed hands had been forced behind his back.
He tried to speak, shout, scream. Nothing came. Just a muffled cry from the back of his throat.
Movement from behind. Something heavy pressing on his lower back. It was the man, kneeling, pinning him down.
How much time had passed? Sam twisted his head up and around, straining for clarity, more detail. But the back of the van was windowless.
The cuffs and the weight of the man kept him steady.
‘If you struggle, if you move, it will be worse.’
Behind him, the man shifted around, settling into position, rustling the polythene.
Then he was still, considering something.
Outside, Buddy’s barking staggered the silence. Intermittent now. Running out of hope.
From behind, the man gripped Sam’s neck, holding his head still. He was surprisingly strong.
With the bodily pressure and the hand and the cuffs, Sam was practically immobilised. He stared out at the folds of plastic. Crumpled peaks and valleys. He screwed his eyes shut, rapid breaths rasping in and out of his nostrils.
‘I’m sorry, Sam.’
An impact, somewhere in the middle of his back. Sharp.
A tingling. Electrical?
The tingling receded, replaced by a rising heat.
Burning. Unbearable, unthinkable burning. From the inside.
‘I’m so sorry.’
16
Sawyer opened his office door and leaned against the frame. Keating stood up-front by Shepherd, arms folded. He angled his head, beckoning, and Sawyer moved out to take a spot nearer the action. He had slept badly, barely at all, drifting in and out of baffling dreams. The MIT floor was packed and lively, but there was a distance, a surreal sheen that hung over the room like a mist. Faces leered: hostile and alien, washed out by the mid-morning light.
Shepherd said something to Bloom about press management. Keating confirmed Bloom’s response.
Sally O’Callaghan reported. Something about soil samples being inconclusive. It was all fuzzy and amorphous, drowned out by his inner chatter. The sharpest image from his dreams: his mother, lifting him up, spinning him round. He was laughing at the dizziness, the thrill at the lack of control. She swept him close to the ground and his legs swam in the air, desperate for contact with the ground. She spun him twice, three times, denying his landing, before setting him down. And then his father. Roaring. Growling. Telling him he was going to get him. His mother shouting.
‘Run! Don’t look back.’
‘DI Sawyer asked me to look into Susan’s heart transplant’. Walker stood up near the front and turned to the detectives. The mention of his name jolted Sawyer into focus. ‘I spoke to Ronald Bishop. He said that the heart became available when a forty-six-year-old man died in a gym accident in Bole Hill, Sheffield. They were asked if they wanted to know more but declined. Susan was taken to the heart unit at Wythenshawe where the operation was performed the same day.’
Sawyer pushed off the door frame and walked to the front. ‘Why were they told the donor age?’
Walker faltered. ‘He said it was to make the risk clear. Apparently, there’s a slight concern about heart donors aged thirty-five to fifty, but the benefits in her case outweighed the risk.’
‘What about the religious angle?’ said Shepherd.
Walker nodded. ‘I did some research on that.’
‘Googled it,’ said Sawyer. He glanced at Keating, didn’t get the look.
Walker was unfazed. ‘Actually, I spoke to a friend of my dad’s. A theology teacher. He said that all the main religions either endorse organ donation or see it as a matter for the individual. Apart from Japanese Shinto, where the dead body is considered to be impure and dangerous, and so it’s difficult to get consent from bereaved families for donation or dissection.’ He looked at his notepad. ‘They have this thing called the “itai”, which is like the bond between the dead person and the bereaved. It can’t be broken, and “injuring” the body by removing organs would violate the bond.’
‘Interesting,’ said Sawyer. ‘But it feels like a dead end. We think we know where she was killed and we know the weapon and method. We still don’t know why. Get more on the donor. The gym accident.’
‘There must be more in Susan’s relationship history,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re hardly likely to get a clear picture from her husband. He says they were solid, but she might have been doing a good job hiding something.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Dig deeper. Old flames. Crushes. Illicit encounters. Talk to the other people in her walking group and book club. And get Rhodes working overtime on the CCTV. All routes mapped, all businesses with CCTV investigated. Every second of footage analysed. Finding the vehicle might be our only hope of finding the killer.’
He turned and headed back to his office.
‘How was Dean Logan?’ said Moran.
Sawyer stopped. ‘What?’ He stared at Moran, but he didn’t look up.
‘I saw you’d signed him in yesterday. Is he helping with the enquiry?’ Moran raised his head, looked around the room, avoiding Sawyer.
‘A personal matter,’ said Sawyer. ‘Unrelated to the case. He chanced it, but got nothing.’ He walked over to Moran’s desk. ‘DC Moran, it might be an idea to focus on casework, rather than snooping on your superiors.’
‘Sawyer,’ said Keating.
At last, Moran looked at Sawyer. He took off his wire-frame glasses and pecked something off one of the lenses. ‘Just saw it in passing. I wondered if Logan had some insight you were interested in. And I agree, sir. We all need to keep totally focused on the case.’ He smiled.
Sawyer held eye contact and returned the smile. �
��Get down to the Batcave. With Rhodes. I want you and your totally focused mind to work through that CCTV footage. Every minute. Every second. No natural light until you’ve found me that vehicle.’
17
Sawyer drove out of Buxton and stopped at the High Peak Bookstore, a bookshop and café in a converted warehouse on the edge of Sterndale Moor. He bought a fresh copy of The Gift Of Fear and pushed on down to Alstonefield, playing the third My Bloody Valentine album at a volume loud enough to get the Mini’s windows buzzing.
He stopped at The George, and grazed on a ploughman’s lunch, dipping in and out of the book.
Denial is a save now, pay later scheme.
He gazed out of the window, across the fields, down to Dovedale. The George was propped on a limestone plateau between the Dove and Manifold gorges, and he felt the tug of the valley. Always, the ache for the pristine past. Infinite and uncluttered. He could make it to the cave in an hour on foot. Ten minutes by car.
But he had an appointment.
He had expected something more formal, similar to a dentist’s surgery: a refitted detached house with its own car park. But the address took him to a generic estate of modern semis just outside the neighbouring village of Stanshope.
The front door had no bell, so he rapped on the letterbox, sparking a volley of yapping from inside. As he waited, he noticed the modest brass plaque on the wall by the door.
Goldman Counselling Centre
The door creaked open, and a slight, elderly woman stood in the doorway, clutching a wriggling Jack Russell: black-and-white body, rusty brown face.
Sawyer brightened and petted the dog. ‘I have an appointment. With Alex?’
