Stronger Than Death

by Andrew Lowe

The woman smiled. She was late sixties, with a blow-dried helmet of battleship-grey hair. Her clothes were bland and colour-matched: fawn blouse shirt over a beige roll-neck; tasselled check shawl around her neck.

  She leaned forward and studied Sawyer with her watery eyes. ‘Mr Sawyer, isn’t it? Please come through.’

  She turned and led him through a dog-musty hallway. The walls were hidden behind framed academic certificates and undersized art prints: mediocre landscape watercolours, sterile pet portraits. The woman ushered the dog into a kitchen area at the end of the corridor and closed the door behind it. She opened another door and gestured towards what looked like a sitting room.

  ‘Please go through.’

  He led the way. The room was large and clean and uncluttered: a vast, throne-like mauve armchair in one corner; black chaise longue tucked along the near wall; coffee table with box of tissues, water jug, glasses. A tray sat on a curvy-legged side table by the armchair: steaming teapot, cups, plate of biscuits.

  The woman closed the door behind them. ‘Would you like some tea, Mr Sawyer?’

  ‘Jake is fine. No, thank you. I’ll take a biscuit, though.’

  She smiled. ‘Take them all if you like. My husband lays all of this out before sessions. I think he’s trying to fatten me up.’ She took off her scarf and hung it over the back of the armchair.

  ‘Your husband?’

  She sat down. ‘Thirty-five years this December. He’s in antiques. Handles my admin and bookings.’

  Sawyer sat on the edge of the chaise longue. ‘You’re Alex?’

  She laughed. ‘Ah! I see the confusion. Did Maggie not tell you? Is it a problem?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A female therapist. Some men—’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘That’s good. I find the clients who do struggle with it are the ones who assumed I was male.’ She poured herself some tea. ‘Anyway, this is just an initial chat, to get a sense of what kind of work might be useful. No charge.’

  Sawyer looked around. The wall art here was a more tasteful variant of the pieces in the hall: more landscapes and animals, but rendered in idiosyncratic styles. Sheepdog herding sheep. Slow-shutter photo of a waterfall. A city at night: vast, blurry blobs of neon. Aiming for Van Gogh. ‘I’m not really—’

  ‘Why are you here, Jake? What do you want out of this?’

  He sucked in a deep breath, took a few seconds to release it. ‘I’d like to sleep a bit better, for one.’

  Alex poured in some milk and stirred. The tinkling teaspoon jarred against the silence. ‘And why don’t you sleep well?’

  ‘I just… I find it difficult to switch off my brain.’

  She nodded. ‘There must be plenty of unpleasant images in there, given your job.’

  ‘Did Maggie explain my line of work?’ Alex nodded. ‘I suppose so. I take Temazepam.’

  ‘Is it just general activity? Or is there something broader? A problem? Something you’d like to change?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She blew on the tea, tried a sip, winced. ‘And how are you addressing the problem? Self-medication?’

  ‘It’s more of a confusion than a problem. I had a difficult case earlier this year, during which I suffered from what I think was a panic attack. But I’ve never felt anything like it before. I’ve never experienced anything close to panic, or anxiety.’

  ‘Or fear?’ Alex set the cup down on her side table. ‘You have every reason to feel fear, given what happened to you when you were a child.’

  A cold rush through his veins. Again, the sheen. The strangeness of it all. The woman, with her smile and her tea. What was this? Why would he be sitting here? ‘It was the first time I can remember feeling it, or at least what I’d always imagined it felt like.’

  ‘Tell me about what happened when you were a child. I’d like to hear what you think of it.’

  He sighed. ‘Already? Childhood stuff?’

  Alex nodded. ‘I understand your frustration. It is a bit of a cliché. And most people have pretty dull and trauma-free childhoods. But you’re not most people are you, Jake?’

  ‘My mother was murdered.’ He was surprised to feel a rush of irritation. ‘The man who did it tried to kill me and my brother. I was six, my brother was eight. He also killed my dog.’

  Alex didn’t flinch. ‘What breed?’

  ‘Jack Russell.’

  ‘What was the dog’s name?’

  ‘Henry.’

  ‘And my Molly reminds you of him?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘You were quick to reach out, to pet her.’

  He shrugged. ‘I like Jack Russells.’

  ‘So do I. What do you like about them?’

  ‘They’re crazy.’

  She paused. ‘Your mother’s murder. The memory, the pain. It’s returning to you now? Making it difficult to sleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Alex tried the tea again, slurped. ‘I have rather a big question. It might seem obvious. Why is this only coming up now? Something that happened thirty years ago.’

  ‘Isn’t that why I’m here?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re telling me.’

  ‘I’ve been working in London. It used to be difficult, when I worked here. In Buxton. Then I moved away and it seemed to get easier.’

  ‘And now you’re back, close to where it all happened, it seems to be returning?’ He nodded. ‘What do you mean by “it”, exactly?’

  ‘The images, sounds, the sense of the day.’

  She nodded, enthused. ‘The sense? How about the sensations? The emotions? How you felt?’

  ‘I don’t really get that. It’s more—’

  ‘The events?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Alex reached over to a cabinet and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Thank you, Jake. That’s a great start. Before we go any further, I would like you to do a bit of homework. Nothing too scary, just a questionnaire. It’s called the Beck Anxiety Inventory. You might have done it before?’ He took the paper, shook his head. ‘It’s a useful tool to kickstart our work. It will show me how much this disturbance is impacting your life, impairing your functioning. You can fill in the paper version and post it, or do it online and email me. The address is on there.’

  ‘I’ll do it online.’

  Alex smiled. ‘The men always do.’ She stood up. Sawyer mirrored her. ‘I look forward to it. Could you send it over tomorrow and come and see me again on Friday? Could you make it earlier? At 2pm?’

  Sawyer realised she was the first person to not express her sorrow for his loss and for what had happened to him. It was a welcome change. ‘Yes. See you again on Friday. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too, Jake. It was an absolute pleasure.’

  They shook hands and Sawyer opened the door. Molly scurried to the other side of the kitchen door and scratched at the floor, whimpering. Sawyer turned.

  Alex was writing something in a careworn old notebook. ‘I’m sure we can help,’ she said.

  ‘We?’

  She looked up. ‘Yes. A bit of me. But mostly you.’

  18

  Sawyer drove up to Longnor village and bought cod and chips from the Manifold Fish & Chip Shop. He parked on the cobbled town square and lifted the chips into his mouth, one by one, staring up at the 1903 table of market tolls above the door of the craft shop. Four pence for a horse, a penny for a pig.

  Simpler times.

  He called Shepherd. ‘I’m not coming in again this afternoon, unless there’s any big development.’

  Shepherd paused on the other end. ‘Okay. There has been a bit of movement.’

  Sawyer screwed up the fish and chip paper. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The gym accident was at the Xercise4Less gym in Sheffield last year. Forty-six-year-old male. Timings work with Susan’s transplant. Roy Tyler. He was taken to the Northern General. They induced a coma but he died overnight. Donors have to die in hospital. It ensures the organs are fresh and well preserved
. They have to move fast.’

  ‘So, Susan would have been admitted to Wythenshawe and Tyler’s heart posted up there?’

  ‘Well, probably not DHL, but yeah.’

  Sawyer opened the car window to air out the essence of vinegar. A blast of peaty wind swept in. He tipped his head back. ‘Anything on her romantic history? From the walking group or book club?’

  ‘Myers checked the walkers. I spoke to a couple of the book club members. Nobody had any suspicions of her being romantically linked to anyone other than her husband. No sense of any friction from any of the walkers or readers. Rhodes and Moran are analysing private CCTV around all the relevant routes. Moran isn’t the brightest soul in the team at the moment. Quite a bromance you’ve got going there.’

  Sawyer snorted. ‘Good detective. Just picking the wrong fight.’

  ‘I would have thought that Drummond could cover his battles by himself.’

  ‘There’s probably a moral outrage somewhere in there. Maybe his missus left him for someone who looks like me.’ He took a breath, watched an elderly man with a walking stick hobble away from the craft shop. ‘Tell him to look for a small vehicle. Not a big van.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s efficient. Scrupulous. He’ll go for something with no excess. It’ll probably be dark in colour, too. Harder to pin down the model at night, in case it does get caught on camera somewhere. Call me if you need to.’

  He hung up and took out Alex’s questionnaire.

  The Beck Anxiety Inventory.

  The sheet contained a list of anxiety symptoms, which he was instructed to identify over the course of the previous month and grade across a four-point scale: zero (didn’t bother me at all); one (mild, didn’t bother me much); two (moderate, not pleasant at times); three (severe, bothered me a lot).

  He looked down the list. Numbness or tingling… Dizzy or lightheaded… Feeling of choking… Hands trembling…

  He could be a good boy. Go back to the cottage, do his homework.

  Or he could do the other thing.

  Sawyer parked a couple of streets away and walked along the Monyash road, away from Bakewell town centre. It took five minutes to reach Eva Gregory’s house: a dirty-white semi, crouched behind a telegraph pole at the near end of a drab estate. It was the most conspicuous home of the bunch: larger, with a bigger front garden.

  He lurked for a while, then strolled up to the front door and rang the bell. The door opened before the tone had faded. A wiry man in a black polo shirt stepped onto the porch.

  The man hitched up his thin-framed rectangular glasses and squinted at Sawyer, deepening his double frown lines. ‘Detective Inspector Sawyer. What an unexpected delight.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all yours.’

  Dale Strickland laughed. He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms. ‘I never got the chance to thank you for the part you played in ensuring my son’s safety. If there’s ever anything you need, I’m forever in your debt.’

  His speech was measured, calm, almost rehearsed. But something feral flickered behind the eyes. He was shorter than average, but held himself upright with his chin raised. Expectant, arrogant. He let his gaze drift away from Sawyer, as if he was already bored with the encounter.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Sawyer. ‘Just doing my job. Cleaning up your fallout.’

  Strickland didn’t react. ‘You’re being modest. That man was a total maniac. Who knows what harm he could have done to others? I expect you got a gold star on your record for catching him?’

  ‘He did some bad things, yes.’

  Strickland caught Sawyer’s eye. ‘He’ll suffer in prison.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s an observation.’

  Sawyer stepped forward, one foot on the bottom step of the porch. ‘People who get in your way usually suffer, don’t they, Dale?’

  ‘After a fair warning.’

  ‘How about Jason Haig? Did he get a warning?’

  Strickland screwed up his face in exaggerated confusion. ‘I can’t say I know the name.’

  ‘The guy who was driving the car that accidentally hit Luka.’

  ‘Is this an official visit, Mr Sawyer? Or just a bit of extracurricular harassment?’

  Sawyer stepped up onto the bottom step. ‘This might be a tough one to understand, Dale, but it’s not about you.’

  Strickland smiled. ‘Eva’s out. Shopping.’ Footsteps on the stairs in the hall, descending. ‘So, is this a bit of aftercare? Don’t you have specialist people for that? Head-shrinkers?’ He smiled and eased off the door frame, scrubbed at his cropped grey hair. ‘Detective Inspector Sawyer. Luka’s fine. Eva’s fine.’ Strickland lifted his hands and held them a few inches from Sawyer’s face. He brought the palms together repeatedly, in a slow, sarcastic handclap. ‘Bravo. You got the bad guy. You did your job. Now, I respectfully request that you run along and get back to protecting the locals from aggressive cows.’

  A small boy—skinny, with messy blond hair and red-framed glasses—eased around Strickland’s legs. He was sullen and wary, but brightened at the sight of Sawyer. ‘Hello, Jake.’

  ‘Hey, Luka. How are you doing? Wasn’t it your birthday recently?’

  Luka frowned. ‘That was ages ago.’ He shrugged. ‘Got a PlayStation.’

  ‘Nice. I’m a gamer, too. I like the older games, though. You all better now? Back at school?’

  He nodded, glanced up at his father. ‘I have to take tablets. And I see a man sometimes at lunch.’

  ‘A counsellor,’ said Strickland, checking something on his phone. ‘Some state-approved do-gooder.’

  ‘He’s alright,’ said Luka. ‘He doesn’t shout.’

  Sawyer looked up at Strickland, whose eyes stayed glued to his phone. ‘And how is your mum?’

  Luka nodded. ‘She’s okay. Sometimes, she’s sad.’

  Strickland put his phone away. ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘When are you doing my first lesson?’ said Luka.

  Sawyer frowned, confused. ‘Lesson?’

  ‘Unlocking things without keys. Like you did in the cave with the handcuffs. You promised!’

  Strickland stepped in front of Luka. ‘That’s secret stuff, son. Police work. Detective Sawyer was only joking.’

  ‘No,’ said Sawyer. ‘I wasn’t. I keep my promises. I’ll teach you soon, Luka. Maybe when things are a bit less complicated. One or two things in the way at the moment.’ He glanced at Strickland again. This time he got a look.

  ‘Get back inside, Luka,’ said Strickland. ‘Homework.’ He nudged Luka back into the house and edged out onto the top step. Sawyer was at a lower level, but the height difference set them face to face, like boxers at a weigh-in. ‘I’m going to be crystal clear, Mr Sawyer. Your work here is done, and if you try to make contact with my wife or son again, then I will have to take action.’

  Sawyer nodded, maintaining eye contact. ‘And since you’re being clear, can you just clarify what the nature of that action might be?’

  ‘Have you read The Art Of War?’

  ‘Yes. Sun Tzu. Chinese general and philosopher. Respected military manual, often used in business strategy. What’s your point, Dale? Been Googling?’

  If Strickland was surprised, he hid it well. ‘Sun Tzu said, “All warfare is based on deception.”’ He raised his eyebrows.

  Sawyer laughed. ‘So, if I talk to Luka or Eva, then you’ll get me, but you’re not going to tell me how. Here’s another Sun Tzu quote for you: “Avoid what is strong and strike at what is weak.” That’s more your style, isn’t it, Dale?’ He joined Strickland on the top step and loomed over him. ‘But you really should pick on someone your own size.’

  19

  He walked down the verge, to the edge of the Tarmac path, and squatted down to rest behind some bushes. He took the chestnut-brown balaclava out of the backpack and rolled it down over his face.

  The low autumn sun cast a golden dazzle over the railway track. Sawyer gazed a
cross the burnished moorland beyond the station outbuildings and waited. No music this time. Just the sound of himself. His slow and steady breathing.

  A shroud of cloud settled over the Kinder high ground, guttering the sunlight.

  A dog barked somewhere, and another rebuked it.

  The track rattled. The 17:14 from Sheffield.

  He waited.

  This time, he kept the stopwatch in his pocket and counted down the seconds out loud. It would be imprecise, and the dusk would reduce the driver’s visibility.

  The risk was higher.

  But still, he felt no dread. No anticipation.

  This time, there was only wonder. A terrible relish at the thought of no more thought. Only oblivion.

  He thought of ‘Aubade’: Larkin’s black-eyed meditation on death. ‘The anaesthetic from which none come round.’

  Sawyer sprang to his feet and jumped down onto the path.

  Ahead, the lights of the level crossing flashed red and yellow. The boom barrier was already down.

  The rails pinged and popped. The train had long since crossed the river and turned the corner onto the straight stretch of track.

  He had waited too long.

  He wouldn’t make it.

  He ran hard. Top speed. Leaving nothing behind. He was in a race now.

  At the crossing, he hurdled the fence and weaved around the barrier.

  The train horn blasted its warning.

  He sprinted for the crossing point and looked to the side.

  He crunched through the trackside gravel and glanced to his right.

  The train was almost on him.

  Too large. Too close.

  Too real.

  He had miscalculated.

  The driver again, leaning out of his cab, shouting.

  The horn. Deafening now.

  He had misjudged the time, the distance.

  A flash of his mother.

  His brother, crumpled on the ground.

  His dog.

  Metal on bone.

  ‘Why?’

  If her killer was still out there, he would learn of Sawyer’s death. He would smile with relief.

  He might even claim it as his own work. Thirty-year-old business, finally finished.