by Andrew Lowe
‘Don’t look back!’
He ducked down and found an extra burst of speed.
The train roared forward, seconds away.
Sawyer lunged for the track, dug his heel into the rail. He jumped across, swinging his arms for momentum.
He felt the whump of the train car as it punched through the air behind him.
He toppled into the trackside scrub and lay on his side, balled up, knees pressed into his face. Foetal in the mud. Panting.
He tuned in to himself. This time, there was something to feel.
Not fear.
Disappointment.
Back at the cottage, Sawyer stripped down to his underwear and worked on the wooden man, slamming his arms against the stubby poles. Too fast, too strong. No quality or precision.
He turned to the full-length mirror by his bed and assumed the Wing Chun horse stance. He worked through a few centreline punching exercises, locking his elbows with each thrust.
Left-right. Left-right-left-right. Two, then four, then eight.
He increased the punch speed until the blows were more like flurries, loose and undisciplined.
He closed his eyes and abandoned the controlled counts for a continuous roll of left-right punches. Strike after strike. Exhausting himself.
The force of the motion staggered him out of the stance and he dipped forward.
A right punch crunched into the mirror. Sawyer froze and opened his eyes. There was a fist-sized hole in the centre of a cobweb of shattered glass. Two rivulets of blood oozed through the channels of the fracture and found the smooth surface below. They trickled down, side by side, glinting in the lamplight.
Cursing, he headed to the bathroom. The mirror had cut through the skin of his right hand, leaving splinters of glass embedded in the flesh between his fingers. He picked out the glass, rinsed away the blood and wrapped a gauze bandage around the wounded area.
He shambled back into the bedroom, turned off the light and slumped down onto the bed. He lay back, not bothering to shuffle up to rest his head on the pillow.
Sawyer’s hand flared in pain, and he thought of paracetamol, ibuprofen. But he lay there, still, focusing on the sensation, the jagged throbbing around his knuckles. Again, the pleasure of pain. His own pain. Unique. Uncomplicated. Without mystery. Nothing more than his physiology reporting on the injury. Proof that his body, at least, wanted to live.
Outside, a barn owl screeched, as if in comment. It repeated the call every few seconds: a territorial warning. Stay away. Keep your distance.
The rhythm of the calling carried him to a deep, dreamless sleep.
And then he was awake: wide-eyed, with a pulsing headache.
It was still dark outside, but the blackness in the room had softened to a damp grey. The owl was long gone, replaced by the halting twitters of a few early risers.
Why was he so suddenly alert?
A new rhythm: short bursts of vibration, one every couple of seconds.
His phone, on the sitting room table.
Sawyer rolled off the bed and staggered out through the open door. The microwave clock told him it was just after 6am.
The phone danced across the table. He rescued it as it reached the edge.
Shepherd.
20
‘Male, early forties.’ Shepherd scaled the stone wall and led Sawyer into a patch of dew-sodden woodland off the A57 near Hollow Meadows. ‘We think it’s Sam Palmer. Football manager.’
Sawyer fell in alongside him. ‘Think?’
‘We’ll check ID, obviously, but one of the forensics recognised him. He’s a fan of Palmer’s team. Chesterfield. Conference Premier Division.’
‘Fourth tier?’
‘Fifth.’ Shepherd glanced down at Sawyer’s bandaged hand. ‘Defending someone’s honour?’
‘Slashed it on a tear in my punch bag.’
Shepherd whistled. ‘You’ve worn out a punch bag? I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.’
‘Bad.’
They flashed their warrant cards at the officer on the outer cordon. He nodded, and Shepherd held up the scene tape for Sawyer to duck under.
‘COD?’ said Sawyer, as they edged down a slope towards a copse of amber trees.
‘Waiting for you. Scene is secure. Sally’s team has been busy. Delivery was the same as Susan Bishop.’
They crossed a single-track lane and passed round the back of the Scientific Services Unit van.
The tent squatted in the centre of the copse. The blend of colours made Sawyer feel queasy: Paladin glare, watery dawn haze, blue-and-white tent fabric. A swarm of FSIs—more than usual—were sweeping the inner cordon, consulting with the turquoise-suited Sally O’Callaghan. The manager waved them through.
‘DI Sawyer!’ Sally bustled forward. ‘A beautiful morning for murder.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Sally. Dog walker?’
‘Surprisingly not. Runner. Says he saw the body when he took a rest in the trees. A white lie. We found a patch of fresh piss.’
Sally led them through into the tent. Two masked FSIs—presumably Sally’s key generals—were waiting inside. One handed Sawyer a pair of latex gloves, while the other—the one from Fairholmes with the calm eyes—ushered Sally into the corner for a discussion about body transportation.
Shepherd leaned close to Sawyer. ‘Where do they get these geeks?’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Bored researchers?’ He peeled on the gloves and crouched beside the black holdall. ‘No effort to conceal?’
‘Seems like it was left out in the open. Although this place is hardly Times Square.’
Sawyer opened the whole zip before looking at the body. Like Susan Bishop, the man was naked, face up, and wrapped tight in polythene, sealed with the same silvery grey gaffer tape. He was white, middle-aged, overweight, with a modest patch of thinning brown hair. Remarkably unremarkable. His hands had been crossed at the wrists, concealing the area between his legs. No blood, no obvious injury.
Sally joined them. ‘Again,’ said Sawyer. ‘Meticulous. Tape cut into even sections. Clean and stripped. Private parts covered.’ He leaned in and squinted at the body through the polythene. ‘Bruising around the wrists and mouth, forehead.’ He unpeeled a section of the polythene and studied the man’s torso, sifting through his brittle body hair. ‘Whatever the madness behind his method, he’s certainly consistent. That’ll help us catch him.’ He stood up. ‘Nothing on the front. Help me turn him over.’
Shepherd took a pair of gloves from the FSI, and together they eased the body up and over onto its front. It slapped into place with so much force it almost rolled a second time. Shepherd stood upright and watched as Sawyer ran his gloved hands over the contours of the man’s back.
‘Anything?’ said Sally.
Sawyer nodded, but didn’t turn or stand. ‘Something.’
Later that morning, Shepherd gathered the team in the main office and tacked a picture of the victim next to Susan Bishop on the whiteboard. He was about to turn and speak when Sawyer burst out of his office and strode to the front, carrying a folder.
He held up his bandaged hand to silence the chatter. ‘This is Samuel Mark Palmer. He was forty-one years of age.’ He stopped at the whiteboard, slapped the folder down on a desk, and faced the detectives. ‘You killed him. You subdued him and you took him to a private place where you lay him on a sheet of polythene. You cuffed him and covered his mouth with gaffer tape. You turned him onto his front and you stabbed him, once. You waited for him to die. You cauterised the wound with a soldering iron. You cleaned up. You removed the tape and the cuffs. You transferred him to another sheet of polythene and you laid out his hands, covering his crotch area. You wrapped him up tight and you slotted him into an extra-large black holdall, which you dumped in woodland off the A57.’ Sawyer placed his hands on the desk in front and leaned forward. His eyes were crazed and raging. ‘Why? Why did you do all of this? Why did you do it this way? Who was Sam Palmer to you? Did you know him personally? We need
to answer these questions before we have another body on our hands.’
Walker waved a hand. ‘I don’t think he knew either of them personally, sir.’
Sawyer perched on the desk. ‘Why?’
‘It’s all too intimate. The nudity. There’s a lot of work. Cleaning the bodies, cauterising, removing clothes. Normally, when a killer knows the victim in a case like this, you either see rage or cruelty or, at the other end of the scale, a sense of shame and disgust. They want to get it over with and get out of there. This is measured, thorough.’
‘Calm,’ said Sawyer.
Shepherd nodded. ‘Why stab Susan in the front but Sam in the back?’
‘The inconsistency should interest us,’ said Sawyer. ‘But I want full beams on victimology. Connect these two people. What’s the killer’s beef with an ex-TV star who enjoys gardening, walking and reading, and a low league football manager? We know a lot about Susan Bishop. Tell me more about Sam Palmer. Find the links. Get everything into HOLMES. We’ll have deeper forensics later, but there’s no immediate evidence of sexual assault. As I’ve said before, I don’t see any of the big three here. Domination, manipulation, control. He needs these people to be dead, and I need to know why.’
Myers spoke up. ‘What do we know about Palmer’s last movements?’
Shepherd looked through his notes. ‘FLOs spoke to his girlfriend, Judy. He took a session at the Chesterfield training ground on Monday evening. ANPR caught his car at a temporary light near Baslow at around 8:50pm. He called Judy around half an hour later, from the Angler’s Rest in Bamford. She says he seemed fine, optimistic. After that, ANPR catches him on the northern edge of Bamford at around 10:30. His car is parked outside his house, so we assume he drove straight home from the pub. Timings fit. Nothing at the house. Forensics are all over the car as we speak.’
Sawyer turned to Walker. ‘Focus on Palmer. I want a full bio. Anything stand out from his football connections? Any link to Susan or Ronald Bishop? Go to the Angler’s Rest. Anything unusual? Was he acting strange? Did he meet anyone?’
Karl Rhodes, the station’s digital media advisor, crept in at the back of the room and walked along the line of offices. He was skinny and elvish, with a tidy moustache and a flat, pitted nose. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Got a plate match for a van we caught on a shop camera in Tideswell on the night Susan Bishop was murdered.’ He handed Sawyer a grainy printout that showed a small, dark-coloured van, turning into a side street. ‘It’s a Peugeot Partner. Nice little mover.’
‘And it’s stolen,’ said Moran, flashing a bleary look at Sawyer. ‘Two months ago, from a lay-by near Bakewell. No ANPR since. We’ve been over everything from the surrounding area, and this is the only catch. I’ve barely been at home for the last two days. That fucking thing might cost me my marriage.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘It’s a price worth paying. You should be happy, Moran. You found the killer’s vehicle. It’s a breakthrough. All your own work!’
‘Fuck off!’ Rhodes’ venom startled Sawyer. ‘He sat there on his laptop most of the time. I was doing the grafting.’
Moran scoffed. ‘I was working on other angles. Updating HOLMES.’
‘It sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’ said Sawyer. ‘You can do it all again. Starting now. Focus on the Bamford and Baslow area and the routes to and from Hollow Meadows on the night Sam Palmer was last seen alive. Couple of days either side, in case our man did some casing.’
Moran sighed and slumped back in his chair. ‘What happened to the hand, sir?’
‘Overuse,’ said Sawyer, eyeing Moran, denying him the obvious joke.
Rhodes’ eyes widened at the sight of the picture on the whiteboard. ‘Sam Palmer? Chesterfield boss?’ Sawyer nodded. ‘Fuck me! What was it, a fan? It’s been a patchy start to their season but killing the manager seems a bit extreme.’
‘Do you follow them?’ said Shepherd.
Rhodes shrugged. ‘Got a mate who does. Been to a few games. Hard-working side but not that pretty. Palmer liked a drink, that’s for sure. Y’know. The old euphemism. Bit of a rogue. Hellraiser. Translates as “piss artist”. There’s a video online of him having a pitchside scrap with an opposition manager. Fucking hilarious. I would rather watch a fight between two middle-aged men in bad suits than a professional boxing match, any day.’
Stephen Bloom got to his feet. ‘Minor football celebrity. This will increase press interest. We should call a conference. Get on the front foot.’
‘Not yet,’ said Sawyer. ‘Let’s see if that van turns up again and work the Palmer angle, including this opposition manager. Maybe there’s a grudge there?’
Rhodes shook his head. ‘Nah. I think it was over a heavy tackle. Shook hands after. I remember his assistant manager saying the other fella told Palmer to calm down. Then he made the drinking gesture. Palmer didn’t like that. Handbags. Doesn’t sound like much of a motive for murder to me. He did a George Best, though, didn’t he?’
‘How do you mean?’ said Sawyer.
‘Yeah. He’s been off for a while. Fucked himself with the booze. According to my mate, he wrote an open letter to the fans in a programme, about how the doctors told him he didn’t have long if he carried on. Some surgeons won’t do it, though. For alcoholics.’
‘Do what?’ said Shepherd.
‘He got himself a new liver. Transplant.’
21
Sawyer took the Mini down through the central Peaks and, miraculously, found a spot in the Tissington Trail car park. He sat with the engine running for a while, mesmerised by the music (‘Magpie’ by The Unthanks), then got out and walked up over the hill and down into town.
He paused at the steps of the Town Hall and read the flapping banner above the entrance.
Autumn Art Festival
Ashbourne Town Hall Ballroom
October 9th-12th
A line of six promo shots of local artists stared down at him: three vaguely familiar, two unknown. The sixth, Harold Sawyer, had tamed his floppy thatch of hair, although it still seemed oddly lopsided, almost completely grey at the temples; an off-kilter frame for his furrowed brow and unfathomable green eyes (his gift to his son). He had opted for a slight side-on angle, hinting at his aquiline profile. He scowled into the lens with poise and suspicion.
Sawyer steeled himself and climbed the steps.
The vast Victorian-era ballroom swarmed with the Derbyshire fine-arts cognoscenti: champagne flutes, Sunday best, a backwash of chatter blending with syrupy classical music. It was a private viewing, ahead of the festival’s opening that evening. Strictly by invitation only. The artworks—mostly oils and watercolours—were arranged on separate easels, with the artists walled into individual zones behind pop-up partitions.
An elderly gent in a dark morning suit and bow tie greeted Sawyer at the entrance desk. ‘Hello there. Could I get your name, please?’ Sawyer held up his warrant card and the man startled, but instantly regained his composure. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Well. I’m more of a sculpture man myself.’ The greeter looked confused. Sawyer shot him a smile. ‘I’m here to speak to one of the artists.’
‘He’s okay, Arnold!’
Harold waved and shouted from the far end of the hall. Arnold looked put out, but stepped aside and forced a smile.
Sawyer walked through to his father’s section, and Harold pulled him into a hefty hug. He was shorter than Sawyer, but the contact was a reminder of his steel and strength: oddly undiminished for a man at the back end of his sixties. Sawyer recalled a moment of arm wrestling in a pub beer garden, somewhere in Dovedale. He would have been four or five years old. His mother: indulgent, radiant, urging Harold to go easy. His father’s arm like a tree trunk: implacable, unbudgeable, even as Sawyer wrapped the fingers of both hands around the knuckles and jerked and pulled.
‘What a lovely surprise, Jake. You should have said you were coming.’
‘You should have invited me. Then I wouldn’t have had to gate
crash.’
Harold laughed, wheezing slightly. Sawyer caught a glimpse of his vintage, rippling to the surface of the fitted navy suit: a little too young for him, too metropolitan for the parochial setting. ‘Didn’t think it would be your scene. It’s so lovely to see you, son. How are you? I read about the Crawley case. That’s a hell of a shunt along towards DCI.’
‘It wasn’t a career move, Dad.’
Harold caught his eye, read him. ‘Of course not. It’s a pleasant side effect, though.’
A young woman in a maroon mini-dress walked over from the entrance and hovered at the edge of their conversation, too close to be ignored. She took an iPad out of a shoulder bag and held it up for Harold’s attention.
‘Son. Five minutes. Sorry. I need to look at this.’ He turned to the woman.
Sawyer wandered over to the largest of Harold’s canvases: a vast abstract, rendered in violent smudges and splashes. Greens and blues and pinks. There was something vaguely oceanic in there. Wild water, churned by storm winds. He took out a boiled sweet—a chocolate lime—and slid it into his mouth. He leaned in close to the work, as if studying it for clues.
‘Rather good, isn’t it?’
Another woman had sidled over. Fortyish and elegant in a white suit jacket, jeans and tan ankle boots. ‘Provincial work can be a bit patchy.’ She edged close enough for Sawyer to catch a gust of expensive perfume. ‘And most of this stuff is barely on the bright side of average. But I do like this.’
She gazed into the painting for a few seconds, holding the silence, then turned to Sawyer and held out a hand. ‘Clara McKee. I write about art for the Manchester Evening News.’
He shook. ‘Jake Sawyer. I’m a civil servant.’
Clara nodded. ‘Sawyer? Are you…’
He nodded. ‘Son.’
‘Ah! Do you share your father’s artistry?’
An attendant proffered a tray of drinks. Clara took a glass of wine, but Sawyer waved him away. ‘I tried to paint, but I was held back, really.’
