by Andrew Lowe
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Lack of talent. So unfair.’
She laughed. Too loud and braying. Sawyer winced. ‘Skipped a generation! Well, I’m an admirer of your father’s work. Do you enjoy it?’
He angled his head at the painting. ‘I think so. I suppose I wonder about how he makes the decisions over where to put the paint. Why one colour and not another?’
‘Ah, but that’s the pleasure of abstract art. The mystery. I doubt the artist would be able to articulate any of that. He wouldn’t know himself.’ She stepped closer to the painting. ‘I suppose it’s a form of self-examination. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it therapy, but I think the two are related. For me, art is the ultimate way to transcend the fate that awaits us all.’ She stepped back and turned to him. ‘You may have photographs, of people you love. But they actually tell you little of the person in the picture. Particularly, if the shot is posed, prepared. What is more revealing and, I would say, lasting, is how an artist chooses to express himself, project his ideas and feelings in whatever form. The brain that moved the brush may have long since been absorbed back into the minerals of the Earth, but the work is immortal, eternal. That’s why so many people gather to see the Mona Lisa. It’s actually quite an ordinary painting. But there’s a fascination in how a seventy-seven by fifty-three centimetre piece of canvas can somehow transcend its creator and all his inner complexities.’ She took a sip of wine.
Sawyer squinted at her. ‘But, as you say, it can be revealing. The choices made. All those micro decisions. If you want to understand an artist, you look at the work.’
Clara abandoned her sip, almost spluttering. ‘I couldn’t agree more! The work reveals more than the boring old obituary. The life, the biography. That’s full of facts. The work is full of secrets.’
Sawyer joined his father at a table in the corner of his section. He slid a leaflet out of a fan arranged around the edge of the table. Several pages, quality paper, photographs of the works, contact details for purchase enquiries. The banner photograph of Harold stared out from the back page, above a few words of context, including a cute line about how he had switched from criminal investigation to self-expression.
‘Not like you to come south of the wall, Dad.’
Harold sat back, smiled, poured out a bottle of San Miguel. ‘You mean the north-south divide at Castleton?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘From Midhope to Ashbourne. Inching closer to London.’
‘Fuck that. We’re technically outside the National Park here. That’s plenty for me. It’s giving me hives.’ He took a drink. ‘Did you get an evaluation after the Crawley case?’
‘I’m of sound mind.’
‘And body? What’s with the hand?’
‘Punch bag. Caught it on a rip.’ Sawyer crunched through the last of another chocolate lime, grimacing at the bitter centre.
‘What’s your choice of candy, these days?’
‘Candy?’
‘Sorry. Been talking to American dealers.’
‘Chocolate limes. Varies.’
Harold snorted. ‘Well. I suppose I was wrong. All that nagging about your teeth falling out.’ He sipped his beer. ‘When you were a teenager, Jake, you used to come to my study. Say hello. It made me smile, watching you gauge how much small talk you needed to cover before you could ask for the thing you actually wanted.’
‘I’m not here for money.’
Harold nodded. ‘Chris Hill should leave you alone for a while. I’ve covered the finances for Michael’s care.’
‘We should get him a speech therapist.’
‘You think we didn’t try that?’
‘He spoke to me.’
Harold narrowed his eyes. ‘Michael? Spoke?’
‘He said he remembered Mum saying something to the killer.’
Harold took a slow sip of beer, kept his eyes on Sawyer. ‘What did she say?’
‘She said, “Why?”’
‘And this is a breakthrough, how?’
‘You say “Why?” to someone you know. You say, “Stop!” or, “No!” or, “Please!” to someone you don’t know. Someone who’s attacking you with a hammer.’
‘Jake…’
‘Why did you try to stop Marcus Klein’s release?’
Harold didn’t miss a beat. ‘Because he murdered my wife, your mother. She knew him, Jake. They taught at the same school together. That explains what she said. If she said it. Michael is hardly what you’d call a reliable witness.’
‘And who would be? The Almighty himself?’
Harold sighed. ‘Already? We’re going there?’
‘How about Owen Casey?’
The name jolted Harold. He screwed his eyes shut, dropped his head. To Sawyer, it looked like a pantomime; displaying an effort to recall. But his father would know about his son’s sensitivity to lies, or the sugaring of truth.
Sawyer helped him out. ‘Repeat burglar from around the time you were at Buxton.’
Harold opened his eyes and fixed Sawyer with a steady gaze. ‘I don’t remember him, no.’
‘Irish traveller. Part of a group that settled in Uttoxeter in the seventies and eighties. You probably called them “gypos” in your day. Or “pikeys”. They don’t call them that any more. I don’t even think they do much travelling.’
‘And you think he killed your mother?’
‘No, I don’t. But I thought you might remember the name, give me an idea about where I might find him. I think he was involved in framing Klein. If I can find Casey, I might be able to catch the end of the thread, follow it back.’
Harold kept his eyes locked on his son. ‘You’re asking a sixty-seven-year-old man if he can think back thirty years and give you information on some petty thief who might be able to help with the framing of a convicted murderer? I said it before, Jake. Can you not see how crazy this is? How counterproductive?’
Sawyer stiffened. ‘You’re in denial. That’s the crazy bit. You’ve locked it all away, told yourself justice has been served, taken refuge in the same old biblical bullshit.’ He waved his hand around at the paintings. ‘And what is this? Catharsis?’ He leaned across the table. ‘You tell me to move on and accept things. But I think that deep, deep down, you know that Klein didn’t do it.’ He sat back. Harold glared at him. ‘I get it, Dad. You’re old now. You want peace and quiet. You’re following the Flaubert model. Be ordinary in your life so you can be extraordinary in your art. Here’s the thing, though. I’m not ready to rest yet. Not ready to let it rest.’ He leaned in. ‘“Why?”. Mum never got an answer to her question. But I will.’
22
Sawyer fitted his phone into the dashboard cradle and slotted in the ignition key. He paused, before turning. He had wanted to see his father face to face, to get a live reaction to his mention of Casey. At the time of his mother’s death, his father had been working at Buxton, under Keating, and it was conceivable that Sawyer’s current DCI might have sanctioned unofficial informants, and his father might want that particular soil to stay undisturbed. But Harold’s response to Casey’s name was genuine: he didn’t know him, and he seemed baffled and disturbed by Sawyer’s continued obsession. Maggie had said that if he was in the middle of a breakdown, he’d be the last to know. Was this the first twinge of self-awareness? Was it all an elaborate conspiracy story he was telling himself to muffle the pain?
He pulled out of the car park, passed beneath a canopy of rusty trees, and turned right onto Mappleton Road, rolling down between the low pastures: a sunken spread of olive green that would soon be twinkling with frost.
His phone rang: an unrecognised number. He set it to speaker and answered.
‘Sir? It’s Walker. DS Shepherd has asked me to brief you.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Pestering paid off, eh?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Brief away.’
Walker cleared his throat. ‘Frazer Drummond has preliminary findings on Sam Palmer. Single stab wound. Internal bleeding. Says he proposes
death by haemorrhagic shock. The mark on his forehead suggests Palmer was hit by something first. Bruising around wrists and mouth similar to Susan Bishop’s.’
Sawyer passed a cyclist, giving him a generous berth. The man—elderly—waved as he passed. ‘Where did the knife penetrate?’
‘According to Drummond, he “scored a direct hit” on the liver with a blade that was long enough to pass directly through. Nothing internal removed.’
‘Apart from the blood. Did you look into Palmer? Was Rhodes right about his liver transplant?’
‘Hundred per cent. He went off the rails. Drink-driving in 2016. Assaulted the arresting officer. Fines. Banned for a year. Came out he was on Antabuse. There was a minor press fuss about a chronic alcoholic getting a transplant. Brought it on himself, all that. But it doesn’t look like he did anything untoward.’
Sawyer pushed a button in the door and rolled down the window. The outside air rushed in, sharp and chilled. He turned up the phone speaker volume. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. How about Rhodes and Moran?’
‘Still nothing on the van we saw at Tideswell. I showed it to Palmer’s girlfriend. She didn’t recognise it. Couldn’t find any direct link between Palmer and Susan Bishop.’
‘We know where Susan’s heart came from. Now we need more on the source of Sam’s alcohol-free liver. Check with—’
‘I already looked into that, sir.’
Sawyer raised his eyebrows. ‘Nice. And?’
‘Palmer didn’t want any details or contact with the donor. So we can’t get the info there. The transplants were performed at different hospitals. Susan got her heart at Wythenshawe. Palmer’s op happened at St James’s University Hospital in Leeds. It all depends on the unit facilities. And here’s the interesting bit.’
‘They both happened on the same day?’
Walker paused. ‘Almost. Susan’s heart op was April 10th last year. Palmer’s liver on April 11th. They would have both been on the lists and the organs would have become available somewhere nearby.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Shepherd told me the donors have to die in hospital so the organs remain viable.’ He turned onto a straight, clear road which led back into the National Park. ‘Did both organs originate from the same hospital? Bishop’s heart came from Sheffield Northern General, yes?’
‘That’s right. Manchester and Leeds wouldn’t confirm. Confidential. But they use a specialist ambulance service called Pulseline. Their records show organ dispatch from Sheffield to Manchester on April 10th and to Leeds on 11th.’
‘Excellent. So let’s talk to Sheffield. Find out where Palmer’s liver came from.’
Walker hesitated. ‘Shepherd tried that. They said the person we need to talk to isn’t there until tomorrow.’
‘Okay, I’ll go with him in the morning.’
‘Sir…’
Sawyer sighed. ‘No. We don’t need three people. It’s not a drugs raid. I know you’re keen, DC Walker, and you’ve done some fine work. But I need to be smart with resource. This isn’t on-the-job training. Work with Moran and Rhodes. Find me that van. If we can connect it to both scenes, then we can push it at the press conference. Someone will have seen it parked up somewhere. Then we’ll have an address, and then you can tag along and see some fireworks.’
Sawyer spent the evening at the cottage, butterflying around various distractions, never quite settling enough to become absorbed. Videogames, online articles, Wing Chun forms. He sprawled on the sofa in his workout vest and tracksuit trousers, and played an old Future Sound of London album. He tried to dip into The Gift of Fear, but his eyes kept sliding off the page.
Barefoot, he padded into the kitchen and dug out an oversized bag of salt and vinegar crisps. He leaned in close to the small window and peered out. It was late, and there was nothing to see: just unpolluted blackness, with a few distant speckles of light from the sparse suburbs of Chisworth and Holehouse.
Two slow, solid raps on the front door.
He glanced at the microwave clock. 23:10. Nobody came calling, on phone or in person, with good news at this time.
He walked to the door and listened.
Shuffling feet just outside. More than one person.
He opened the door.
Two men stood in the doorway. The one nearest the step was tall, maybe six-five, and bulky. Strong-looking. His colleague was almost as tall, but more heavyset. Cheap suits, expensive haircuts. The shorter one was bald, with an arch little goatee, while the other was clean shaven, with the tendrils of a tattoo design curling up the side of his neck. They looked like reconstructed bouncers.
Sawyer quickly checked them up and down. Empty hands. The short one had something bulky in his inside pocket; the tall one looked clean. ‘Bit late for canvassing, fellas.’
‘What?’ Tall one.
‘Or are you preaching? For Jehovah?’
The short one stepped forward. ‘We’re not stopping, Mr Sawyer.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘How’s your boss?’
Tall one. ‘We don’t have a “boss”’.
‘Freelance goons, eh? Good for you. The gig economy is pretty seductive. Must be tough getting a mortgage, though.’
No smiles. The short one held out his hands, palms up. ‘This time, we’ll keep it nice. We’re hoping you can help us solve a problem.’
‘Lads. It’s late. I’m tired. Two questions. One. What’s the problem? Two. Can I get you both a glass of warm milk?’
The tall one stepped up into the house, just over the threshold. He leaned in close to Sawyer. He was wearing at least half a bottle of Joop! cologne. ‘You need to stay away from her.’
‘Who?’
‘You know.’
Sawyer nodded and put on a stern face. ‘And might I enquire whose interests you’re representing in this matter?’
‘We know you’re a copper,’ said the short one. ‘But that don’t mean nothing to us.’
‘Doesn’t,’ said Sawyer.
‘Eh?’
‘Doesn’t. Not “don’t”. And that’s a double negative. It should be, “That doesn’t mean anything to us.”
The tall one squinted, his eyes flitting to his colleague. ‘You’re not untouchable, Mr Sawyer. You’re not the only one with long arms.’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘So you work for Mr Tickle?’ He braced, ready to move. He was expecting at least an attempt at a stomach punch.
The short one leaned in. ‘You know who we’re talking about. Like we say, this time we’re nice.’
‘And what happens next time? Naughty?’
‘Next time,’ said the tall one, ‘we’ll cut something off you.’
23
‘Big night?’ Shepherd side-glanced at his passenger, keeping his hands at the regulation ten to two position.
‘Not sleeping well,’ said Sawyer, staring out at the shorn farmland on Sheffield’s western fringe.
‘You in pain?’
Sawyer turned. ‘What?’
Shepherd kept his eyes on the road. ‘With the hand.’
‘Oh. No. That’s fine. Just the usual deep-rooted existential terror. Nothing to worry about.’
Shepherd got the message. No talking. He slid a CD—Leftism by Leftfield—into the ancient sound system and steered the mustard yellow Range Rover deeper into the city. The fields fell away, replaced by modular estates, chain pubs, hypermarkets, industrial blight. They passed the rows of compact terraces around the back of the Hillsborough football stadium.
He stopped at a light and looked at Sawyer: slumped onto his left, arms folded. ‘Did you go? To Hillsborough? Too young for it?’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘I was six. My dad was a mess, trying to keep things together. Football wasn’t really a thing then. I saw it on TV, though. Weird season, with the Michael Thomas goal at the end. Fucking cruel. It poisoned us.’
Shepherd checked the satnav and pulled out onto the road for the Northern General. ‘No league title since.’
‘Thanks for the reminder. At leas
t we’ve gone close a few times.’
Shepherd smiled. He was getting through. ‘Hey. With Everton, there’s no weight of expectation. It’s all about the chequebooks these days, anyway.’
Sawyer sat up in his seat, in mock surprise. ‘Fuck! You’re right. Money is ruining football. I’d never thought of it that way.’
Shepherd didn’t dignify the sarcasm. ‘Busy one, then? Yesterday? Couldn’t switch off?’
‘Saw my dad. That always puts a strain on the relationship.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Walker is good. Soon be a DS.’
‘For sure. Don’t tell him that, though.’
‘Bit rough round the edges. Spoke over Keating a couple of times at the press conference.’
‘Really? I bet he loved that.’
‘Called him in for “a word” after.’
Sawyer laughed. ‘I don’t think we’ll find the van. Not distinctive enough. And he’s too sharp to leave it in a drive or take it to Tesco. He might have used a different vehicle in both murders. It’s just busy work. Logging dead-end calls, tracing and eliminating.’
‘Logan was there, badgering me about whether we can “confidently keep the public safe”.’
‘That’s an easy one. No, we can’t. Safer, but not safe. Our biggest chance is to work backwards. Look at what he’s doing, the presentation, the method, the themes.’
Shepherd lowered the music volume. ‘Two stab wounds. Both victims had recent organ transplants. Method is a link, but the transplant thing could be coincidence.’
‘At the moment, yes. But both transplanted organs originated from the same hospital.’
They bought coffee at the cafeteria and found a table in a quiet corner, away from the vast window that overlooked the car park. Sawyer prodded at his pecan pastry. He took a bite, made a face, and flopped it back onto the plate.
‘You leaving that?’ said Shepherd.
‘I thought you were on a new regime. Yoga or whatever.’
