by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer bristled with nervous energy. He stood and walked to the window, looked out at the dormant football stadium. ‘Acute? In what way?’
‘I wonder if the poor people are… inconveniently naked. Like he’s covering them up not to maintain their dignity, but to ease his own embarrassment. He has to strip them and present them as naked, out of necessity. But there’s an over-compensation. He wants to make it clear that this isn’t sexual. Intimate. It’s… and I’m sorry to put it this way, Jake. It’s just a job he has to do.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Nothing personal.’
25
Sawyer drove back to Edale, hoping to snatch some downtime before the evening briefing. He wove up along the narrow Hayfield Road, too fast, flanked by the undulating moorland, soundtracked by his epic ‘Favourite Songs’ Spotify playlist. As ever, the shuffle algorithm acted like an inspired but demented DJ: Journey, then Portishead, then Eno, then John Denver, then, of all things, ‘You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)’. But the shifting mood meshed with the seasonal limbo of the landscape: unsettled, restless, everything in motion. The purple flush of heather—a three-week microseason—had been muted by an avalanche of sandy bracken, and Sawyer felt the familiar, woozy sense of nature dimming the lights for the long night ahead.
The music changed to something serene and ambient, and his eyelids drooped for a second. The soporific roar of the road. The siren call of sleep. Of oblivion. He could let it all go, let it steal over him. Or he could jerk the wheel violently to the left, lurch into the roadside ditch, crunch into the dry-stone wall, flip the car into the fields. A fleeting spike of agony, perhaps, and then, that everlasting anaesthetic.
The music dropped out, replaced by his ringtone. He looked at the screen, tapped the Accept icon.
Eva’s voice filled the car. ‘You shouldn’t come to the house.’
‘I didn’t know he was going to be there.’
‘That’s why you shouldn’t come to the house.’
He turned off, into Hayfield village, towards the cottage. ‘You come to see me, then. You know where I am.’
The music faded back in. She had already ended the call.
He drove over the driveway bridge, parked up and killed the engine. The silence was complete, deafening. It was still a couple of hours from nightfall, but a plume of black cloud had rolled in over Kinder, casting a premature dusk over the road.
A few raindrops pecked at the windscreen. He closed his eyes.
He was with his dog, with Henry, further along the lane. Ahead of Michael and his mother.
He dug his fingers into a cluster of lemon-yellow buttercups and rolled them around, fluttering the petals together.
Henry bustled through the long green grass and stuck his nose into the petals, picking up scent.
Behind, a shout from Michael. Sawyer heard nothing but his brother’s voice, but Henry sensed more. He jolted his head round, on alert.
Another shout from Michael. Then a laugh. Or a cry?
Henry bolted, back along the lane.
He ran after him.
The colours of deep summer. Rich and real. The bluest blues, greenest greens. His mother: the gleaming orange of her jacket; her black, black hair.
And red. Beads of red, scattered over the shorter grass at the top of the verge. Smears of red across his brother’s face.
His brother, lying in the grass, on his side. The powder blue of his T-shirt.
His mother, crawling towards Michael, reaching for him.
Red on her face, too.
Was it a game? What were the rules?
His dog. Barking, barking, barking.
Someone else there, too. A man in a mask. Just his eyes and mouth. Gloves. Holding a hammer.
He ran for his brother and felt the man at his back.
A hand on his collar.
He stumbled forward. Something clunked against the back of his head.
The colours dimmed. All was black for a moment. A minute? Five?
Intense, unbearable pain. At the back of his head, the base of his neck.
He rose up and looked around, the images swooping and warping.
‘Jake! Run, my darling. Don’t look back!’
Henry jumped up at the man but he pushed him away, gripped his collar.
He watched as the man brought down the hammer.
Metal on bone. Then silence from his dog.
The man turned to his mother.
And now, for the first time, Sawyer caught himself in the moment. In the present day. Aware that he was locked inside an abysmal dreamworld, but somehow in control of his actions. No longer just an observer.
He felt the back of his head, warm and wet.
(No. Don’t do that. You know that).
The pain reared up.
He knew what came next. He would fall to the ground, touch the grass, feel the soil. Smell it, taste it.
He fought the familiar narrative and, instead, ran for the man.
But his mother didn’t acknowledge him.
He saw something new: her hand, pushing away her black hair, swiping the blood from her eyes.
He leapt at the man’s arm as he raised the hammer.
But there was no effect. He brought it down.
His mother reached up, half-blocking the blow, catching the head of the hammer with her wrist.
Metal on bone.
She screamed and reached for him with her other hand.
She pulled off the mask.
Rain. Clattering at the windscreen.
Darkness now. Inside and outside the car.
Sawyer was slumped to the side, his shoulder numb, his mouth dry and bitter. How long had he slept for?
There was a thrill at the lucid nature of the nightmare, but also frustration at the abrupt ending. Had he unearthed a fresh insight or just fictionalised detail he hadn’t even seen at the time? A few extra seconds might have given him more.
But there was no way back in now.
He stumbled out of the car and ran to the porch, through the rain, dense and drenching.
Inside, he cupped his hands under the kitchen tap and splashed water over his face. He filled a glass and drank it dry, without pausing for breath, then mopped his face with a tea towel. The rain spattered against the front window.
And there was another, unfamiliar, noise.
Sawyer froze and slowly moved the tea towel away from his face.
Again. A high-pitched squeak. Plaintive, questioning.
He opened the back door and a slender cat strutted into the kitchen, its fur matted with water. It was mostly black with white patches around its head, and a neat, beard-like blot of black under its chin. It looked up at him, miaowed, and curled itself around his shins.
He spoke to it in sing-song, petted it. The cat immediately broke into a loud, continuous purr and tilted its head up to accommodate Sawyer’s fingers as he scratched it under the chin.
He opened the wall cupboard. Mainly condiments and cereals, a couple of tins of rice pudding. He pushed aside a four-pack of baked beans and fished out a tin of tuna. The cat ramped up its purr volume and threaded itself around his legs in a figure of eight.
Sawyer forked the tuna onto a small plate and set it down by the door. The cat nosedived into the food. He filled a cereal bowl with water and nudged it in beside the plate. The cat looked up and considered the water for a second, then dug back into the tuna.
Microwave clock.
Just after seven. He had slept for almost two hours.
He took a can of Coke out of the fridge and sat on the edge of the sofa, watching the cat, pondering his nightmare.
He switched his phone to speaker and called Shepherd. It rang and rang. He placed the handset on the coffee table and lay back, sipping the Coke.
The cat had finished the food and was now lapping at the water. Life pared down to its essence: the base layers of Maslow’s pyramid. Food and water. Warmth, rest. Safety, security. The cat aspired to nothing more, and its finely tune
d instinct for danger kept it alive to repeat the cycle and, ultimately, to produce others. Death would come for it eventually, but only when the cat was good and ready. It would retreat from the living world and hide in a cool, dark place. A submission. A passive suicide. Death would need to cheat to take it before then: a speeding car, a double-crossing human, a house fire. He thought of Susan Bishop and Sam Palmer. Ambushed by death. Had they not been given the opportunity to see it coming? Or had they misinterpreted its approach? Mistook it for something else?
‘Why?’
‘Sir!’ Shepherd’s voice broke through. ‘Sorry. Call of nature.’
Sawyer slurped his drink. ‘I don’t thank you for the image, but I’m grateful to get your full attention.’
‘Too echoey in there, anyway. You would have known.’
‘Let’s move on. Any updates?’
‘Moran has a couple of leads on stolen vans. Nothing on ANPR, so he’s working with Rhodes to match them with CCTV. Relevant areas and times. It’s a bastard of a job.’
The cat slinked over, hopped up on the sofa next to Sawyer and began to wash itself. ‘He can take some leave when we’re done. What about the transplant surgeons? Anything there?’
‘All checks out. Nothing interesting about the surgeons who performed the Bishop and Palmer ops at Wythenshawe and Leeds. Myers has five potential matches for Palmer’s liver donor. They all fit the accepted parameters for age.’
The phone bleeped. Sawyer checked the screen. Call waiting. ‘Okay. Work through them and check for any connections. And find me that van.’
He switched to the other call. ‘Max?’
‘Jake. Good time to talk?’
‘For you, Max, any time is good.’
DI Reeves indulged him with a laugh. ‘Got something for you. The Casey name has come up in an investigation. Public order offences on the Isle of Dogs. Unlicensed boxing.’
‘Bare knuckle? Is that legal?’
‘Technically, yes. But there’s no regulatory body, so it’s the Wild West. Some places have associations to keep it above board at decent venues, but there’s still a lot of underground fights. Warehouses, garages. We mostly bump up against it for public order offences.’
‘When the fights spill out of the ring.’
Reeves snorted. ‘Exactly. Which they do, a lot. So, it kicks off at this fucking nasty old gym in the Isle of Dogs. Most of ’em leg it, but we get a few collars for possession, possession with intent. Mostly home-grown cannabis. Some speed. The gym owner was desperate to keep his legit licence, so he spilled on the network. And it’s fucking national, Sawyer. Seedings, leader boards. Fights arranged over social media. One poor bastard died in a fight back in February down here in Radlett. Middle of fucking nowhere. Head injury. He was gone before the ambulance even found the place. So, this gym owner says he has a “relationship” with a family up in the Midlands. Derbyshire area. Looks like the top boy is one Ryan Casey. Seventy-odd but made of fucking steel. He’s got two sons, Wesley and Ronan. He pimps them round the circuit. They’re like rock stars. They turn up, beat the shit out of someone and Ryan handles the figures. He’s pretty much the main connection north of Birmingham.’
The rain was easing. Sawyer’s ear caught a hint of engine noise on the road outside. ‘Right. So, what’s the link with Owen?’ He stood up. The cat dived off the sofa and slid under the coffee table.
‘Owen Casey’s name didn’t come up in the gym investigation, but Ryan is Owen’s uncle. Ryan’s brother Billy died a few years back.’
Sawyer walked to the window and peered out through the edge of the blind, without moving it. A large white Mercedes was wedged up on the far side pavement with its lights off, engine running. ‘So do you know if Owen is still with us?’
‘No word either way. But I’ve got an address. Round your manor. Bonsall?’
‘Matlock. Not far.’
‘I’ll text it. Do I get a gold star now?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘You can have the whole sticker pack, Max. Thank you.’
Reeves slurped a drink. ‘Best of luck, my friend. I hope you get some joy with this. And take it easy. These fuckers might not be too friendly with coppers.’
‘I can look after myself.’
The car turned on its lights. It pulled out into the road, spun its tyres in a patch of rainwater, and drove away.
26
Simon Brock directed the taxi into the drive of his stone-built cottage on the edge of Hollinsclough. The driver parked in front of the single-storey annex and got out to retrieve the luggage from the boot. Simon sighed and looked out of the window at the former farmhouse: a rugged construction of charcoal-grey stone with incongruous refitted windows. The building shimmered in the morning mist. Home, sweet home.
It was too large for one man, even one who had grown as large as Simon. But he filled the space with regular—and legendary—‘soirées’. Mostly gatherings of local literary types, old colleagues and students from Cambridge, and friends from his previous life, when the house had been the ideal homestead for a couple in early retirement.
He had bought the place ten years earlier, after his agent had sold the TV rights to his first series of five novels. In the end, only two of the stories were filmed, but the money funded the restoration, and the publicity had boosted his profile. He now enjoyed a comfortable life on sales royalties, with a new title added to the mix every year.
With difficulty, he climbed out of the car and looked over the annex building, catching his breath. He had converted the old calf shed into a writing workshop, and had settled into a rhythm of bashing out his first drafts in there over winter. It was a womb-like haven of splendid isolation, with blissful underfloor heating. He often worked deep into the night, usually ending the sessions with a short stagger from his chair and a flop down into the double bed. His son had pestered him to rent the place out on Airbnb over summer, but the very idea was a violation, and he was in no need of either the company or the money.
Simon took his small case from the driver, paid him—including a generous tip—and shuffled towards the main house. He was a conspicuous figure, always impeccably dressed in tailored suit and Paisley tie, Full Windsor. He had a vast bald head with a grey beard tightly trimmed around a bear-trap jaw, and stood at six foot five, with immense, jutting shoulders which often carried his two young granddaughters during his son’s Christmas and summer visits. It was a tradition: he would greet the girls in a crouch, and they would take a shoulder each, giggling as he rose to his full height, and bore them indoors, perched like parrots. He would perhaps enjoy that at least one more time.
He was a rugby man at Cambridge—a prop, of course—and he had briefly played the sport semi-professionally, before a knee injury had drawn him to the sedentary pleasures of storytelling. But his hedonistic appetites had always been at odds with the self-denial of sporting endeavour. He had been an unfailing epicurean. A drinker, an eater, an imbiber and inhaler of all. An arch consumer of the full tasting menu of life. He had been a two packs a day man—no filter—until his respiratory system had finally rebelled at the end of his fifties.
Simon unlocked the door and walked into the hall. He was tired from the early flight, but his head was full of ideas for his new book, and he was keen to get something down before picking up his dogs from the nearby boarding centre.
He dumped his case by the door and flicked the switch on the wall outside, illuminating a modest sitting room: low ceiling with exposed beams, small corner television, wicker dog beds, bookshelves, a couple of ageing armchairs, working fireplace with a propped poker. A folding wooden side table sat snug beneath a large window that, in daylight, looked down towards the limestone knoll of Chrome Hill and the southern fringes of Buxton.
He ignored the man sitting in the chair by the table and took up his notepad from the mantel shelf by the door. He settled into an armchair, slid a pen out of his inside pocket and opened the pad.
Simon turned a few pages, found his outline not
es. He spoke without looking up. ‘Would you mind telling me what you’re doing in my home?’ His voice was loud and resonant, with no waver.
No answer. He looked up from the pad. The man was now leaning forward in the chair, elbows on knees. He held a large kitchen knife between his feet, with the point of its long, broad blade prodded into the floorboards. He twisted the handle, turning the blade. Light flashed off the metal.
‘Simon Brock,’ said the man. He was short, wiry, impish; engulfed by the high-backed chair. He wore surgical scrubs: short-sleeved sky-blue tunic, lightweight trousers, slippers with polythene covers. Latex gloves. ‘You’ve kept me waiting.’ In contrast to Simon, his voice was quiet and calm, higher in pitch. There was no malevolence in his eyes; they were open, accommodating, curious.
Simon nodded. ‘Sorry about that. Flight was a little delayed. Who are you?’
‘You know who I am. You’ll have read about me.’
Simon set the notepad aside. ‘Some kind of copycat killer?’
The man squinted in confusion. ‘No. I’m the antagonist, Simon. You know all about those.’
Simon scoffed. ‘You look like you can barely lift that knife, let alone stab people and carry their bodies around. You’re a fantasist and you need to get out of my home before I call the police. I have good contacts with the police, you know.’
The man smiled. ‘I’m sure. I read the first novel in your latest series. Not sure I have the stomach for the other six.’
‘Seven.’ Simon took out his phone.
‘Please, put that away.’
Simon placed the phone on his notepad.
‘I liked the story. I like the way you made use of the local folklore. On top of all the juicy murders, of course. That’s what feeds the commuters’ Kindles, right? The dark stuff.’
Simon nodded. ‘Most people lead conventional lives, which is why so many are drawn to the unconventional and transgressive in their imaginary worlds. Crime, sci-fi, fantasy. It all serves a similar purpose.’ He picked up the phone and swiped the screen to unlock it.
