Stronger Than Death

by Andrew Lowe

  'That’s your wife, I take it.’ The man nodded at a photograph above the fireplace: a younger Simon in formal wear, standing beside a slight middle-aged woman in a powder-blue summer dress. Both smiling.

  ‘Amelia. The cliché applies. My fiercest critic. Dead four years now. Cancer.’ He looked down at the phone screen and accessed the call keypad.

  The man lifted the knife from the floor and pointed it at Simon. ‘Put. The phone away. Now.’ His tone was more irritated than malicious.

  Simon chuckled and slipped the phone back into his pocket. ‘So you can lift that thing.’

  The man reached underneath the table and pushed a shoebox across the floor to Simon. ‘Put those on.’

  Simon edged the lid of the box aside and saw the contents: a pair of handcuffs. He sat back in his seat. ‘Look. Whoever you are, whatever this is about, there’s something I need to tell you. I’m not a healthy man. I used to smoke forty cigarettes a day, and I suppose I’ve paid the price. I don’t want to die like this, but I would like you to know that I don’t fear death. I’ve faced it for many years now, and it’s come close to taking me several times. I’ve felt its bony fingers around my throat. Doctors have employed many techniques to keep me going, and I’m grateful for their efforts. But I’ve had to make so many sacrifices. I’ve been forced to compromise on all of the things I love. Food, smoking, drinking. And now they tell me that it’s all been for nothing. Death has found me again. And this time, apparently, there’s no medical method of turning it away. I don’t know why you’re here, or what you intend to do. But you’ve certainly given me the urge to taste the pleasures of life, for just a little longer. May I?’

  He pointed to another mantel shelf, near the fireplace, with a tray of spirit bottles and a small stack of tumblers.

  The man shook his head. ‘Put them on.’

  Simon smiled. ‘Come on. One last toast?’ He rose from the chair, slowly, and edged over to the drinks tray. He poured from an ornate, oval bottle, keeping an eye on the man, on the knife. He took a sip and threw back his head in pleasure. ‘Remy Martin. Louis XIII. A feast for the senses. Spicy and floral. Would you care for some?’ The man gestured to the chair with the knife. Simon didn’t move. He took another sip. ‘Damned death! There’s no escaping it.’ He turned to face the man, moving his body in front of the propped fire poker. ‘It comes to us all, eventually. In whatever form. I have managed to delay it until now, with medical treatment. Others choose to take control, through suicide. Life, though. That’s different. It just comes. And of course, it brings us into existence. It’s upon us before we know it, before we ask for it. It’s the unstoppable force. I’m sure you know the phrase, “life finds a way”.’ He raised the glass with one hand, reached back to the poker with the other. ‘To life! Stronger than death!’

  ‘Put down the glass,’ said the man. ‘Move away from that poker and sit in the chair. Put the handcuffs on.’

  Simon finished the rest of the cognac in one gulp. He winced. ‘Creative Writing 101. If you’re really the antagonist, then what’s your motivation? You can’t just be some boring, cartoonish psychopath. We might not agree with what you’re doing on a moral level, but we have to at least sympathise, yes?’

  The man sighed. ‘Ten… nine…’

  Simon stumbled away from the fireplace and sat back down in the chair. He could feel the alcohol flaring through his blood, soothing him. He picked up the handcuffs and turned them over in his fingers.

  ‘Eight… seven…’

  ‘Is this where I offer you money?’

  ‘It’s not about money,’ said the man. ‘Not even close.’

  27

  Karl Rhodes turned to the bank of monitors flattened against the recessed wall in his basement office at Buxton police station. Sawyer leaned forward and squinted into the screen. The room was cramped and overheated, with a continuous hiss from the computers’ cooler fans.

  Rhodes looked up at Sawyer and grinned, bearing a rickety set of off-white teeth. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Sawyer stood upright and flashed a look at Moran, who had fashioned a temporary desk in the far corner.

  Moran nodded. ‘One of the stolen vans. Local shop CCTV. About an hour before Palmer would have reached his house.’

  ‘The van was waiting for him when he got back from the pub,’ said Shepherd, hovering by the staircase.

  Sawyer took a seat, in one of Rhodes’ prehistoric wheeled office chairs. ‘And, given the lack of scene forensics, it doesn’t look like he made it inside. Walker called it. Mobile murder lab. He catches the victims where they live, literally. He kills and prepares them in the van, dumps them somewhere else.’

  ‘Does this actually tell us much that we don’t already know?’ said Moran.

  Sawyer nodded. ‘It opens up the profile. He’s organised. Premeditated. He has a plan and he carries it through carefully, meticulously. He’s self-aware, unemotional. He’ll be intelligent, employed, educated, skilled, orderly, cunning and controlled. He’ll have some degree of charm and emotional intelligence. Organised killers work hard to cover their tracks.’

  ‘He’s certainly done that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He’ll be monitoring the investigation, watching the media. The scenes are so clean because he’ll be forensically savvy.’

  Rhodes scoffed. ‘Fucking CSI has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘Organised killers often return to the scenes to observe, when the police and forensics teams are doing their work. Gloating. Plenty of killers have been caught by checks on the public around scenes.’

  ‘Like I said, he needs to do this. For some wider reason. It’s not psychotic. It’s not sexual deviance. It’s not domination, manipulation, control. He’s in control of his impulses. Which makes him harder to catch.’ Footsteps on the stairs. Walker entered the room. It was a cramped space for two. Now it held five. He hung back, listening to Sawyer. ‘We have a clear MO now, so the signature is the key. It reveals his motive.’

  ‘But there are lots of signatures,’ said Walker. ‘Which one is most significant?’

  ‘Single stab wound,’ said Sawyer. ‘Cauterised wound. Nude body. Cleaned body, no blood on the outside. Polythene. Cuffs. Tape. We’ve seen all of this, twice now. But what does it tell us about who he is and why he’s doing it?’

  ‘And how long is he going to keep at it?’ said Moran.

  Sawyer turned to Shepherd. ‘Brief the others. I have an appointment. Moran, I want an ANPR check for this van. See if it comes up anywhere else. And get me the records for similar vehicles stolen recently. In case he’s planning a third.’

  28

  ‘Your homework was on time.’ Alex smiled, reached over from the mauve armchair and poured the tea. ‘Is that carried forward from your school days?’

  Sawyer settled onto the chaise longue but stayed upright; the thought of reclining felt like a cliché. ‘Not really. It was just short. Easy.’

  Alex paged through her notes and nodded. ‘You scored very low.’ She looked up. ‘For anxiety.’

  ‘Is that bad?’

  She laughed. ‘It’s not a competition. And, no, it’s not bad. Interesting, though. Sometimes, the absence of something can tell us a lot. Still, Beck is a little blunt for our purposes. I have a more specific questionnaire for you. The Impact of Events scale. It’s used to assess PTSD.’ He stayed silent, eyed the plate of biscuits on Alex’s tea tray. ‘Shall we talk about fear, Jake?’

  ‘It’s not something I know a lot about.’

  Alex stirred her tea. ‘And that isn’t phoney bravery with you, is it? You really mean that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m reading about it. Maggie gave me a book. The Gift of Fear.’

  She nodded. ‘I know it: de Becker. He’s good, even though it’s effectively an advert for his protection business. Sound thinking.’

  ‘He says a lot of it is instinct.’

  ‘Yes. We underestimate our impulses. The conscious thought that you’re in danger comes later t
han the feeling. Two-hundred milliseconds. The brain alerts you to danger before you can assess, intellectualise. If we’d had to rely on conscious threat assessment, we’d have died out long ago. It’s true across nature. A weasel smells the air. An octopus puts out its tentacle. We have an incredibly complex brain that conducts all of that without our involvement. We flatter ourselves. It’s like all of our emotions, really. They’re just thoughts with bells on. In one sense, a faulty fear response can be helpful. You’ll be immune to certain types of persuasion, manipulation. Fear sells. Just ask journalists.’

  ‘I try to avoid them.’

  She sipped her tea. ‘How do you feel, in a situation that you know is potentially hazardous?’

  Sawyer looked around the room, searching the paintings for an answer. ‘I want to prevent bad things, bad consequences. I see them. I understand the implications.’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t feel it, do you? Your primal response doesn’t give you those vital milliseconds.’

  ‘No. I’ve trained my brain, though. To observe tells, signs. I’ve worked on my reflexes.’

  ‘With martial arts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Alex set down her cup and wrote something in her notes. ‘Do you think you’re disabled, Jake?’

  ‘No. Just differently abled.’

  She looked up. No smile. ‘So, because of these coping strategies you’ve formed to compensate, you don’t feel compromised?’ He shook his head. ‘How about this?’ She put down the pad. ‘Does your own lack of fear response cloud your judgement, perhaps? You’re wired in to the signs yourself, but does your behaviour put other people in danger?’ She eyed his bandaged hand.

  He sighed. ‘Am I reckless?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Sawyer leaned forward and took one of the biscuits: a Jammie Dodger. ‘I sometimes just feel… incompatible with the world.’

  ‘Like the operating system has advanced beyond you? Like you’re an outmoded program?’

  He crunched into the biscuit. ‘No. The other way round. Like the world is the obsolete operating system, and I’m always having to slow down, compromise, filter, underclock myself to match the slower pace of everything. It’s exhausting.’

  Alex watched him, smiling. ‘You say you’ve trained your brain. Do you not feel anything, in stressful situations? Confrontational moments?’

  ‘Sometimes, there’s a tingling sensation. Like my body is reacting to something. But it’s… out of reach. I can sense it, but I can’t feel it.’

  ‘Interpret it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Alex took out her phone and navigated to something. ‘What happened to your hand, Jake?’

  ‘Training thing. Missed a mark.’

  She looked up, narrowed her eyes. ‘YouTube.’ She handed over the phone. ‘Watch that.’

  Sawyer looked at the title of the video: Why Whispering Gives Some People The Tingles. ‘Is this ASMR?’

  ‘Yes. Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response. A tingling feeling when hearing whispers or certain repetitive sounds. It’s still being researched, but some people see it as a form of benign seizure, perhaps connected to empathy.’

  He handed the phone back to her. ‘I’ve tried it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It just gave me a vague, tingly feeling of bullshit. Pseudoscience. The sort of thing that didn’t exist before the internet.’

  She took the phone and set it down on the table, keeping her eyes on him. ‘I think your brain function is fine. That’s shown by the sensations, the panic attack you mentioned. But it’s interesting that you can’t make clear sense of it. Maybe there is some damage or disruption. You have the same hardware as the rest of us, Jake. Empathy, impulse control, emotion, decision-making. Anterior cingulate cortex. Fusiform gyrus. Superior temporal gyrus. Amygdala. But something is disrupted, compromised. You said you were self-medicating?’

  ‘I suppose. Just—’

  ‘Taking risks? Seeking out danger? Thrill?’

  ‘I’m trying to…’ Again, he searched the room, the walls. ‘Feel it again. The panic. The fear.’

  She frowned. ‘Because that normalises you, right? Shows you’re unbroken. How is it working out?’

  ‘Not well.’

  ‘Do you worry that you might be sociopathic? Even psychopathic?’

  He snorted. ‘Of course I don’t.’

  Alex raised an eyebrow at his reaction. ‘Difficulty with empathy. Risk-taking. Easily bored. Charming but manipulative. Acute emotional intelligence and an understanding of how to push buttons to get what you want. Maybe a touch of narcissism? Inflated sense of self?’

  He watched her, smiling. ‘It all sounds like my job description.’

  ‘Psychopaths are usually happy to commit crimes to get what they want. I assume you don’t cut corners to solve cases? Play it on the edge?’

  He leaned forward. ‘By definition, a psychopath wouldn’t be concerned about whether or not he was a psychopath.’

  Alex didn’t smile. She looked down and wrote something in her pad, taking her time. Sawyer recognised the technique from interrogation training: intimidate with silence. He also knew the counter: patience.

  She looked up. ‘Do you like women, Jake?’

  ‘I’m straight, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Is that what you think I mean? What do you look for in a woman? What attracts you?’

  He sighed. ‘Someone who reminds me of my mother.’

  Alex smiled, nodded. ‘Thank you for cutting to the chase. But these sessions are going to be of limited use if you only tell me what you think I want to hear. Do you go for strong women? Vulnerable women?’

  ‘I’m not afraid of strong women.’

  She laid the pad on her knee and rested her hands on top, fingers clasped. ‘Why would you be? You know they can’t hurt you. Not physically, at least.’ Sawyer licked his finger and dabbed at the biscuit crumbs on his knee. ‘And how about when you look in the mirror? Or fall asleep at night? Do you like what you see? Are you happy with your thoughts?’

  He didn’t look up. ‘Thoughts?’

  ‘The things you don’t share with anyone else. The things that go through your head as you drift off.’

  ‘I don’t see frolicking puppies and kittens, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Why did you shave your head?’

  He frowned. ‘When?’

  ‘Maggie mentioned it. Did you just fancy a change? Or was your hair something to remove from the list of things you had to manage? The feeling of not being able to cope? Of looking for things you can—’

  ‘—throw out of the boat.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes! Exactly.’ Alex had momentum now. She leaned forward. Sawyer felt like a nervous paddler, aware of a gathering wave. ‘Would you think it’s fair to say, Jake, that your life has been pretty much defined by death? Your cases. All those puzzles to solve. All instigated by death.’

  ‘You’ve got a theme, yes.’

  She unclasped her hands and held her arms out briefly, as if waiting for a hug. ‘But here’s the thing! You’re the survivor, Jake.’ She sprang up and wandered over to a bookshelf, surprising Sawyer with her spritely movement. ‘Behind it all, is the one puzzle you can’t solve. The one case you can’t close.’ She reached the bookcase and turned. ‘I don’t think there’s anything physically wrong with your brain. I think you’re traumatised. The six-year-old who witnessed something too terrible to contemplate. He’s still inside you. Frozen. And you can’t unfreeze, get on with your own life, until he’s—’

  ‘—melted?’

  ‘It’s an unpleasant image, but it serves our purpose.’ Alex walked back to her chair and sat down. ‘So, we’re going to work together on that.’ She gestured out of the window. ‘It’s perhaps not the kind of thing you would want to do on a beautiful autumn afternoon, but I’d like you to take me through the whole thing. The day it happened. Every little event you remember. And then I want to know what happened next. Your
life before and after.’

  Sawyer tilted back his head. ‘So you want me to talk you through my difficult childhood?’

  ‘There may be some neurological impairment, given how you were assaulted. But I feel your difficulties are all based on the heightened drama of that appalling day. I want to try something with you. It’s a technique used in trauma therapy, called “reliving”. It can be painful, but extremely effective, to break free from the origins of the trauma. But you don’t mind a little pain. You eat pain for breakfast, right?’

  ‘I prefer Weetabix.’

  Alex smiled. ‘All of that will come later, though. For now, why don’t you lie back on the couch and tell me about your mother?’

  29

  Sawyer bought a cheese sandwich in Stanshope village and drove down into the Manifold Valley. He parked at Wetton Mill and walked along the old railway line. There was something about the case that was nagging him, simmering at the back of his mind, and there was only one place to see if he could bring it to the boil.

  The therapy had left him drained and leaden, but he pressed on up the steps carved into the crag and edged up the rocky slope into the mouth of Thor’s Cave. A party of walkers in fluorescent waterproofs were gathered in the central chamber; they eyed him as he clambered past in his work suit and shoes. He found his usual place, near the natural slitted window that looked down onto the valley, and gazed out at the soft afternoon light, filtered by drizzle.

  The walkers settled into the open space at the top of the slope. They all sat down on raised sections of rock, apart from a broad, bearded man in an unsullied North Face jacket, dabbing at the screen of his phone. He read aloud to the group. ‘The cave entrance is ten metres high. Apparently, it was occupied as long as ten thousand years ago, probably until Roman or Saxon times. So it’s one of the oldest sites of human activity in the area.’