by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer shook his head. ‘I try to avoid fighting.’
Ronan scoffed. ‘Fucker thinks he’s Bruce Lee or something.’
‘He was a childhood hero, yes. The art of fighting without fighting. Look. I’m willing to pay to make contact with Owen. However you want to play it. You can mediate, pass on my questions. I don’t even have to meet him in person. I’m just interested in something he might know. Think of it as a business deal. A finder’s fee.’ He took out a notepad and wrote out his number. ‘Whatever you can get me. A number. An address. An email address.’ He handed the paper to Casey. ‘Easy money.’
Klein was silent on the way back to the car. He took the lead for the awkward crossing of the muddy dirt track, steadying himself on the stone wall.
He glanced back at Sawyer. ‘At first, I thought you shouldn’t fight. In prison. On top of the horror of having my life taken away, I had to deal with the other prisoners. And I had to learn quickly. When you first go inside, you’re like a blank slate to them. They want to know what kind of person you are. And in prison, there are only two types. Wolves and sheep. The strong and the weak. It shouldn’t be like that, but it is. Wolves don’t often attack other wolves, but they will target sheep every waking hour of the day. So, the first time you get into a confrontation, you have to show that you’re not a sheep. You don’t have to win the fight. That’s not the point. You just have to fight. You don’t need to become a predator, but you must be willing to fight if you want to avoid being marked as prey.’
They reached the Mini. ‘They know they have something we need,’ said Sawyer. ‘If I’d done what they wanted back there, that puts them in complete control and they can string us along forever. You’ve already wasted thirty years on this. Ryan Casey knows where his nephew is, no doubt. We need to find him, and find out if he was involved in stealing the hammer that killed Jessica Sawyer. And we might have to use the art of fighting without fighting.’
31
Amy Scott paid the cab driver and wriggled out onto the pavement. She was in first date mode: knee-length cocktail dress, comfortable heels (no risk of totter), light Karen Millen coat. Not too much on show, but a display of good taste with a confident promise of more to come.
The name had wrinkled her nose—Nigel—but he had been surprisingly good value for a Soulmates type. Decent looks, testing the limits early with edgy humour, decisive, no prepared lines. Black mark for slurping his spaghetti, but he’d redeemed himself by not making a show of paying.
She smoothed herself down and checked her phone. Ten minutes early. Myra was a reliable sitter and Amy knew she was on parole after the recent late returns.
She walked to the steps leading up to her door, head fizzing from the wine. Early shift tomorrow. Kick Myra out, herbal tea, few episodes of Suits… She would resist the urge to text or reply tonight. Always better to drift off to sleep with her thoughts full of potential.
At the bottom of the steps, a flush of anxiety. She turned, and walked down the street to the Corsa, parked beneath a streetlight. As she approached, she squinted and studied the windscreen area. Nothing. She moved to the back of the car. All clear.
Amy walked back to the house and began to climb the steps, allowing herself a moment of relief. Halfway up, she fumbled in her handbag for the door key. The motion sensor flicked on the porch security light, causing her to look up at the front door.
Her stomach rolled with nausea.
32
Sawyer watched as Shepherd gathered the core team for the morning briefing. Saturday faces. Sunken cheeks, distant eyes. He had worked on stalled cases before—some of them remained unsolved—and he recognised the gathering sense of frustration. Humiliation, too. Like all good detectives, they had a well-practised weapon against cynicism: they took it all personally. It was a battle of wits and wills. One week in, and they were no closer to catching their tormentor.
He settled on the edge of a desk at the front and unwrapped a boiled sweet. Shepherd caught his eye and he nodded. DC Walker took a chair near the front and turned it slightly, half-facing the others. As requested, Sally O’Callaghan was also present, leaning on Keating’s locked door.
‘Updates,’ said Shepherd. ‘DC Myers. Where are we with the Palmer liver donor?’
Myers sighed. ‘Nothing coming up for any of them. No records. No connections to Bishop or Palmer. No links to each other. Deaths and background all pretty mundane. Feels like we’re chasing our tail on this one.’
‘What about Tyler?’ said Sawyer. ‘Bishop’s heart donor.’
‘I have a bit more on that.’ DC Walker got to his feet, and moved in next to Shepherd, ready to address the group.
Sawyer held up a hand. ‘DC Walker. DS Shepherd is case lead. He’s running the briefing.’
Walker looked confused for a second, and then woke to Sawyer’s meaning. He smiled. ‘Of course, sir.’ He sat down again. ‘The inquest into Tyler’s gym accident holds up. Weightlifting. His spotter fumbled the barbell. Crushed his neck. Induced coma. Died at Sheffield later that day. Interesting background, though. The crash he did time for back in the nineties. Three deaths in two cars. Young couple, Faye and Tony Hansen, and an older woman, Maureen Warren. Tyler’s girlfriend, Rebecca Morton, testified that she was giving him a hand job at the time. Judge wasn’t having it. Ten years.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘She tried to get him off by confessing that she was getting him off.’
Laughter. It wasn’t appropriate, but they needed to vent.
‘He did five years, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Walker. ‘Out on licence in 1996.’
‘Get more on the couple and the older woman,’ said Shepherd. ‘Connections to Bishop. I’d like to talk to Tyler’s girlfriend, too.’
Sawyer popped the sweet into his mouth. ‘Any sightings of the recently stolen cars?’
‘Nothing,’ said Moran.
‘Forensics?’
Sally shook her head. ‘DI Sawyer, I’ve been working this job for many years now, and I have never seen scenes so clean. We’ve found nothing meaningful on the bodies, in the bodies, at the deposition sites, at the victim houses and vehicles, at the suspected killing locations.’
Sawyer squeezed his eyes closed. ‘So, what now?’ When he opened his eyes, Sally had fixed him with a look: urgent, eyebrows raised. He knew it well.
‘We go wider,’ she said. ‘Conduct new searches further from the centre.’
Sawyer stood and stalked away, to his office. ‘DS Shepherd, talk to the Sheffield nurse. If she still pushes back, get busy with a court order for the donor records. I want to know who gave Palmer his alcohol-free liver. Walker, keep on the Tyler victimology. Full bios on the deceased. Talk to his girlfriend. Moran, find me those recently stolen cars.’ Moran started to protest, but Sawyer silenced him with a wave. ‘Go from scratch. Where were they left when they were stolen? Track all the ANPR data you can find and triangulate. It might give us some idea about his workflow.’
As Sawyer reached his office door, Stephen Bloom got to his feet.
Sawyer glared at him. ‘Tell them they’ll get a conference when we have something new to say.’ He paused. ‘Okay. Prepare something for tomorrow. To run if we get another blank on the stolen cars.’
‘Dean Logan’s been in touch, sir,’ said Bloom.
‘And?’
‘He seemed happy, for once. Said to tell you personally that he’s working on the story and it’s progressing well.’
Sawyer stared at him. ‘Sally. A word.’
He entered his office and gazed down at his desk, tracing the patterns in the leather texture, thoughts churning.
‘Jake.’ Sally, from behind.
He nodded and crashed down onto his chair. Sally closed the door behind her.
Sawyer propped his elbows on the desk and covered his face with his hands. He slid his palms apart like curtains, providing an opening for his mouth. ‘Is it good?’
Sally approached the desk. ‘Sorry?’
/> ‘The thing you want to tell me in private. Is it a good thing?’ He dropped his hands and looked up at her, smiling. ‘Or is it a bad thing?’
She looked nervous. ‘Good thing. I think. Do you want the full-fat science or the Dorling Kindersley version with nice illustrations?’
‘Stick to the detail I need to know. Easy on the Latin, if possible.’
She gave a thin smile. ‘I had an independent analyst run a couple of tests on the Sam Palmer body scene and the road outside his house.’
‘Why independent?’
‘I’ll get to that. We found a chemical trace, using chromatography and spectrometry. Methods of determining unknown substances, detecting trace elements. We use a specialist company to deep-clean scenes. CTS Decon. Comes from “Crime and Trauma Scene Decontamination.”’
Sawyer slumped onto the desk. ‘More illustrations!’
‘They use some pretty specialist chemicals to sterilise scenes. Death has that smell. You know it. You never get used to it. Rotting eggs, sulphur, faeces, mothballs. Depends on the stage of decontamination. Once it gets into something porous, there’s no shifting it. You need to throw away the thing and get a new one.’ She sat down. ‘But non-porous material is easier. Three-step cleaning process with pretty standard chemicals. But we found traces of an industrial strength detergent. It’s thorough. And expensive. You can get it online, but it would be unusual. You’d need specialist knowledge to use it safely.’
Sawyer crunched into his sweet. ‘And you found this before the company had completed its clean-up?’
Sally nodded. ‘And here’s the really interesting bit. We have plenty of techniques to find even the tiniest trace of blood. Luminol, phenolphthalin, haemoglobin test. But when you absolutely, positively, have to remove all trace of blood, then you can use detergent with active oxygen to stop the blood being detected. Which is exactly what we found at the Palmer scenes.’
‘So if you put both those things together…’
Sally lowered her voice. ‘This is not a standard layman attempt to conceal evidence with Dettol and a scrubbing brush. This is fucking hardcore.’
‘An insider? Someone from CTS Decon, or another crime scene clean-up company?’
Sally said nothing.
Sawyer took a moment to digest it all. ‘Can you trust your “independent” analyst”?’
‘With my life. Known him for many years.’
‘And can you run a similar test on the Bishop scene?’
She bowed her head. ‘It’s already been cleaned.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘By CTS?’
‘Yes.’
‘Keep this off HOLMES. One to one for now. Just you and me.’
‘What about Shepherd?’
He shook his head. ‘Can you get me a list of CTS employees without them knowing?’
‘Easy. It’s a small operation. Three or four people. You could get them from the website.’
‘I’ll take a look. See if anything connects.’ He stared ahead as Sally got up and walked to the door. She opened it and he turned to her, nodded. She smiled and left, closing the door behind her.
Sawyer took out his phone and checked the time. He made a call. It connected almost immediately. ‘How’s my timing?’
‘Pretty good,’ said Maggie. ‘Considerate, for you.’
‘I figured you’d be between clients.’
‘You make it sound more exciting than it is.’ A door closed and another opened. She was moving into her home office, for privacy.
He turned away from the main MIT office and faced the window. ‘Have you spoken to Alex?’
‘You’ve seen her? That’s good, Jake.’
He scoffed. ‘Don’t make out that you don’t know.’
‘Why would I? Client-patient confidentiality, remember? So happy to hear. We can’t discuss it, of course. It cuts both ways. But you must be getting something out of it, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘Why can’t you talk in the sitting room?’
She hesitated. ‘Justin. You know the sensitivities. Did you see the thing about Donald Ainsworth?’
‘Nice subject change. What thing? I spoke to him in the week. Just a steer on the case.’
‘I read that he won substantial damages from Beck. He made a personal claim, alongside the University’s suit for reputation damage.’
Sawyer smiled. Two taps on his door. He glanced behind and waved Shepherd in. ‘Sometimes, the nice guys come first.’
‘Beck had to pay costs, too.’
He turned and looked up. The sight of Shepherd’s pale face wiped away his smile. His eyes were staring, and he was clearly struggling to keep his breathing steady. ‘Sorry, Mags. Got to go.’
‘Is that all you can spare, these days? Two minutes?’
Sawyer raised his eyebrows in question; Shepherd shook his head.
‘Breakfast tomorrow?’ she said.
‘Course. See you at nine.’
She hung up. Sawyer kept the phone pressed to his ear for a few more seconds, savouring the bliss of ignorance.
Part II
Loveless
33
The man lay face-down, half-buried in the roadside ditch. He was immense: well over six feet, with an endless torso smothered in dense clumps of silvery hair. The flesh had shifted and sagged to one side, clinging to the frame in layered rolls.
Sawyer peeled away the tape and opened out the polythene. He flattened it to the side, forming a makeshift groundsheet. He crouched and traced his gloved fingers through the hairs on the back, shifting and flattening to reveal the skin beneath.
He nodded to Shepherd. They wedged their hands under the man’s body and slowly rolled him onto his back. He slapped onto the polythene and stared sightlessly at the roof of the forensic tent.
‘ID?’ said Sawyer.
Sally held up a smartphone-sized electronic device. ‘New toy. Mobile fingerprint scanner. We got a hit from IDENT1.’
‘He punched someone at a book signing in Birmingham a couple of years ago,’ said Shepherd. ‘Fiery type, evidently. Writer. Simon Brock. Sixty-two. Lived locally. Hollinsclough. Myers is checking him out.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘What kind of writer?’
‘Novels,’ said Sally. ‘Crime thrillers. Apparently, he was friendly with one of the DCs. Chapman. Read his books before they were published. Checks the facts.’
Sawyer held her eye for a second. ‘Two wounds, this time. Both cauterised like before. Upper back. Just below his shoulder blades.’
There was a sudden noise: a descending note, like a constrained trumpet blast.
‘Death fart,’ said Sally. ‘Cellular breakdown. Escaping gases. Nature taking its course.’
Shepherd gagged, and turned away.
Sawyer crouched near the head. He brushed a hand across Simon Brock’s face and closed his eyes. Again, the hands had been arranged to cover the area between the legs. The arms had shifted slightly in turning the body over, but rigor mortis kept them in position.
He turned to Sally. ‘Anything?’
‘Same as the first one. Multiple tyre tracks. Impossible. Same with footprints. I’ll keep my team here all day. Zone, line, spiral searches. Multiple sweeps.’
Sawyer caught her eye again, nodded. He stood up, handed his gloves to an assistant FSI, and ducked out of the tent. He squelched across to the low stone wall, trailed by Shepherd. They stopped and looked out past the cordon edge, across the tumbling hay fields and the village of Flash: the highest in Britain.
‘I’d put TOD at less than twenty-four hours,’ said Sawyer.
‘Farmer found him,’ said Shepherd. ‘Saw the polythene. Nice of him to leave the body a short drive from the station. Why so close to the road, though?’
‘Have you seen the size of him? He must have rolled him out of the van and dragged him over the wall.’
‘No holdall this time.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘He’s getting bolder.’
Sally came out and joined
them. ‘You do seem to bring the body count, Sawyer. Before you came back, the sharpest unpleasantness around these parts was a bit of contention between the Bakewell tart and pudding brigades. Now it’s like the fucking Bronx in the 1970s.’
Sawyer turned. ‘Get Simon to Drummond. Let’s go see where he lived, and probably died.’
34
They checked in with the scene manager and walked through the hall. Wood panelling, ornate ceiling, mantlepiece with propped photographs: Simon sprawled on grass, laughing and wrestling with two young girls; Simon at some formal gathering, shaking hands with a frail-looking John Thaw. It smelt of polish and sweet tobacco and dog.
Sawyer twitched his nose. ‘Family?’
‘Wife died a few years ago,’ said Shepherd, leaning in to the photographs. ‘Cancer. Adult son, lives in York. Couple of granddaughters. Brazilian housekeeper says she cleans once every two weeks. He uses the annex as a writing shed. His son, Jonathan, is on his way.’
‘Who spoke to the housekeeper?’
‘Walker. He’s working with the FSIs out back. Sally told me he asked her if he could get involved. Wants to learn.’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘You should keep him on paperwork. He’ll have your job.’
They moved into the sitting room. Two FSIs were wriggling out of their Tyvek suits and packing their gear into holdalls. One spoke to Shepherd. ‘Scene fully documented, sir.’
‘DI Sawyer is the ranking officer.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Found anything?’ said Sawyer.
‘Few fibres. Lump of chewed chewing gum in the back garden. Filing it up for a briefing with Ms O’Callaghan.’
They moved out. Sawyer glanced at Shepherd. ‘Pretty sizeist. Thinking the big guy must be the boss.’
Shepherd ignored him. ‘Simon Brock doesn’t strike me as a chewing gum type.’
