by Andrew Lowe
‘Shepherd, you do have that special way of cheering me up sometimes. Moran and the CCTV?’
‘Nothing yet. Keeping him down in the dungeon with Rhodes isn’t doing a lot for his self-esteem, though. Not helping with your interpersonal disconnect, either.’
Outside, the car turned off its engine.
‘I’ll take that under advisement.’
Shepherd snorted. ‘Oh, and Keating is hopping about you cancelling the conference. Says we need to engage. Had a rant about how the press always fill the silence with bullshit. He wants to get public eyes on the vehicles while we protect the organ recipients and Amy. He wants you in tomorrow morning.’
‘He’s right. Fair call. Tell Bloom. Happy with the protection detail?’
‘I have DCs overseeing, advising on precautions. Officers at all locations. Possible observation points. We’ve issued jackpot alarms linked to the control room. Jamie Ingram, the kidney guy, he’s not happy with it. Says he can take care of himself. DC showed him the morgue shots, with the wounds. Didn’t bother him. He said, “They’ll have to get close to stab me.” He does some martial art or something. You’d love him.’
‘Let’s check in with them tomorrow. See you in the morning.’
The car door closed. Footsteps, heading for the house.
One person.
They paused on the porch.
Three short, light taps.
The microwave clock read 21:50.
He stood close to the decaying wooden door. It was solid, but ill-fitted, and he caught a hint of Eva’s perfume. Eloquent, subtle. Pheromonic. Not an artificial top layer, but a seamless aspect of her look and poise.
He opened the door. She lurked around the side of the frame, as if ready to pounce. She was long and undulating: an arresting mix of formal and casual. Knee-length skirt; sneakers; designer-looking leather jacket. For a moment, Sawyer thought she was wearing some kind of headscarf, but then his eyes adjusted. She had dyed her ghostly white hair a deep, charcoal black, and pinned it over one shoulder.
He caught himself staring: at the colour, the texture.
She pushed up the bridge of her dark brown Tom Fords with her index finger. The nerdiness of the gesture chafed with her overall elegance; it made her even more appealing. Sawyer thought it seemed a little choreographed, but no less effective.
Eva looked at him. ‘Good time?’
‘As in, “Am I looking for one?”’
‘As in, “Is it a good time?”’
‘It’s late, Eva. I was just about to turn in for the night.’
He smiled. She raised her eyebrows, chiding him, and stepped past into the house.
He closed the door and followed her inside.
She took in the sitting room: paused videogame flickering on the TV; coffee table cluttered with plates and packets; half-empty mugs and glasses dotted around like ornaments. ‘You’re such a boy.’
‘This is me relaxing. You doorstepped me. It’s not meant for external observation. I feel quite violated, actually. Drink?’
She held up a bottle wrapped in brown paper. ‘I bought wine.’
Sawyer turned off the TV. He cleared away the crockery and transferred the rest of the junk into a carrier bag. ‘I’ll find a couple of clean glasses.’
‘Good luck.’
He thrust the carrier bag into the kitchen pedal bin. ‘Sarcasm suits you.’
‘I wish I could say the same about your T-shirt.’
He laughed. ‘Like I said, this is private me. Unobserved. I bet you’ve got a few band T-shirts you bring out on laundry day. I’m going with Simply Red.’
‘Fuck off!’ She smiled, studied his T-shirt. A jumble of white letters: some solid, some faded. The solid ones formed the phrase, INTO THE BLOOD. ‘Actually. It’s acceptable. Could pass as a fashion thing. At least there’s no band picture.’
He produced two long-stem wine glasses and rinsed them under the cold tap. ‘I like the hair.’
Eva smiled. She took off her jacket and hung it over a chair. ‘I’m going to smoke.’ She opened a fresh packet of Marlboro Golds. ‘It’s not like it’ll ruin the ambience.’ She slid a cigarette between her lips and lit it with the short, steady flame from a tiny lighter. ‘How’s the case?’
He shrugged. ‘Grim.’
A sharp, scratching sound from the back door. Eva caught it. ‘What’s that?’
Sawyer smiled and opened the door. The black-and-white cat padded in, imperious. It made straight for Eva and threaded itself around her ankles in a figure of eight, purring.
She crouched and petted it. ‘What a beauty! Is he yours? He? She?’
‘He. I think he sees me as his. He’s called Bruce.’
She gave him a look. ‘I don’t know why people name cats. It’s not like they come when you call.’
‘Yeah, they do. But in their own time, at their own pace. I like that. Cats are like adults. They can look after themselves. You can take them or leave them. Dogs are toddlers. Eating and shitting machines. Constantly needing attention.’
‘You told me you had a dog when you were little.’
Sawyer unwrapped the wine. ‘Yeah. They’re good for kids. And lonely older people.’
Bruce broke away and headed for a dish of tuna on the floor in the far corner of the kitchen. Eva followed, and petted him while he ate. She looked around, peeking through the open door that led to the bedroom, then sat down on the sofa arm and blew out a jet of blue-black smoke. It swirled and dissolved in the lamplight.
Sawyer opened the wine. ‘Whispering Angel? Rosé?’
‘Yeah,’ said Eva. ‘Bit of a social faux pas. Off-season wine. Can you see past it?’
He smiled and poured out two glasses. ‘You shouldn’t have come. But I’m glad you did.’
She took her glass, sipped. ‘I parked my car at a friend’s place a couple of days ago. Took a bus there and drove here.’
‘So you do accept that Dale is dangerous?’
‘Of course I do. But I don’t know as much as you probably suspect.’
‘He sent some friends over.’
‘What? Here?’
He nodded, sipped his wine. ‘Yeah. Just bluster.’
‘Luka said you came to the house. Sensible!’
‘Dale is a bully. You beat bullies by refusing to be a victim.’
She sighed. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about Dale.’
Sawyer ran a palm across the fuzz of hair on the top of his head. ‘I need to shower. Couple of minutes. If it’s a bit boysy in here, you could wait in the bedroom.’
Eva laughed. ‘Is that your best line? I suppose that weird wooden dummy thing is pretty sexy.’ She stood up, set down her glass on the coffee table. She walked over and stood before him, still holding her cigarette. The smoke spiralled upward, coiling around them.
Up close, Sawyer could see the colour of her lipstick: deep, dark red. Almost black. Like Amy’s roses.
He leaned forward. She pulled back, froze for a second, then angled her head, submitting to the kiss.
While Eva slept, Sawyer threw on his bathrobe and crept out to the sitting room. Bruce had curled into a tight ball on the sofa; he pricked an ear as Sawyer entered.
Two discarded wine glasses sat on the coffee table, one with a floating cigarette butt.
He unlocked the front door and walked down to Eva’s silver Mazda, parked behind the orange Mini. It was still dark; a few hours to dawn, with a bite to the air. He looked up and down the lane: clear and silent. A light wind ruffled the trees.
He bent down by the Mazda and felt under the rim of the driver-side wheel arch, probing with his fingers. He did the same for the other three wheels. Nothing. He took out his phone and switched on the torchlight. He crouched and peered underneath the chassis, sweeping the beam from back to front.
The light picked out a small oblong protruding from the metal. He gripped it, jiggled, and pulled it clear. It was about the size of his hand: a solid black box with two round metal discs
. A micro-magnetic GPS tracker.
39
Shepherd parked the Range Rover at the side of the road, behind a tank-like Alfa Romeo SUV: new-looking.
Sawyer whistled. ‘Is that his car? What does he do?’
‘Runs some training company. We have officers stationed here and at Kim Lyons and Amy Scott’s places. DC Walker is here, overseeing.’
An officer checked their ID and they stepped through a low gate onto the garden path. Jamie Ingram’s house was part of a patch of contemporary semis just outside the village of Youlgreave. To give the buildings a rustic, stone-built look, they had been constructed with chalky brickwork in varying shades of brown and white. It was how the buildings might look if Las Vegas ever developed a themed Peak District hotel.
‘Do you run?’ A deep but petulant voice from inside.
‘Not regularly, sir. But I’m fit enough to keep up with you.’
Sawyer and Shepherd showed their ID to another officer at the front door and followed the commotion into the sitting room. It was poky, with a low ceiling and functional, show-home furnishing. The walls were covered in framed certificates: ugly and beige with gold trim; bold and red with Japanese characters. Signatures, exultations.
Jamie Ingram stood in the centre of the room, in shorts and T-shirt, clutching a plastic water bottle that had been shaped to fit snug around his fist. He was short but beefy: heavily muscled, with a thin flap of blond hair he had combed forward in an attempt to disguise premature balding. He wore a fitness tracker on his wrist, and his T-shirt was fitted, to emphasise his inflated pecs and biceps.
DC Walker sat at a table near the window, on his laptop. Another officer stood face to face with Ingram. ‘Sir. It’s our job to keep you safe. We would appreciate it if you could delay your run while we wait for some sportswear to arrive. I will then be able to accompany you—’
‘So I’m effectively under fucking house arrest? Look. I run every day, in the woods. Two minutes up the road. It’s beautiful, okay? I know it better than the fucking squirrels. If anyone wanted to attack me, they would have to do some serious reconnaissance work, and they would have to catch me first. And then they would have to fight me. See these?’ He gestured at the walls. ‘Judo. Taekwondo. Karate. This one’s for the Staffordshire Iron Man. One-mile swim, fifty-six-mile cycle, thirteen-mile run.’ He waved a hand at Sawyer and Shepherd. ‘Who’s this? My pace-setters?’
Shepherd held out a hand. ‘DS Shepherd. This is DI Sawyer.’
Walker registered Sawyer and Shepherd, and leapt to his feet.
Ingram returned Shepherd’s handshake, briefly. ‘Look. I appreciate you are doing your jobs, but this is incredibly disruptive and totally over the top.’
Sawyer stepped into the room, between Ingram and the standing officer. ‘Could you sit down for a second, Mr Ingram? Please. Just give us a couple of minutes.’
Ingram fixed Sawyer with a flinty glare. Crystal blue eyes. A vein pulsed at his temple. ‘Two minutes!’ He slumped onto the sofa. ‘Then I’m gone.’
Sawyer pulled a chair from the table and sat opposite. ‘Tell me about your kidney.’
Ingram spluttered. ‘The new one? I waited nearly two years for it. Dialysis. Blood clots. They think the disease was something to do with blood pressure. A gift from my father. What is this, a GP consult?’
‘Just trying to get a full picture. And you’ve been well for a while now?’
‘I have. I take immunosuppressants, but everything is fine.’ He pointed at the certificate again. ‘I ran the Iron Man within six months of the op. Beat my previous time, too. It’ll take more than chronic kidney disease to kill me.’
‘It made you stronger,’ said Shepherd.
Ingram smiled. ‘I feel fine. What’s this got to do with the so-called “threat” against my life?’
Sawyer pulled the chair closer. ‘We’re investigating a series of murders that appear to be linked with organ donation. Did you know an individual called Roy Tyler?’
‘Haven’t heard the name, no.’
‘How about Susan Bishop? Sam Palmer? Simon Brock?’
‘Only from what I’ve seen on the news. Sam Palmer was a disgrace. He should never had received that liver. He ruined himself.’
Sawyer glanced at Shepherd. ‘He was an alcoholic. Substance addiction, not lifestyle choice.’
Ingram scoffed. ‘Willpower. Self-actualisation. We all have control over our choices, officer.’
‘Detective,’ said Sawyer.
‘I’m not saying that some people don’t struggle with impulse control, but the idea that you’re a passive slave to your urges… It’s a cop-out.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘You seem quite agitated that you’re being stopped from exercising.’
‘That’s different.’
‘So you have no personal connection to any of these people?’
Ingram shook his head. ‘No, I don’t, and I really do believe that this is all rather heavy-handed. What problem could I possibly pose for someone, just because I happen to have been treated for a kidney condition?’
‘That’s what we’re working on,’ said Shepherd. ‘But in the meantime, as you say, it’s our job to keep you safe.’
Ingram smiled and nodded his head slowly. ‘Detectives. I have a black belt in Shotokan karate, third dan. High level certifications in Judo, Taekwondo—’
Sawyer held up a hand. ‘Mr Ingram. We’re not talking about classical combat. This person is not going to pay you the courtesy of telling you what he’s going to do before he does it.’
Ingram laughed. ‘No, but he’s going to have to—’
‘Catch you first, yes. You said. This isn’t about tournament fighting or modulated endurance. We’re dealing with a dangerous, highly intelligent multiple murderer—’
‘Who, so far, has got the better of a woman, an overweight middle-aged man, and an obese—’
‘I run,’ said Walker. ‘I’ll go with you.’ He got up and made for the front door. ‘My house is five minutes’ drive away. I’ll get changed. Be back before you know it.’
Sawyer looked at Shepherd, shrugged.
Walker hurried out of the house, up the path.
Sawyer tilted his head and took Shepherd aside, into the hallway. ‘I want an observation point across the street. Plenty of options for location. Take over a house if you need to. Shed or outbuilding. Do the same for Kim Lyons and Amy Scott. Our man won’t know that we know. This has to be covert. If he comes calling, we need to be ready.’
40
Kim Lyons set down three mugs of tea and joined Sawyer and Shepherd at the kitchen table. She was slight, and strangely ageless, with fringed, auburn hair which hung limp at her shoulders, as if she had one day indulged in an expensive bob cut but hadn’t bothered to maintain it. She crept around the room slowly, touching her fingertips to the edges of tables and chairs.
She produced a square Family Circle biscuit tin and opened the lid. Sawyer was disappointed to see it had been repurposed as a container for some kind of flapjack tray-bake, cut into strips. He took a piece, anyway. ‘How long have you owned this place, Ms Lyons?’
‘Many years now. It used to be a working farm and we took a few courses, me and Jay, my then husband. It was cheap and we thought we could pick up where the previous owners left off. It wasn’t to be.’
‘Were you both from the Peak District?’ said Shepherd.
‘Jay was. Buxton. I come from Congleton. It’s a suburb of Stoke. I met him at a student gig. We were both studying Fine Art. We married young. Twenty-two.’
The words wafted from her. Kim’s voice was dreamy, conspiratorial. Almost a whisper. She kept her eyes on the kitchen window, as if monitoring the sheep in the facing fields that sloped down to Longnor.
Shepherd sipped his tea, slurping. Sawyer glanced at him. ‘And you’re no longer together?’
A shaggy mongrel dog padded in, and Kim petted it, scrunching her slender fingers into its fur. ‘I’m afraid not. I… We couldn’t h
ave children.’ She dipped her head, caught herself. ‘He’s rather an accomplished chef, these days. He works at Fischer’s, in Baslow. He lives there now, with someone new. We haven’t been together for many years. He left a few days after I turned forty. Turned. Like milk.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘I live in this little farmhouse and rent out the main building. Airbnb. HomeAway.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘It would be helpful if you could keep the house free of guests for the time being.’ He gestured to DC Fleming and the uniformed officer down the hall in the sitting room. ‘We may need to keep officers stationed here for a while. I hope that’s not a problem.’
She smiled. ‘I understand.’
‘We will set up an observation point nearby, and one officer will stay with you here. DC Fleming will check in daily. You have your alarm. It’s a remote signalling device. Keep it with you at all times. If you activate it, the police control room will be alerted and the officers at the observation point will respond and call in back-up units.’
Kim sighed. ‘Why on Earth would someone want to attack me, anyway?’
‘We don’t actually know that, Ms Lyons. At the moment, we’re working on the assumption that the offender is specifically targeting people who have received transplanted organs and tissue, from the same hospital. Possibly the same person.’
‘Well. If he wants the tissue back, he’ll be disappointed with my corneas. There was no explanation for why my sight started to fail. I had a strange ‘misting’ effect around everything. Distortions. It got worse and I had the transplant in April last year at Manchester. But I’m afraid I’ve suffered countless related problems and I’ve now been told that the degeneration is irreversible. This time next year, I’ll be completely blind.’ She leaned forward. ‘Are you seriously telling me that someone might want to kill me, because I’ve tried to improve my eyesight?’
