Stronger Than Death

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘It’ll take time. All this? It’s just the real world. Life. Freedom.’ Sawyer smiled. ‘You wanted it. You’ve got it. But you can’t just pick up where you left off. You have to rebuild. Start at the foundations.’

  Klein closed and opened his eyes. ‘Mr Robbins. For all that I appreciate your help and your support, you’re forgetting one thing. You might believe that I didn’t murder Jess, but I know that I didn’t. For certain.’ He looked at Sawyer. ‘And there’s one other person who also carries that certainty. And this freedom.’

  They walked along a scruffy public pathway; it was Open Access Land, but designed to distance observers from the fractured outbuildings of the disused mine.

  Klein cupped a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sinking sun. ‘They used this place to suck lead out of the earth in Victorian times. But then they had to pump the water out, and it became unprofitable.’

  Sawyer gazed out across the broad, flat field. The brick ruins brooded in the afternoon shadows; a clutter of chipped pottery, gnawed down by the elements. The buildings were mostly low and roofless, gathered around a central engine house with a cylindrical chimney that loomed like an obelisk. The place was a fossil; a monument to obsolete industry, marooned in the centre of the very ground it was built to exploit.

  ‘I read there was a murder here,’ said Sawyer. ‘A rivalry with another mine or something.’

  Klein scoffed. ‘Probably an industrial accident. And the tale has grown with the telling. There’s a lot of that round here. The ghost tours feed off it.’

  It was already past three. The mine was deserted, but for the occasional hiking couple cutting through from Bakewell and Ashford. They passed the rickety winding house, and picked around the central buildings. Anything with a roof had been bricked up, apart from an empty corrugated shed and a restored two-storey house: firmly secured. Klein pointed to a sign on its door.

  STRICTLY PRIVATE PROPERTY

  PDMHS

  ‘PDMHS?’ said Sawyer.

  Klein thought for a few seconds. ‘Peak District Mine Historical Society. It’ll be their field centre.’ A squall of wind raised his wispy grey hair and he dug his hands into his jacket pocket. ‘There’s no “bothy” here, Mr Robbins. No secret meeting. I think we’ve been had. Maybe it’s time to switch strategy. Try the art of fighting with fighting.’

  They walked back to the roadside parking area. As they stumbled down a rocky slope onto the main path, Klein froze and placed a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder.

  He took out his phone and showed the screen to Sawyer. It was blank. ‘Don’t look up. I’m sure that’s the one! I’ve seen it before, near my brother’s place.’

  Sawyer kept his head tilted down towards the screen. He lifted his eyes and looked across at the distant parking area, just visible behind the tall perimeter hedge. It was close to dusk, and he had to squint to focus. A large burgundy BMW was parked next to his Mini. They were too far away to read the number plate.

  ‘I’m sure, Mr Robbins. I’m sure that’s the same one.’

  ‘Can you take a picture?’ said Sawyer. ‘We can zoom in later.’

  The car engine started and its lights came on.

  Klein opened his camera app. But by the time he had raised the phone, the car had pulled away.

  48

  At the cottage, Sawyer executed the second Wing Chun form, Chum Kiu, and ran through his post-workout stretches. Slowly, mindfully. He walked into the bathroom and opened both taps, full. He was eager to sink into the frothy water and power down for the night. There was too much in motion. The killer, the Caseys, Eva, Michael, Klein.

  The car. It wasn’t the one he had seen outside the house on the rainy night. But he had seen it before somewhere. A while ago. Somewhere stationary.

  He picked up The Gift Of Fear from his bedside table and walked through into the bathroom. He stopped, listened. It was about this time that Bruce would usually emerge, scratching at the door for food.

  Nothing.

  He carried on into the bathroom. The water thundered down, full volume. He took a bottle down from a shelf over the sink, opened it, sniffed it. Coconut. He squirted too much into the base of the stream and stood there for a while, transfixed by the bloom of bubbles.

  He turned off the taps and stabbed his fingers through his thickening hair. He was about to strip, when he heard a familiar drilling sound. He looked out and saw his phone jerking across the wood of the coffee table. The microwave clock read 10:40pm.

  He rushed into the sitting room and picked up the phone.

  It was Keating.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘DI Sawyer.’ He was gruff, angry. He drew in a breath, composing himself. ‘I’ve just seen the end of tonight’s BBC news. The regional section.’ He spat out the words in short, angry bursts. ‘The main story. From one of tomorrow’s newspapers.’

  ‘Logan?’

  ‘I assume so. I took a picture of the screen. Check your messages.’

  Sawyer’s stomach lurched. ‘Do I need to come in?’

  ‘If it’s not. Too. Much. Trouble.’

  He hung up.

  Sawyer looked at his inbox and opened the message from Keating. The picture attachment showed a wavy TV screen with the front page of the Derbyshire Times. The main image was a large shot of three red roses lined up side by side. Above them were three smaller square images in a neat row, with photographs of Susan Bishop, Sam Palmer and Simon Brock.

  The headline screamed out.

  EXCLUSIVE! RED ROSE KILLER TAUNTS HERO COP

  Shit.

  As soon as the killer saw this, he would know that Amy had spoken to the police. How much time did they have? Had he been watching the programme, too? Amy’s protection detail was geared towards catching him staking her out, but the threat against her had now been stepped up.

  As he threw on his shoes and jacket, he heard a car cross the driveway bridge and turn off its engine.

  A single set of footsteps approached the front door.

  Two slow, strong raps.

  Only one person. He could handle that.

  He opened the door.

  It was Shaun, from the Barrel Inn. He had scrubbed up a bit: thick blazer over the black polo-neck. ‘Evening. Tough guy.’

  Sawyer shrugged. ‘You don’t write. You don’t call.’

  Shaun nodded. ‘Still a smartarse.’

  Sawyer checked him over. The jumper was fitted; no unnatural stretch around the waist. Clean. Bulge in one pocket. Car keys. For the first time, Sawyer was struck by the size of Shaun’s hands: chunky fingers, flexing in and out of fists. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but now’s not a good time.’ He turned off the light and moved to step out onto the porch.

  Shaun shifted to the side, blocking his path. ‘We won’t keep you long. Just a quick thing.’

  Sawyer moved forward. They were inches apart; face to face. ‘We?’

  ‘Let’s play nice, fellas.’

  Sawyer looked around Shaun, to the white Mercedes parked in front of the Mini, blocking him in. An equally hefty man climbed out of the passenger seat, followed by a shorter, wirier colleague on the other side. It was the short man who had spoken. He was holding a small pistol.

  Sawyer squinted into the darkness. ‘Is that a Glock?’

  The man smiled. ‘It is! Austrian. Purchased from an Irish associate, if you’re interested.’ Hint of a Scottish accent. He was handsome, in a good suit. Yellow tie. Blond hair in a tidy block on top of his head, short at the sides. His colleague was the biggest of the three: square-jawed and angry-looking. Shaven headed, like Shaun. Blazer and white shirt. He had a small gym bag over one shoulder.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ said Sawyer. ‘I’ve got to go out. If you’d leave me your card, I’ll be sure to get back to you at the earliest convenient opportunity.’

  The short man waved the gun towards the cottage interior. ‘Let’s pop inside. As the man says, we’ll make it quick. I can’t guarantee it will be painless, thoug
h.’

  Sawyer backed into the sitting room and turned the light on. Shaun stepped inside, followed by the other two. The biggest man closed the door behind them.

  ‘So, is this an upgrade?’ said Sawyer. ‘You sent the Reminder guys and now you’re the Final Warning team?’

  The man with the gun kept it on his hip, pointed at Sawyer. ‘I’m afraid we don’t follow that system. It’s more of a fast track from warning to consequence. We’re the debt collectors.’

  ‘And for whose benefit are you collecting the debt?’

  The man glared at him, flashed a forced smile. ‘Now. You already know Shaun. I’m Marco, and this is Hector. Doesn’t speak a lot of English. He’s more a man of action.’

  Sawyer laughed. ‘What is this? Some new hidden camera show? The dumb goon, the mute muscle, and you. The brains of the operation? Or are you all sharing just the one brain cell?’

  Marco smiled.

  ‘Go on, then. This is where you nod at one of the other two and they give me a slap.’

  Marco lost his smile. ‘Are you left or right, Mr Sawyer?’

  ‘I’m apolitical. It’s all about Stoicism for me. And the milk of human kindness.’

  ‘I mean physically. Which one is your wanking hand?’

  ‘I have to use both.’

  Shaun nodded at Sawyer. ‘It’s the right. I remember from the pub.’

  Hector lifted the bag off his shoulder and pulled out a length of thick rope.

  ‘I won’t lie to you,’ said Marco. ‘This isn’t going to be the most pleasant evening of your life. But you can make it slightly less unpleasant.’ Shaun dragged a chair over from the kitchen. ‘Here’s the plan. I’m going to stand here, pointing this loaded gun at you, while Marco and Shaun tie you to that chair.’

  Marco took a heavy-looking chisel and a round-headed mallet out of the bag.

  ‘Is this a sex thing?’ said Sawyer. ‘Can’t you just stick to each other? Leave me out of it?’

  ‘We said we’d cut something off you if you didn’t listen,’ said Shaun.

  Marco nodded. ‘We’re going to take your right thumb. The one you use to send phone messages.’

  ‘To Eva? I like it. Poetic justice.’

  Marco ignored him. ‘And if you somehow manage to keep sending messages—’

  Sawyer snorted. ‘By, say, using the other thumb?’

  ‘Yes. Then we’ll be back for that one later.’

  Marco and Shaun shouldered into Sawyer and grabbed an arm each. They hustled him to the chair and forced him to sit. Marco took a step back, keeping the gun on him.

  Sawyer nodded to the mallet and chisel. ‘Do you have to use such a big hammer? Won’t that split the wood?’

  Marco shook his head. ‘Distributes the impact quite evenly, actually. Less stress on the—’

  ‘Chiseller?’ said Sawyer.

  Marco nodded. ‘And if you miss with a small-headed hammer… Well. It gets really messy.’

  Hector held Sawyer’s arms to the frame of the chair while Shaun began to wrap the rope around his legs.

  ‘We’re not savages,’ said Marco. ‘Shaun will hold your hand down on that coffee table. Marco will do the business. It’ll be nice and quick. Then we’ll be on our way and you’ll be free to call for help. With your left hand. Seriously. If you just let us get on with it, we’ll be gone before you know it. We’ve done this before, you know.’

  ‘No anaesthetic?’ said Sawyer.

  ‘As I say, it’ll sting a bit. But you’ll live. Wrap a towel round it to stop the bleeding. We will be taking the offending digit with us, though.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a trophy thing.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘Proof that the job is done.’

  Marco smiled.

  Shaun threaded the rope underneath the chair and wove it up and round, over Sawyer’s legs.

  ‘Any advice for aftercare?’ said Sawyer. ‘Oils or ointments?’

  Marco squinted at Sawyer, equally amused and bemused. ‘Maybe a touch of Vaseline. At least.’

  ‘You do realise that cutting the thumb off a high-ranking police officer constitutes an assault. That’s a serious offence.’

  Shaun looked up. ‘It doesn’t count if you’re not “executing your duty”.’ He stood up and moved around in front of Sawyer, momentarily blocking Hector’s vision.

  Sawyer lurched forward and drove his shoulder into Shaun, pushing with his full force, using Shaun’s weight against him. He overbalanced and toppled backwards, into Hector. As they stumbled together, Sawyer jerked his legs up, freeing them from the rope. He reached behind and grabbed the kitchen chair.

  Hector made a move for him, but Sawyer was quicker. He swung the chair around, smashing the heavy seat into the side of Hector’s head. The big man bellowed in outrage and dropped to the floor, dazed but still conscious.

  Sawyer stepped to the side, giving himself more room. He swung the chair again, this time at Marco. It wasn’t as strong a connection, but it hit him across the shoulder, jolting him sideways and forcing him to drop the gun, which, inconveniently, slid across the floor towards Hector, who had pulled himself up onto all-fours.

  Sawyer kicked the gun away and drove his knee into the side of Hector’s head, swinging the full strength of his core into the impact. Hector sank to the floor, unconscious.

  Now, Shaun was on him, bursting forward. Sawyer switched to JKD fighting stance and shuffled back and to the side, allowing Shaun’s forward momentum to stagger him. Shaun turned and drew back his right arm, telegraphing his punch. Sawyer neutered it with an inside forearm block and stepped inside, hoping to down him with an elbow strike. But Shaun was quick, and grabbed Sawyer’s left arm, readying a second punch. They grappled for a second, as Marco climbed over the sofa, in search of the gun.

  Shaun had pulled Sawyer in close, clearly hoping to overpower him with brute strength. Body odour. Tobacco breath. Sawyer drew his head away, as Shaun jerked him to the side, trying to wrestle him to the ground. Shaun had the advantage in bulk, and once they were on the floor, Sawyer would be sucked into a time-consuming grapple.

  Marco crouched down by the kitchen table, fumbling for the gun.

  Shaun jerked Sawyer to the side again. One more of those and he would have him down, and be on top. He smiled, his mouth close enough for Sawyer to see a thread of cosmetic silver fillings across his front teeth. ‘Nice try.’ He jerked again. ‘Tough guy.’

  Sawyer lifted the car keys from Shaun’s pocket. He strained the muscle in his neck, pulling it back. He nodded down, crunching his forehead into Shaun’s nose. Shaun cried out, and released Sawyer’s arm. He stumbled back, and Sawyer hit him with a finger thrust to his eyes: brutal and direct, like a snake strike. Shaun fell away, howling and clutching his face.

  Marco was on the floor, reaching underneath the sink unit.

  Sawyer bolted for the front door.

  Across the porch, to the Mercedes.

  He squeezed the transponder button and the car’s lights flashed.

  He opened the driver’s door.

  A gunshot resounded from behind. Muzzle flash lighting up the night.

  Marco stood at the front door, pointing the gun at him, head drooped but alert. ‘Don’t fucking move!’ Inside, Shaun roared in fury.

  Sawyer stared at him, breathing hard. He glanced inside the car. Push button start. He slipped inside and closed the door, ducked down, squeezed his foot on the brake pedal.

  Muffled gunshot. Another muzzle flash.

  A bullet crunched into the bodywork on the passenger side. It was oddly anticlimactic; as if it had been hit by a heavy rock.

  Sawyer pushed the start button. The engine growled into life.

  Another shot skimmed the roof of the car. Marco moved forward on the porch, holding the Glock at eye level, aiming along the barrel.

  Sawyer slid deep in the driver seat, head below the level of the windows. He pushed hard on the accelerator and reversed onto the road.

  As he swung the car around, Marco s
cored a direct hit on the windscreen. The bullet punched a hole through the centre, sending out a spray of jagged fracture lines.

  Sawyer shifted gear and squeezed the accelerator, staying low in the seat. The car screeched away. As he rounded the corner, he looked in the wing mirror and saw Shaun standing on the porch next to Marco, watching.

  He drove to the Edale station car park, turned off the lights and engine, and sat there in the quiet, in the dark.

  Every inch of his skin felt raw and tender, and the familiar tingling had reared up in the base of his neck. He inhaled, held it. He covered his ears with his hands and listened to the accelerated thump of his heart. He exhaled, lowered his hands to his legs. Wetness on the left leg, near the thigh. He turned on the interior light.

  Red, red, red. Spreading out from the top of his trouser leg. His fingers found the scorched fabric, the bullet hole. Warm. The smell of singed fabric, burnt flesh.

  Sawyer took out his phone and checked the time 11:17. The late Sheffield train would be arriving in three minutes.

  He opened the door and tumbled out. Now, at last, the pain flashed across his leg, through his groin, up into his torso. A deep and deadly burning.

  He limped across the car park, to the verge. He climbed the perimeter fence, his wounded leg sending out rapid pulses of pain.

  Sweat, now. Tickling his forehead, prickling the edges of his mouth.

  Train lights. Vibrating track.

  He shuffled down the verge onto the Tarmac path, close to the level crossing.

  It was his first time: being shot. It was worse than he had imagined. The burning intensified with every step, and every step seemed heavier than the last. He could flush it all away here: the pain, the puzzles. He could step away from the whole righteous farce; bow out before the great decline of middle-age. Leave behind a good-looking work in progress.

  He limped over the boom barrier and stepped onto the track.