by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer snatched out his arm and held Kim firm by her wrists. She gasped and scowled at him. He paused, then relaxed his grip, opening his fingers. ‘You make the choice, Kim. You have the power now, over life or death.’
Behind, Sawyer felt Myers make a move forward; he held up a hand to stand him down.
Ballard opened his eyes. He looked from Kim to Sawyer, weighing his options. Outside, Leo whined and scrabbled at the foot of the door.
Kim held the knife steady for a few seconds, then sighed. Sawyer felt her arm go limp. He closed his fingers around her wrist and slid the knife out of her hand, pulling it away from Ballard.
Myers moved in. He yanked Ballard to his feet and held him in an armlock.
Ballard tried a half-hearted struggle against the restraint, but soon relaxed. He raised his eyes to Sawyer. ‘Detective, I know what comes next. I know I’m not obliged to say anything. But while we’re still off the record… I hope you find some justice for your mother soon.’
58
FIVE DAYS LATER
Wardlow Mires was a one-street limestone village that sat in the centre of the National Park, on the North/South divide between the High and Dark Peak. Sawyer steered the Mini into the vast car park of the roadside Yondermann Café. It was early, and the morning mist lingered low over the flat farmland towards Eyam. The sky—so open and infinite in his childhood memory—had been sealed over by an opaque veil of grubby white cloud. He parked, and left the engine running for a few seconds, zoning out to the brooding baritone of Nick Cave. Interventionist gods, guiding angels, the power of love. He killed the engine and stepped out into the sodden air.
Alex sat at the table nearest the door, with a pot of tea and a novel: Morvern Callar by Alan Warner. She wore her standard beige roll-neck, with a brimmed grey beret. A fawn velvet overcoat hung over the back of the chair. She sprang to her feet and embraced him.
‘Not stopping?’ Sawyer nodded to her hat.
‘It’s cold. You feel it more as you get older. You’ll see.’
‘Looking forward to it.’
She smiled and waited for more. Sawyer dropped his head. ‘Are you ready?’
‘We’ll soon find out.’
They walked out of the village, along the verge of the main road, and turned left at a Public Footpath sign. The track was unpaved, and they had to navigate around wide puddles and sopping mounds of mud.
‘Wardlow is your home town, right?’ said Alex.
‘Yeah. This is one of the routes we used to take after my mum picked us up from the old school.’
Sawyer hung back, limping a little. Alex edged around a crater of folded mud. ‘And have you been back before today? To the lane?’
Sawyer found a firmer section of path, and edged ahead. ‘Yeah. Few months ago. It was dark, though. Didn’t seem as real.’
‘Looks like you’re struggling. With the leg.’
He shrugged, didn’t turn. ‘I won’t be training for any trail marathons anytime soon.’
They descended into sparse woodland, which opened out to a straight, paved lane that ran with open fields on one side and a line of trees on the other. Sawyer stopped and looked out across the flattened pastures. He drew the collar of his jacket up around his neck.
Alex came up behind him. ‘I know the weather is hardly the same, but that shouldn’t matter.’ She took out her digital recorder. ‘How are you feeling, Jake? Is this a good place to start?’ He nodded. ‘Okay. Take your time. Nice and steady.’
She pressed Play. Sawyer’s voice.
‘I am walking down the lane…’
They moved off, guided by the recording.
‘It is warm, but my mouth is still cold from an ice lolly I just finished...’
Alex stayed behind Sawyer. She rested a hand on his shoulder.
‘My mum is telling my brother not to touch something. Litter. Chocolate wrapper. My dog is barking at him. He is running past me now...’
Alex’s voice. ‘Your brother?’
‘The dog. I am chasing him...’
Sawyer walked faster, into the relative shade of a patch of overhanging branches.
‘My dog is stopping and barking. He is running back towards my mother and brother. I am turning and following. I can hear a plane, high in the sky...’
Sawyer turned. His face was flushed red; eyes darting around, confused. Alex paused the recording. ‘We can slow down if you like, Jake.’
He shook his head. She started the recorder again.
‘I am running back, too fast, tripping over my steps…’
Sawyer broke into a half-run. He was compromised by his leg injury, but Alex still had to shift to keep up with him; her long blue coat flapping in the frosty wind.
‘I can hear my mother’s voice and my dog, barking…’
Sawyer hobbled off the side of the road, over the verge, into the edge of a field. He stopped, hung his head. Alex waited, watching him. Sawyer dropped to his knees and dug his hands into the grass. His shoulders heaved.
Alex’s voice. ‘How is that making you feel?’
‘The sound makes me feel scared, and sick.’
Alex startled at the sound of a shout, rising up from Sawyer. A roar of anguish, frustration. She stepped over the verge and followed him to the edge of the field.
‘I can feel the heat of the sun.’
He looked up at her, eyes shining with tears. ‘Turn it off.’
‘What can you see, Jake?’
‘I can see the green—’
‘Turn it OFF!’
She stopped the recording. Sawyer tried to get up, stumbled, stayed on his knees. He had turned his head away, but Alex could tell from his movement that he was sobbing.
He sucked in a deep, ragged breath, and swiped at his cheeks with both hands. ‘I can’t.’
She rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Can’t what?’
He shrugged her away. ‘This. I can feel it, but I can’t see it. I can’t see anything that helps. There’s nothing here. Just a field and some trees. Why does it hurt so much?’
‘Why does what hurt?’
‘Love.’ He turned to her, his face warped with rage.
Alex sighed. ‘The fact that you’re feeling it shows that you can heal. That you will heal. It’s not the love itself that hurts, Jake. It’s the loss. The longing. The denial of the urge to express love.’ She crouched down beside him. ‘But that’s all life is, really. A fight between love and death. Death always wins in the end, of course. But it’s love that makes it a hollow victory.’
59
In the Nut Tree, Maggie Spark sipped her black coffee. She reached over and snapped an edge off Sawyer’s pastry.
Sawyer looked up at her. ‘Do try some yourself. Don’t be shy.’
Maggie squinted at the flaky crust and grimaced.
He smiled. ‘Not for you?’
‘It looks so dry.’
‘It’s a palmier. Traditional French pastry. And you call me a food philistine.’
She sat back. ‘I don’t know where to start, really. I was going to ask what you’ve been up to. But I should probably ask about what you haven’t been up to.’
He shrugged, bit into the pastry. ‘I got a cat.’
‘That’s the highlight of the past few weeks?’
‘Well, I suppose he got me.’
‘Name?’
He slurped his tea. ‘Bruce.’
Maggie rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve been shot, stabbed, god knows what else. You’ve solved a difficult case, apprehended an appalling multiple murderer.’
‘Saved the life of a colleague. Don’t forget that.’
‘How is Walker?’
‘Awake. Still in hospital. Shepherd went to see him. They need to do tests to measure his brain function. But he’ll live.’
She nodded. ‘We used to think that the brain couldn’t repair itself, that cells don’t regenerate. But now we know it’s possible to regain function.’
A moment’s silence. They hel
d eye contact.
‘How about me?’ said Sawyer. ‘Do you still think I’m having a breakdown? Shall I give you an update so you can report back to Keating?’
She scowled. ‘You’re being mean again. Would you rather people didn’t care about you?’ He shrugged. ‘Have you felt what you experienced in the cave again? Panic? Fear?’
‘No. Whatever it was, it’s keeping its head down.’
‘And Alex?’
‘She’s good.’ He nodded. ‘Thank you, Mags.’
Maggie smiled. ‘It’ll take time. But I’m so pleased you’ve started—’
He waved a hand. ‘Please. Don’t say anything about “journeys”.’
She laughed, pushed her hands across the table and covered Sawyer’s. ‘Clichés are clichés for a reason. Sometimes they’re full of truth.’
‘Which is in itself a cliché.’
‘It is a journey. And it might be a bumpy one.’
Sawyer laughed. ‘There might be potholes. I might run out of petrol a few times. My ticket might not be valid.’
A group of fluoro-jacketed hikers bustled into the café, chased by a whistle of wind.
Maggie hugged herself. ‘Jesus, it’s getting cold. I’m thinking of moving, you know.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere warmer.’
‘Serious?’
She stood up. ‘More tea?’ Sawyer nodded. ‘I’ll get it. Going for a wee. Then you can tell me about the case. And I can tell you about my separation.’
Maggie smiled at his shock and swished away. She ordered another coffee and tea from the counter and sidestepped into the poky unisex toilet.
As she washed her hands, her phone vibrated in her bag.
Outside, she picked up the drinks and walked back to the table.
Sawyer had gone.
She looked at her phone message.
Had to go. Emergency. x
60
Sawyer called Klein’s number and set the phone on speaker in the dashboard mount. He pulled the Mini away from the Nut Tree and headed east, towards Matlock.
The call connected. ‘Mr Robbins?’
‘Can you get to the Barley Mow? It’s a pub, only a few minutes from the Casey farm.’
‘Now?’
‘Soon as you can. Ryan Casey called. He says that Owen is willing to meet. I’m about ten minutes away.’
Klein was silent. Sawyer thought they might have lost connection. ‘You still there?’
‘Yes. How do we know this isn’t another joke? Another diversion?’
‘We don’t. But at least this time the facilities will be better. Their pies are good.’
Klein laughed. He sounded brighter. ‘I can be there in half an hour.’
Sawyer waited, in the corner of the Barley Mow’s main bar area by the front doors. At the far end, behind the bar, another door opened out to a fenced private car park. It was nearing midday, but the room was empty, apart from a couple of hardy solo punters with their pints and racing papers. It was a claustrophobic space, further shrunk by the suffocating clutter covering most of the wall and ceiling: beermats, local photographs, trophy plaques, sports emblems. A fading handwritten poster behind Sawyer’s seat advertised the annual Barley Mow hen racing event.
The front door swung open and Klein walked in. He was more layered than usual, fitting the weather.
He took off his cap and sat down next to Sawyer. ‘Any sign?’ He used his sleeve to wipe condensation from his glasses.
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Only a few minutes late. If they don’t show this time, I might look into the licensing for their vehicles. Put some pressure on.’
Klein gave a grim smile. ‘How would that help?’
Sawyer caught himself. ‘I could report them. Or threaten to report them.’
‘They don’t seem the type to respond to threats. Drink?’
‘I’m fine.’
Klein seemed deflated. ‘I might have one if they don’t show soon. Working late last night. Been doing some online teaching. Skype. Course writing. It’s good to feel gainful again.’
‘No trouble with background checks?’
‘Not at all. I appreciate all you’re doing, I really do. But I’m starting to think that I can maybe rebuild my reputation independently. Without the need to “clear my name”.’
Sawyer winced at his air quotes. ‘The conviction may still limit your opportunities in the long term.’
Klein shrugged. ‘Easy does it. Build to each job by way of the last. Eventually, it will be further and further behind me. I’m actually feeling rather optimistic. For the first time in years.’
Sawyer kept his eyes on the bar. ‘Have you seen the car again?’
‘No. I thought I saw it behind me today, but I’m pretty sure it was a different model. Same colour, though. I had my eye on it in the mirror, but it turned off a few minutes out of town.’
The door behind the bar crashed open. Ryan, Wesley and Ronan Casey led the way, flanked by the two men who had been guarding the farm on Sawyer’s second visit. They flipped open the bar entrance and crowded into a booth.
Ronan spotted Sawyer. ‘There he is! Wild Man Robbins.’
The others laughed, loud and theatrical.
‘Mr Robbins.’ Ryan Casey nodded. ‘Mr Klein. What can I get you?’
Sawyer held up a hand. ‘Staying sober, Ryan. You called me over in the middle of work.’
‘Ah. Hell of a shame.’
A nervous-looking young woman emerged from behind the bar and took Ryan’s drink orders. Wesley Casey called over. ‘One for yerself, Chrissie!’
The door behind the bar opened again, and a short, wiry man walked through. He was in his late forties, dressed in cheap-looking blue jeans and a PVC jacket zipped up to his chin. His face was pitted with acne scars, and a bushy grey moustache twitched beneath his flattened nose. He squeezed into the far end of the booth, between Wesley and Ronan. The other two men sat in front at either side, creating a two-body buffer zone.
Ryan turned and beckoned to Sawyer and Klein. They headed over and pulled up a couple of chairs.
Ryan handed round the drinks. He plonked a pair of tumblers in front of Sawyer and Klein. ‘Jameson. Can’t have you not drinking, now.’ He gestured towards the new man. ‘Lads, this is my nephew, Owen. Owen, this is Mr Klein, Mr Robbins.’
‘How was the mine, boys?’ said Wesley.
Sniggering between Wesley and Ronan.
‘I’ve always wanted to see it up close,’ said Sawyer. ‘Thanks for sending us somewhere interesting.’
They looked a little put out.
Owen Casey pointed at Sawyer, then Klein. ‘Which one’s the cunt who put down Danny McDonagh?’ His voice was sharp, nasal.
Ryan slapped Sawyer on the shoulder. ‘Broke his fuckin’ jaw, no less.’
Another round of laughter.
Owen raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that!’
Klein eyed Sawyer, confused. Sawyer nodded at him, and they complied with the toast. The whiskey scorched his throat, but gave him a spike of resolve. He leaned forward and fixed a stare on Owen. He had shrunken, accusing eyes. Sawyer thought of the line from Get Carter: ‘Pissholes in the snow.’
‘Now,’ said Owen. ‘What do yiz fuckin’ want from me?’
‘Mr Casey. I’m writing a book about Mr Klein’s case. He suffered a terrible injustice, thirty years ago.’
Owen nodded, impatient. It occurred to Sawyer that he was already drunk. ‘Heard about that. The fuck’s it got to do with me?’
‘Mr Klein was wrongly convicted of the murder of a local woman. We believe you might have acquired an item for someone. Perhaps for the person who really committed the crime. He’s obviously keen to find out more about this person. So he can clear his name.’
Owen frowned. He took a sip of his whiskey, swilled it round his mouth. ‘What “item”?’
‘A hammer,’ said Sawyer. ‘From Mr Klein’s home. It was then used in the murder, and traced back to
him.’
Owen slammed down his glass. ‘Are you sayin’ I stole this?’
Ronan spoke up. ‘Owen’s never stolen a fuckin’ thing in his life, have you?’ He broke into a smile and wrapped his arm around his cousin.
Owen smiled, sheepish. ‘I might have done a bit of “liberation” to get by. But that’s when I was a young boy. Respectable businessman, these days, mind.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Sawyer. He pulled his chair closer to the booth. ‘But around June 1988, you were arrested for an aggravated burglary.’ Sawyer could feel his tone slipping, but he was too close now to care. ‘The police don’t have any record of that arrest. For some reason, they didn’t want it to go on record. But they forgot that you were mentioned in a separate victim’s statement. That makes me think you did some kind of a deal. You did a job for one of the officers to get you off this serious charge. I think the job was to steal the hammer from Mr Klein’s house. Is that right?’
Owen scowled, and cracked a smile. ‘This is up in Buxton?’ Sawyer nodded. ‘I remember the fella from the house catching me. Fat fucker. I was out of shape, like. Police took me in. The guy who made the arrest was a young fella, and he left me in the cell for fuckin’ ages. Then this other guy came in. Older. He said I was looking at five to ten years. I thought, fuck that! He sent the other one out, said I could do a job for him. Easy work.’
‘What did he look like?’
Owen shrugged. ‘Big guy. Hard to tell age. Thirties, forties. Everyone just looks old when you’re a kid. I was nineteen, but I still felt like a kid. I don’t know. Suit. Scruffy hair. Brown. Big fuck-off watch. Bushy moustache. Not much to remember, really.’ He sipped his drink.
Sawyer edged further forward. ‘What did he ask you to do?’
‘Take a hammer. He described it. Black handle. Said it would probably be in a tool box or an outhouse somewhere. He wanted to know if I could get in and out without being seen or leaving evidence. I said, no problem. I’ll be like a fuckin’ shadow. He gave me an address. Place near Tideswell somewhere. Purple door.’
