by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer looked at Klein. He nodded.
‘Piece of piss, in the end. Got in through the back. It was in a little work-room area just off the kitchen. Sitting there on a workbench, out in the open. Not exactly a big treasure hunt. I met the guy in some pub car park, handed it over.’ Owen drifted, caught himself. ‘You know what, Mr Robbins. This fella didn’t just get me off the charge. He paid me pretty well.’
‘How did he get you off?’
‘Fuck knows. He had me out of the cop shop in a couple of hours. Never spoke to anyone else after that. I did hear him arguing with someone outside, though. Another bloke.’ Owen set down his glass. His hand was trembling.
‘Did he say what he needed the hammer for?’
‘No. And I didn’t ask. He was sweetness and light when he was telling me the deal. In the car park after, though, he turned pretty fuckin’ nasty. If I ever told anyone, then my miserable life wouldn’t be worth living. Blah, blah, blah. It’s not as if I would tell anyone, anyway. It was a sweet job. I had cash in my pocket and I wasn’t banged up. It was an easy way out. I wasn’t exactly connected to current affairs at the time. I didn’t even know about the woman’s murder until a few years later. Look, fellas. This guy. He’ll be crackin’ on by now. You’d better get a move on if you want to question him. But what’s the point? He’s already lived ninety per cent of his life.’
Sawyer felt a jolt of anger. ‘The ten per cent is important to me. And to Mr Klein. Owen? This man. What was his name? He must have introduced himself when he first came into the room. Do you remember his rank? Was he in uniform?’
Owen shook his head. ‘No uniform.’ He drained his glass and looked from Klein to Sawyer. ‘I do remember his name, yeah. Surname, anyway.’
‘What was it?’
He smiled. ‘You know what? I’m getting the feeling this means a lot more to you than you’re letting on, Mr Robbins. I’ve lived under this fella’s threats for a long time now. Who’s to say he’s not still out there, keeping tabs on me?’
Sawyer raised up slightly in his seat. ‘Owen. What was his name?’
Owen shook his head. ‘I need guarantees. Compensation for all the distress I’ve suffered—’
Sawyer lunged out of his chair and climbed over Ryan Casey. Glasses scattered; one fell to the floor and smashed. He grabbed Owen by the lapels of his jacket. Wesley and one of the bodyguards hauled Sawyer away, holding him back.
‘Easy now!’ Ryan stepped around Sawyer and stood in front of Owen.
Sawyer wriggled away from the bodyguard, but Wesley managed to keep him back. He was flushed, raging. ‘Distress? You think you’ve suffered?’
Owen smiled. ‘Get yourself under control, Mr Robbins. This is a seller’s market, yeah? You can’t just come in here, ranting about “injustice”. You come up with a number and I’ll give you a name.’
Wesley and Ronan Casey took an arm each and dragged Sawyer back to the front door, shadowed by Klein. For the first few steps, he kicked at the floor. But as he reached the door, he calmed and went limp. Wesley and Ronan released him, and Wesley stood in the centre of the room, blocking his path.
Sawyer glared at them both. He closed his eyes, slowing his breathing.
‘You might wanna cool off, Mr Robbins,’ said Ronan. ‘Long time ago to be caring so much.’
Outside, a low sun had cracked through the shroud of cloud. Sawyer stood with Klein at the edge of the car park, by a disused red telephone box. Sawyer leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool glass.
‘I can get some money together,’ said Klein. ‘He probably won’t ask for much. I’ll get Ryan’s number. Make an offer.’ Sawyer was silent. ‘I didn’t realise you were this passionate about the case.’
Sawyer stood up and turned. ‘I’ll help with the money. My publisher might be able to come up with something.’
Klein smiled. ‘Why don’t we stop this now, Mr Sawyer? I know who you are. I read the Derbyshire Times piece, with the section on your story. But I knew before then. Back at the Casey farm, you said, “all shall be well”. That was Jess’s phrase. She used to say it all the time. It was from some prayer.’
Sawyer nodded, sighed. ‘You can see why—’
‘Of course. It actually makes all of this easier. It’s always been hard to believe that some stranger would come out of the blue and want to help me, after thirty years. Like I said, I’m ready to move on. I can see how I might start to rebuild things, have some kind of life again. But it does feel like we’re close to the truth now. I’ll make some calls. Find the money. Then we can get that name. And hopefully it won’t lead us to a tombstone.’
61
Sawyer crawled the Mini along the dirt track that led to his father’s house: a refurbished 1700s mining cottage, isolated on a hillside above Upper Midhope. He parked by Harold’s laurel green Volvo and climbed out, eager to take in some air after the long drive. He walked to the end of the short path that led to the front door and looked down into the valley, where the Langsett Reservoir basked in the feeble sunshine, grey and swollen.
The door opened, and Harold appeared. His gangly German Shepherds, Rufus and Cain, bounded out to greet Sawyer.
‘I swear you’ve got a hidden security camera somewhere around here,’ said Sawyer, fussing the dogs. ‘I come within ten feet of the place and you pop up like a bloody vampire.’
Harold smiled. ‘Lovely to see you, too.’
Inside, Harold made tea and served it in his reading room with colossal French windows that looked out across the valley and the top end of the dirt track.
Sawyer stood by the windows and sipped from his mug. ‘This is good.’
Harold nodded and fell into a sky-blue armchair beside one of the walls of bookcases. ‘Fresh leaf tea. Strained. Tea is one of the joys of life. It’s worth a bit of care. Patience. Too many things are all about speed, these days. You can’t fast-track your pleasures.’ He studied his son. ‘How are you, Jake? Are you healing?’
‘Physically, yes. Took a beating in this case.’
‘Got your man, though.’
‘Not the one I’m really looking for.’ He sat down, on the stool of a generic upright digital piano. ‘This is new.’
‘Always wanted to learn. It’s relaxing, meditative. The guy who gives me lessons looks about twelve. When I first called him, he said, ‘Good for you’. Cheeky fucker.’
Sawyer laughed. ‘You have left it a bit late.’
‘Like I say, patience. Rejoice in hope. Be patient in tribulation. Be constant in prayer.’
‘Sounds like a lot of work to me.’
Harold sipped his tea. ‘Romans.’
‘The Bible: a handbook for personal providence, and full of top tips for tea brewing. It’s almost as if you’re moulding its wisdom to fit your situation. Astrologers do that.’
Harold sighed. ‘For once, can we stay away from religion? Find some common ground?’
Sawyer opened the piano lid. The keys were pristine: shining black, gleaming white. ‘I dropped in on Michael last week.’
Harold raised his eyebrows, waiting for more.
‘He’s okay.’
‘I’m just glad I managed to transfer the money without having to talk to that little shit, Chris Hill.’
‘I still want to try speech therapy.’
Harold scoffed, irritated. ‘Did he speak to you again?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there’s not a lot for a therapist to work with, surely?’ He ran a hand through his long, greying hair. For all of his talk about patience, Sawyer had the impression he was eager to get back to something.
‘How did the paintings do?’
Harold brightened. ‘Good! Sold them all. Worked up some reproductions. They’ve sold, too. I got myself an agent, Arnold. You met him in Ashbourne. Bit tweedy, but he knows his stuff. So, who’s this man you’re really looking for? Owen Casey?’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘I found him. Quite a charmer.’
‘A
nd did he help you “catch the end of the thread”?’
‘I think he did, yes. He knows the name of the man I’m looking for. The man who killed your wife. Mum. He won’t give me the name, though. Says he wants compensation.’
Harold nodded. ‘So, this time you are here for money?’
‘No. I have a couple of questions.’
‘Do I need to get a lawyer?’
Sawyer ignored him. ‘When you worked at Buxton, under Keating, who were the senior officers? In the run-up to the year of mum’s death?’
Harold looked up to the ceiling. More pantomime of recall? ‘I was a DC, then. Keating was DI. It was a standard station, though. No Murder Investigation Unit or whatever you call it, these days. There was a DCI, a Chief Superintendent. They don’t have them any more, though.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. We never really saw the brass. They came and went. Not like these days, where I imagine Keating is hands-on.’
‘Anyone with a moustache? Big watch?’
Harold shook his head. ‘Nobody comes to mind.’
‘And if you wanted to use an informant, who would handle that? How would it be signed off?’
‘That’s changed a lot, too. As you can imagine. Source handling used to be a lot less formal. Off the books. Mainly to protect the sources.’
‘You would need senior sign-off to get charges dropped, though?’
‘Absolutely. Once an arrest has been processed and the charge is approved by CPS. You don’t just wipe that clean. It would be noticed, even in a small station.’
Sawyer stood up, restless. ‘So did you notice? Who arrested Casey? Who looked the other way, or was told to look the other way, so that somebody senior could do a deal with him?’
‘I told you. I don’t remember him. I don’t remember him being arrested. You know, son. It would be nice if we could talk about other things during our limited get-togethers. Reminisce, share life experiences. Look to the future, instead of this pointless, divisive obsession.’
Sawyer nodded, in a trance. ‘And here’s a supplemental question. Why would a senior police officer want my mother dead? A schoolteacher?’
Harold paused before answering. He lowered his voice, measured out his words. ‘Not a senior police officer. Another schoolteacher. Marcus Klein.’ He leaned forward. ‘Means. He’s young, he can wield the weapon, get away quickly. Motive. Jealousy, male rage, she was married. She rejected his advances. Opportunity. They worked together, had access to each other.’
‘All hearsay.’
‘All credible.’ Harold raised his voice. ‘More credible than this conspiracy theory you’re peddling. A senior officer working together with a petty criminal. Casey has clocked you as a buyer of information. He’s telling you what he thinks you want to hear, in exchange for a bit of money. And now he’s holding out to get the price up. The crime has been committed. The killer has been convicted. This is all a game, Jake. Don’t play it. Don’t be played like this.’
Sawyer moved away from the piano, heading for the door. ‘I have a key card in my hand. I will get this name. This is me, persevering. Being patient.’
‘It’s a dead case, Jake!’
‘It’s a cold case!’ Sawyer was shouting now. ‘And I’m about to warm it up again. Whatever you choose to remember.’
Harold stood at the edge of the French windows and watched, as his son reversed around the Volvo and drove away, throwing up dirt from the track. When the final fragments of dust had settled, he turned and walked out to the back of the cottage, to his studio.
He browsed through his colour-coded shelving, and slid a small paint pot from the neat row on the yellow shelf. The pot rattled as he prised off the lid. He took out the key and unlocked the side room, which connected to a sturdy old outbuilding, around twenty feet square, with a stone floor and steps leading down to an old wine cellar. The building’s central space was empty, but the walls were lined with stacked metal shelving, packed with supplies: neatly marked boxes containing groceries, medical materials, small electricals.
An old dresser had been pushed into the corner, perfectly fitted in the remaining space left by one of the shelving units. He took a notepad and pen from the top drawer and worked through the supply boxes, noting the month’s depletions, marking items for order.
He closed the book and stood there for a while, letting his eyes drift to the heavy steel door which led down to the cellar. He had installed it himself, ten years ago, after torrential rain and floods had savaged the building and weakened the old door beyond repair. It had taken him most of one week: two days for acquisition and the marking of parts, five days for the installation: drilling into the brickwork, securing the frame, fitting the security cylinder. In one sense, it was an act of divinity, of omnipotence. So fitting, that he would toil for six days and rest on the seventh.
Harold locked the main door to the outbuilding and walked back into his studio. He replaced the key in the pot and set it alongside the others, twisting its position so that all the colour swatches formed a neat horizontal line, ascending in intensity from inky black to brilliant white.
Cain and Rufus sat outside the studio, looking up at him hopefully.
Harold smiled and ruffled their heads. ‘Let’s get you some lunch, boys.’
He headed outside, to a small garage with another hefty shelving unit which held various brands of dog food, biscuits and supplements: all items perfectly aligned in alphabetical order.
He pulled away a couple of tins and ducked out of the garage, under the folding metal door. He set down the tins on the floor, reached up with both hands, and pulled the door down, concealing the vehicle inside: a 2008 BMW X5. Burgundy.
62
Sawyer spent the weekend at home, recharging and recuperating. His leg wounds healed well, and he found a curious solace in the regular ritual of checking, cleaning, rebandaging. On Maggie’s recommendation, he downloaded a recipe app and bought in a supply of quality ingredients from the local farm shop. For the first time since he’d left London, he planned his meals, prepared the ingredients, followed the recipes. The results were mixed, but Alex had suggested he focus on physical self-care for now, which would help build the mental strength for another try at her reliving therapy. Holism. Body and mind as one project.
On the Saturday evening, he set his Spotify ‘Favourite Songs’ playlist on shuffle and spent two hours cleaning the cottage, wearing a battered old Bruce Lee T-shirt, headphones and rubber gloves. He scoured beneath the toilet rim to Richard Hawley’s ‘Tonight The Streets Are Ours’. He dusted and polished to The KLF; hoovered to Robyn and Bat For Lashes. Later, he flopped down with a bowl of lemon and tomato salmon pasta, and called Klein.
No answer. He hung up without leaving a message. He was about to send a text when a waiting call cut through. Eva.
She half-whispered. ‘Listen. Got to be quick. Can you meet somewhere on Tuesday? Near you is fine.’
‘Rambler’s Inn? Not far from here.’
‘I’ll find it.’ She paused. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Wow. That quick? Why are we meeting out? You should come back here. I’ve cleaned the place. You’ll be impressed.’
Eva sighed. ‘Is that a serious question? I want to see you.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And that name you mentioned, Shaun Brooks. He works for Dale.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Dale had a going away party here the other day. I took lots of photos. He had a private meeting with Shaun and another guy. Looked serious. I’ve got to go. Five on Tuesday?’
‘Keen! Bit early for me.’
An indulgent pause. He could see her smile; the coquettish eyes. Doubtful but indulgent. ‘In the evening. Bye-bye.’
She hung up.
That night, Sawyer dreamt about his mother. The scene was different, the colours muted. And Alex was there, standing by the side of the field in her long coat and beret, making notes. He crawled towards his mother, through the blizzard of barking and screaming. He turned
back, looking for encouragement from Alex. She nodded, urging him on. But then he was overhead, above it all; a drone’s eye view. And he could control his movement: hovering and diving at will. He zoomed down on Henry, on Michael. But he couldn’t get close to his mother and the man in the balaclava. There was an invisible shield around them, preventing entry. He willed and willed, flying into it, bouncing back like an insect.
He turned to Alex. She nodded, insistent. He tried again. This time, his descent slowed, as if the air had turned viscous, fluid. But he was through, closing in on the man, as he smashed and smashed the hammer into his mother’s face.
His mother had pulled away the balaclava.
‘Why?’
And Sawyer caught a glimpse. The man’s face, spattered with blood. Dark, heavy eyebrows. And the moustache. Black with an edging of grey. Deep-set eyes with brown irises, almost black. And there was nothing in them. He wasn’t frantic or angry or aroused. He looked more irritated; annoyed that his work had been interrupted by the removal of his mask.
Sawyer was suddenly awake, but with no distress. He reached to his bedside table drawer and dug out a pencil and envelope. He sketched the man’s face, filling in as much detail as he could remember. The result was impressionistic, and it may have been nothing more than a creation of his imagination. But it felt good to have something tangible in reality: a positive link, extracted from his night terrors.
On Sunday, he drove out to the Penny Pot Café near Barber Booth. He read his book, drank coffee, ate too much lemon drizzle cake. Outside, he turned away from the station and crossing barrier, and walked down, past the Rambler’s Inn, into the chocolate-box hamlet of Edale. Tiny primary school, one pub, one general store, one flickering bar of 3G coverage. The weather was crisp and sunny, and he fell in with the flow of ramblers aiming for the base of Kinder Scout.
