by Andrew Lowe
‘Perhaps we could collaborate.’
They all shook hands, and Ainsworth headed out of the gate, after Kelly.
Sawyer looked at Jensen. ‘The beginning of a beautiful friendship?’
Jensen laughed. ‘I’m not into polyamory.’
‘Sheffield thing going well, then?’
He nodded, gave a devilish smile.
The back door crashed open and Beck stormed over to Sawyer and Jensen. Stefan followed, restraining him. Beck was wide eyed, steaming angry. It was the first time Sawyer had seen a slip of his mystic mask.
‘Mr Sawyer. I have a question. Tell me, what exactly is wrong with what I do? If, as you say, it is all tricks and nonsense, then what is wrong with bringing comfort to desperate people? Making them feel good, and reconnected to lost loved ones?’
‘It’s a lie,’ said Sawyer. ‘There are enough lies in the world. I would rather spend the limited time I have on this Earth pursuing some kind of truth. And, anyway, who are you to decide which lies might help a vulnerable person who has lost someone they love? The connection and memories behind their story, it’s none of your business. When you tell them a dead person is guiding them or watching over them, that’s all about your ego. It’s nothing to do with their comfort.’
He stepped close to Beck. Stefan, a little nervous, filled the space between them. ‘Cold reading. Barnum statements. Body language. Accomplices. You’re a cheap conjuror, Mr Beck. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. You’re an end-of-pier sideshow passing himself off as Jesus Christ. The difference between you and stage magicians is that they tell you they’re going to lie to you before they do it. You claim your lies are real, because you know there’s more money in pretending to be something you’re not.’ He pulled back. ‘I’m sure you’ll get over this. You’ll always have your disciples who won’t accept any challenge to whatever they’ve decided to believe about you. They’ll just see us as jealous antagonists doubting your great powers.’
Beck shook his head. ‘There is a great sadness in your past, Mr Sawyer.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘As there is in everyone’s past.’
‘No. It is deeper with you. Someone close was taken, way before their time. I feel you are looking for answers to some deep questions. The truth will reveal itself in time. And while you accuse me of lies and say you go looking for truth, I feel that is what you are afraid of. You are afraid of what kind of truth you might find.’
Sawyer leaned in to him. ‘Fear isn’t really my thing.’
On the way back to the car, Sawyer’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Phone call from Ainsworth.
‘Jake. Forgive me. I have one last question. My daughter, Lena, had a cherished toy elephant when she was a little girl. He selected the elephant as belonging to a deceased person in the test, and at a private reading at my house, he confirmed the name she used to call it.’
‘Yes. Eva told me about that.’
‘Well. How could he possibly have known the name?’
Sawyer sighed and looked at Jensen. ‘It was Winny, right?’
‘Eva told you?’
‘Yes, but I could have just as easily told her. Your daughter started a Tumblr blog a year before she died. It was a scrapbook of music, images, thoughts. Beck’s people will have done some research. There’s a photo of the elephant on there, with a caption. It says, My lovely Winny. Beck just used the special ability of typing into a search engine box.’
Sawyer rang off and climbed into the Mini. He took a boiled sweet from a bag in the glovebox and pinched it out of the wrapper, into his mouth. He pulled away from Eva’s house. It had started to rain, and the little car’s windscreen wipers squeaked against the glass. As he rounded the corner, aiming for Hartington, a burgundy BMW edged away from the opposite kerb, manoeuvred a swift three-point turn and headed off in the same direction.
66
In the Nut Tree, Sawyer crunched into his thick, white, jammy toast.
Maggie smiled. ‘The crumbs are going into your coffee.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s all bound for the same destination.’
She sat back and sipped her coffee. ‘Tell me what happened in the cave.’
‘Are we in therapy?’
‘If it helps, then yes.’
He swiped a napkin over his mouth. ‘It was a tingling feeling, like I’ve had before. Only a lot stronger. It just took me over. Made me shake. Shiver. I couldn’t breathe properly. There wasn’t enough air. Not because we were in a cave.’
‘You said the caving guy told you about CO2 deposits.’
‘Yes. That might have triggered it. But it felt deep. Almost existential. Like…’
‘Like you were dying?’
‘Exactly that, yes.’
She leaned forward, rested her hand on his. ‘You broke your cherry. You had your first panic attack.’
‘I saw the same in Shepherd. Twice. At Padley Gorge, and then in Sheffield. But, this… The sheer force of it. I’ve had these strange tingles before. But this was something new. There was no let-up. I couldn’t shake it. It was like making a lunge for something, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t quite grab it.’
‘And this was also after Crawley had attacked you?’ He nodded. ‘With a hammer?’
Sawyer wrapped a hand around his forehead and furrowed the skin. ‘With a hammer.’
‘Do you still have your original scan results?’
‘My dad does. CT. MRI. He says they show bilateral amygdala damage. But it’s not as simple as that.’
She sat back. ‘You may be using this knowledge to avoid confronting deeper issues. Denial of a physical problem is a good way of keeping your brain from focusing on what’s really damaging you. Also, there’s good research to suggest that low oxygen level, in this case caused by the CO2 build-up in the cave, can trigger an extreme fight-flight reaction. Which is another way of describing a panic attack. So the amygdala damage might inhibit your natural fear response, but not when you’re deprived of oxygen.’
‘You make it sound like my kryptonite. Last time I checked, though, lack of oxygen is bad for everyone.’
‘This is biology. But as I say to you, every time we talk like this, you need to address the deeper stuff. I wouldn’t want you as my official client or patient. But I know some great people.’
He looked around the café, searching for deflection. ‘How’s Eva?’
‘You mean Ms Gregory?’ Sawyer didn’t take the bait. ‘Better. Luka’s doing well. Looks like the husband will be out next week. Shepherd told me about Crawley’s mother. Will you pursue?’
‘1990 assault, unreported, practically impossible to prove.’ He shook his head and drained his coffee mug. ‘Oh! I found a place. In Edale. Seeing it tomorrow. I have to get out of my guest house. I’m starting to feel like the Major in Fawlty Towers.’
She smiled. ‘Jake. Are you really back here for police work? For your career?’
‘Why else would I be back?’
She gave him the look.
‘Mags, I can’t bring my mother back to life. I know. But the man who killed her, and who attacked me, is walking around, free to do as he pleases. I want to take that away from him. Deny him the freedom to live his own life, as he denied my mother the freedom to live hers.’
‘You still don’t believe it was Klein?’
‘I know it wasn’t Klein.’
‘So this transfer is nothing to do with his impending parole?’
Sawyer took another crunch of toast, didn’t answer.
‘Here’s a thought. What if he isn’t even out there? What if there’s nobody to find? No freedom to deny? It was a long time ago. He might even be dead. Remember your Stoicism. Seneca’s thoughts on anger. He said that you need to focus on healing, not on seeking vengeance for the injury. You told me you’d “done the healing”. It’s not true, Jake. You’re a long way from being healed. It’s a lifelong process. Not a journey with an end.’
67
Sawyer drove the Mini to Enter
prise Rentals. As he lingered in the drop-off area, he took a call from Marcus Klein via the prison’s internal switchboard.
‘Mr Robbins, I just wanted to let you know that I’m due for release in three weeks. On license. We could meet. I have some… new ideas.’
‘About what?’
‘I looked through an old diary. From the summer before it happened. I write about how it was a hot night and I was restless and sleepless and thought I heard a noise somewhere downstairs. I couldn’t get back to a deep sleep after that. I kept thinking I could hear noises.’
Howard came out of the office. Sawyer handed him the keys and he opened up the car to check it over.
‘I bet that was the hammer. It’s either the person who killed Mrs Sawyer stealing it, in order to frame you, or someone they’d tasked with doing that. I’m hoping that’s the case.’
‘Why?’
‘They might be easier to track down. You said you used the hammer around a year before to fix a number to your door. Do you remember using it in the run-up to the murder?’
Klein was silent for a few seconds. ‘No.’
‘And at the time of the murder, you said you were out running?’
‘Nice research, Mr Robbins. Yes. I ran nearly every day after teaching. It was a sort of decompression zone, between work and life.’
‘And nobody saw you on the run?’
He sighed. ‘No. That was the problem. It was just my word on where I was. Flimsy alibi.’
Howard pointed at the car, gave Sawyer the thumbs up and the ‘need a signature’ hand signal. He smiled and pointed at the phone in response.
‘How were the coppers who arrested you, given the nature of the crime?’
‘They were okay. Decent. Keating, the main guy, was fine. A couple of the others warned me about how it was going to be nasty for me inside. I remember another copper. Senior. Bit too pleased with himself. He was interviewing me with Keating, but he didn’t say much. Just sat there watching, with a little smile on his face.’
‘Probably the DCI. Ready to take credit for his officers’ good work. Forget the police. We should focus on the hammer. Someone saw you putting that number onto your door. They found a way to get into your house to get it, probably on that hot summer night. Maybe the windows were open and it was easier than usual. And then they used it in the attack and dropped it at the murder scene. So, who was that? And how did they manage it?’ Sawyer looked at Howard, who raised his eyebrows in anticipation. ‘I have to go. Call me when you’re out and we can arrange a meeting. I’m going to work really hard on this, Mr Klein. It was an appalling crime and I want to help you clear your name.’
He hung up and turned to Howard. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Couple of bodywork scuffs. Nothing major. Have you enjoyed it?’
‘Yeah. How much?’
Howard frowned. ‘For another week?’
‘For good. I’d like to buy it.’
68
Sawyer signed the car off for another few days, giving Howard time to speak to his boss about the sale. He drove to Waterhouses, and parked at Brown End Farm at the south end of the Manifold Valley trail. There he rented a hybrid bicycle and joined the Tarmac trail alongside the River Hamps.
He knew that his phone service would drop as he dipped into the Valley. It was palpable; that sense of sliding off the grid, easing out of contact and sinking into timeless tranquillity.
He cycled along the tree-sheltered track, past grazing Gritstone sheep, nodding to walkers. Further on, the recent rain had swollen the River Manifold and, as he relaxed with tea and cake at Wetton Mill, he saw that the water had risen from the sink holes which swallowed it in summer. Sawyer had always loved the idea of a disappearing river: of nature doing nature’s work, because of geography and geology, with no consideration for human eyes.
He opened his backpack and took out the copy of Cocaine Nights, left for him by Beth at The Reading Room reception when she had checked out that morning. The business card was still inside, but she had written a message on the back.
Didn’t want to leave you an excuse to follow me back to my boring home. ;)
Beth x
Sawyer bought a sandwich from the mill and cycled to the plaque at the foot of Thor’s Cave. He locked up the bike and climbed the steps. The cave entrance was muddy, but he knew the topography of the rock, and clambered up to the central cavern with no trouble.
Unusually, there were no other hikers or explorers around, and he perched on a rock in the middle of the chamber and ate his sandwich, taking in the crisp air, thinking and listening: to the faint carry of the river below, rushing trees, squawking egrets, echoes of the ages. Like his father, and Maggie, his mother had told him to run, to go forward and not to look back. And her prayer still resonated; there would always be sin. Bad things. Evil. Returning here had sharpened his grief, but it had also strengthened his resolve. He would stay. Until all was well.
He cycled back to Brown End and returned the bike. On the approach to the farm, his phone had connected with service again, and he felt a series of vibrations.
He sat down in the Mini, drew in a deep breath, and took out the phone.
The vibrations were Missed Call alerts and messages. Seven of each. From Chris Hill.
He ignored the messages and called Rosemary House. The receptionist connected him through and Hill answered immediately.
‘Mr Sawyer? Thank goodness. Could you please come over right away? Are you available?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong?’
‘It’s your brother. Michael. He’s become extremely agitated. Vocal. No actual words, of course, but he has written down your name in large letters on his whiteboard.’
Sawyer hung up and screeched away from the car park. He hared through the central Peaks, to Rosemary House, and hurried into the reception area.
Hill was waiting for him. ‘Don’t worry about the pass, Mr Sawyer. Please come through.’ Sawyer charged ahead of him, down the green and beige corridor. He opened the door of Michael’s room.
His brother was lying on the bed, face down, hands over his head.
The whiteboard was propped at his side. He had written the word JAKE many times, in various colours.
Michael turned, saw his visitor, and sprang up off the bed.
Sawyer took a step into the room. He looked at the board, then back up to Michael.
As far as he knew, his brother hadn’t spoken a word to him, to anybody, in twenty years.
And now.
‘Jake.’
Sawyer’s stomach somersaulted. Michael’s voice was low and gentle, almost a whisper.
‘Mike?’
‘I remember.’
‘Remember what?’
‘The killer. I remember what Mum said to him.’
JAKE SAWYER will return, in
STRONGER THAN DEATH
December 2018
Acknowledgments
Iain Barker, for the terrifying but enlightening caving trip. And the pub tips.
Detective Constable Ralph King, for his precise and patient answers to my incessant emails.
Adam Evans, for the fetching cavewear.
Caroline Watt, for her advise on parapsychology, and Richard Wiseman and Robert L. Morris, for their clear-headed book on claimant testing.
Bryony Sutherland, for impeccable editing and creative unwobbling.
Stuart Bache at Books Covered for beautiful design.
Special thanks to Julia, for listening to me go on about it all.
Andrew Lowe. London, 2018
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