by Andrew Lowe
He hitched his phone into the ventilation grill with a portable cradle and called Keating, on speaker.
‘Keating?’ Always a question inflection. Braced for something he wasn’t going to like.
‘It’s your SIO-in-waiting. Any word on vehicles?’
Keating paused. ‘Is Shepherd with you?’
‘He’s with Maggie. Gone to see Georgina’s husband.’
‘Who’s babysitting who?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Well. It’s his car. Maggie steering.’
‘ANPR has found only two vehicles consistent with the timings. And both belong to the victims. The cars only registered just before the estimated burial times. They didn’t ping on the way back. Uniforms are tracing.’
Sawyer looked out at the bustling cotton grass, infinite on either side and bordered near the stone walls by bottle green bracken. ‘You’ll find them in car parks near to the burial sites.’
A moment of silence from Keating. ‘You mean he walks away after the burials.’
‘I think he goes to the car, watches the camera footage in private, then walks away.’
‘Why not drive it away?’
‘He’d have to abandon it somewhere. Less risky to leave it. That’s why it feels like he’s local. Uniforms should start with that assumption, at least. We need to track the route from the golf club to the wood for CCTV, and find out more about Georgina’s last movements so we can work out where she was picked up. Map that route, too. He’s calm, well planned, meticulous, and he’s probably thought of the CCTV. But we might get lucky and pick him up on a private building camera.’
Another pause. Hard to tell if Keating was making notes or brooding. ‘Any other orders, DI Sawyer?’
Sawyer snorted, then wished he’d kept his amusement silent. ‘All this is purely advisory, of course.’
‘Chief Super’s not happy with the improv. When we’re done with this bastard, I’d like to hear more about your jolly old time in the Met. I’m scenting a bit of efficiency with the truth.’
Sawyer slowed for a junction. A whinchat hopped onto a fence post; its orange breast drew his eye. ‘I want a look at the Klein file again.’
He expected a pushback, but Keating lowered his voice. Calm, almost conspiratorial. ‘And what are you hoping to find?’
‘He’s up for parole soon. I know he was your collar, but we all make mistakes.’
Keating cleared his throat. ‘It was a terrible, terrible crime, Jake. But we got him. Prints on the weapon. Means, motive, opportunity.’
A flush of anger. ‘Are you going to tell me he’s served his time?’
‘As your boss, I am telling you to focus on the here and now: on this case. As a friend, I’m telling you to look to the future. Klein was brought to justice. He’s been through the system. It’s not perfect, but it’s the only one we’ve got.’
Frazer Drummond dried his hands with a paper towel and tossed it into the pedal bin by the sink outside the mortuary. He walked back into his office, slid a file off a high shelf and sat at his desk. Sawyer stood just inside the door: waiting, indulging.
Drummond studied the file for a few seconds. ‘Two unofficial visits in a week. I could probably pitch that as harassment.’
‘Keating has signed me in.’
Drummond looked over his glasses. ‘You got pictures of him or something?’
Sawyer sat down and took in the windowless grey room. ‘You really should get some colour in here, Frazer. Bit of art.’
Drummond closed the file and eased his bulk back into the chair. ‘Parents had that fucking Crying Boy thing when I was a kid. Hated that. Hated “art” ever since.’
‘Tell me about Georgina Stoll.’
‘Initial investigation shows it’s likely to be the same killer. Similar MO. Blitz attack. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Body was cable-tied. Wrists and ankles. Nothing sexual, in both cases. Keating wants the PM expedited, but toxicology will take time. We know what was in the first vic’s system, though. Given all the other similarities, I expect we’ll find the same drug in Vic Two.’
‘Georgina.’
‘Don’t do the uncaring pathologist thing, Sawyer. I’m truncating for time.’
‘Hurry up and tell me, then. The drug.’ Sawyer drew in a breath through his nose. The smell of Drummond’s office was as utilitarian as its look: ageing leather, musty metal, a back note of BO.
‘Dead Man’s Fingers. Hemlock. It kills by paralysing the respiratory system. The killer probably administered it before he closed the lid and set the camera rolling. Ten to fifteen minutes to fill in the hole. It’s slow acting, so he’d have plenty of time to mark the grave and watch the footage. With the right dose, it produces paralysis, loss of speech, depresses respiratory function, then shuts it down completely. Death from asphyxia. The mind, of course, remains aware through it all.’ He lifted his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. ‘You’ve got yourself a seriously sick bastard here.’
Sawyer looked up at the porous ceiling tiles. Hundreds of holes, punched in an irregular pattern. He had a sudden vision of the hospital collapsing, the walls pancaking, entombing him down here with Drummond and his dead.
He looked back across the desk. ‘How is he making it?’
Drummond propped his elbows on the edge of the desk and clasped his hands together. ‘The Greeks used hemlock to kill Socrates, you know, when they got sick of his questioning. It grows wild. Damp ground, riverbanks. Flowers around this time of year. He’d need a bit of knowledge on how to distil it, but it’s nothing he couldn’t look up online.’ He dipped his head and ran his palms over the scalp, wrinkling the skin. ‘Fucking internet.’
20
Back at The Reading Room, Sawyer had a few hours to kill before the 8pm briefing. He worked through the Sil Lum Tao form, showered, and called Maggie.
‘How was it?’
She sighed, sending a crackle of distortion through the earpiece. ‘Worst one I’ve ever done. It just ripped him apart. He was howling. He wouldn’t sit down. Fell to the floor like he’d been shot. Shepherd caught him.’
Sawyer opened a drawer in his bedside table and pulled out a fistful of fast food leaflets. ‘Did you buy it?’
‘Jake.’
Perfect Pizza. Dragon’s Nest. Red Chilli.
‘What? He’s probably our best suspect at the moment. Known to one of the victims.’
‘They’re two weeks back from their fucking honeymoon.’
Sawyer paused. Maggie rarely swore. ‘Any mail?’
‘Not yet. Shepherd put a uniform on it. Strict instructions not to let anything through.’
‘We need victimology. I hope the poor bastard hasn’t got another shock in store when we dig up a link between Toby and Georgina. If we do, then we most definitely have a prime suspect. Anything else about him?’
‘Seemed decent enough.’
Sawyer stuffed the leaflets back into the drawer. ‘Not the burying alive type.’
‘Not a young guy. Georgina must have been nearly half his age.’
‘If it’s an affair thing, she didn’t hang around. Where did they go on their honeymoon?’
Maggie’s eye roll was almost audible. ‘We didn’t get round to discussing it. He was too busy being devastated. So, that’s your theory? They got married, went away together, he finds out about her affair, and thinks, “I’ll show them. I’ll bury them alive.”’
‘I know. Doesn’t make sense. If it were me, I would bury them together.’
Silence at the other end. Sawyer pressed the phone to his ear; he could just about hear her breathing.
‘Mags?’
‘I’ll see you at the briefing, Jake.’ She hung up.
Sawyer threw on a jacket and walking boots and hurried down the stairs.
Jenny stood with her back to him in the hall, sprinkling an enormous pot plant with water from a tiny watering can. As Sawyer reached the bottom, she turned and pulled out her white earphones. ‘Hello! Just doing a bit
of botany. Not really a natural gardener. It’s an excuse to listen to a bit of music. Do you like Coldplay?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘They leave me cold.’
She looked disappointed. ‘Well. Different strokes.’
‘I have to go back to work in a couple of hours. Is there a chippy in town?’
‘The Fishbar is very good. You could walk it there and back in twenty minutes. It’s right in the centre as you come into town. Hard to miss.’
The door to the lounge was open. He leaned over to see inside. Beth was sitting on the sofa, reading a book.
‘Perfect. And I was wondering if I could get a bit of advice. I’m thinking of buying a place. Maybe up near Buxton. Cottage, ideally. Out of town.’
Jenny stripped off her cloth gardening gloves. ‘How marvellous! I can certainly recommend some local estate agents. I’ll dig out a few numbers and get them to you before you leave. Is that okay?’
Sawyer was already halfway through the lounge door. ‘Thank you. That would be great.’
Beth looked up and smiled as Sawyer entered. It was barely six, but she was dressed for al fresco dinner: tan ankle boots, black jeans, floral print blouse. She’d released her caramel blonde hair from the beanie, and it flashed in the firelight.
Sawyer ducked to check her book cover. ‘Good read?’
‘Ballard. I love him. Found your eggs yet?’
He laughed. ‘Not yet. Priorities shifted a bit.’
Beth was tucked into the far corner of the sofa. Sawyer mirrored her at the other end.
She turned her attention back to the book. ‘Thinking of buying somewhere local, then?’
‘You’re not a spy, are you?’
She looked up again. ‘What?’
‘Sitting here, pretending to read, but actually eavesdropping on your mark?’
‘I’m not a spy, no. I’m a nutritionist, actually.’
‘Ah. So you’ve also been judging me on the fish and chips.’
‘Not at all. That’s a decent balance. Maybe with something green on the side.’
He nodded, in theatrical contemplation. ‘Mushy peas?’
‘It’ll do.’
He slid a copy of Red magazine off the coffee table and flicked through a few pages. ‘So, when are you heading back to Soli-dull?’
She smiled, but kept her eyes on the book. ‘Few days.’
‘We’d better get a move on, then. With that walk.’
She tilted her head and looked up, studying him. No smile now.
‘How about now? Balmy evening. I promise to have you back within the hour.’
Beth closed the book and looked up at a spot over Sawyer’s shoulder.
‘Go on. Last chance. If you’re really good, I might let you share my chips.’
Beth kept her gaze fixed behind Sawyer. She raised her eyebrows and motioned up with her eyes.
Sawyer winced. ‘My Spidey Sense is tingling.’
‘Do you make a habit of hitting on other men’s girlfriends?’
Sawyer held on to Beth’s gaze for a second and did his best to look rueful before turning. Beth’s partner stood halfway between the door and the sofa: blazer, bootcuts, arms folded. He had a couple of years on Sawyer. Short but strong-looking. Like a rugby fly-half gone to seed. ‘I’m sorry you see it that way. I’m just talking to Beth, seeing if she fancies a walk.’ Sawyer stood up. ‘I didn’t really consider you as a part of that.’
The man took a step closer. ‘Evidently not.’ Home counties. Abrupt. Entitled.
Sawyer held out his hand. ‘Jake.’
‘Alec.’ He nodded, but hardened his glare and didn’t accept the handshake. ‘Are you single, Jake?’
‘I suppose I am, yeah.’
Alec lifted a hand to his ear and raised the index finger. He jabbed the hand forward as he made his point, but kept the finger upright. Sawyer got a flash of the famous photo of Osama bin Laden making a similar gesture. ‘Well. You may be single. But Beth is not. Is this a concept you’re not familiar with? Would you like me to explain the rules?’
Sawyer suppressed a smirk. ‘Why?’
Alec dropped his hand and spluttered. ‘Because you’re hitting on my girlfriend when you know she isn’t single.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘And that’s against your rules, right? I told you, this isn’t about you.’
Beth was up now. She stepped into the gap between Alec and Sawyer. ‘Okay. We should make a move. I’ll drive.’ She steered Alec away. He backed off, holding eye contact with Sawyer. At the door, he shook his head and, at last, turned to follow Beth out of the front door to the car park.
She had left her book—Cocaine Nights—on the coffee table. Sawyer stared at the shiny silver cover. It was the perfect excuse to engage with her again: keep it safe, hand it back the next time he saw her.
The familiar tingle prickled at the base of his neck, spreading up and across his shoulders like a sudden chill. Before he could examine it, listen to it, the feeling was overridden by something he understood: a rumble in his stomach. He left the book and headed out to the hall.
‘Needs a refill.’ Jenny shook the watering can at him as she slipped behind the reception desk. ‘I’ll get those estate agent numbers for you later. You’re leaving on Friday, right?’ She caught his eye; her exuberance had dimmed.
Sawyer smiled. ‘Actually. I was hoping to stay on a bit longer.’
He ate his fish supper in the empty breakfast room, browsing a property brochure he’d picked up from an estate agent in town. He marked out a farmhouse and barn ‘nestled in attractive gardens’ just outside Edale. It was in striking distance of Buxton, and the kind of place he could easily sell on or rent, depending on how things panned out. Depending on how long it took for all manner of things to be well.
Upstairs, he dressed for the briefing—royal blue work suit, fresh white shirt, tangerine tie—and lay flat on the bed. The room was warm and he tuned in to the sounds wafting in through the open window: the hiss of the wind through the ash tree leaves, squabbling birds, the swish and rumble of distant traffic.
‘Jake!’
His mother’s voice, thick with panic.
‘Jake! Run, my darling. Don’t look back!’
He didn’t run. He looked back.
Angry, jagged barking. His Jack Russell terrier, Henry.
He was up. Stooped, staggering. He reached a hand to the back of his head.
Wet and warm.
His vision shimmered. Across the lane, his mother lay somewhere in the shade of the trees, in a whirl of green and orange. He blinked. Her shape coalesced for a second: the green of the grass, the orange of her walking jacket.
The shimmer swooped over him again. He blinked and shook his head, but this time it settled, blackened.
Michael was there somewhere: over the lane, beside her. Not moving.
Henry barked and barked and barked. The sound slashed through him, rousing him, clearing his vision.
The man pulled away from his mother and brought the hammer down onto Henry. Once. Twice.
A crunch. A whimper.
Henry tried to scurry away, but collapsed on his side. He writhed from side to side but couldn’t right himself. His stubby legs swam at the air like a capsized beetle.
The man turned back to his mother.
She reached up at him. For him?
They scuffled.
The back of his head. Wet and warm.
A conflagration of pain: roaring up from the tip of his spine, encasing his skull.
He stumbled, dropped to his knees.
The pain grew solid, percussive. It bludgeoned at the inside of his ears, then his scalp, then behind his eyes, as if straining to break free.
He was flat out now, head turned to the side. His bloodied hand reached out and scraped across the ground.
He reached for a clump of grass and pulled it free. Soil scattered over his face. It smelt fresh, fertile, alive.
His mother shouted something. Imploring.
; She screamed.
The world frosted over.
Sawyer resurfaced into the woozy evening.
Murmurs from outside.
Leaves. Traffic. Birdsong.
He lay there, composing himself, seven miles and thirty years from the lane, the grass, the soil.
He breathed, deep and slow.
Somewhere, his mother’s killer was doing the same.
In, and out.
In, and out.
Lungful after lungful.
Thirty years’ worth of the air he had denied her.
21
Sawyer caught Shepherd at his desk as he prepared for the briefing. ‘What did we learn about Toby’s golfing companions?’
‘Nothing interesting. Two of them. Ex-college friends. They played a half round then went in to the bar.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Toby doesn’t drink.’
‘No. He left before them. Always does, apparently. We’ve got some CCTV. To the course and back again. An hour or so later, Toby leaves and heads round the back of the building.’
‘To the members’ car park. No coverage.’
Maggie left Keating’s office and took a spot by the window, adjacent to a new whiteboard that he’d propped on a portable frame and had laid out with pictures of Toby and Georgina, surrounded by neat clusters of thematically linked notes.
Sally O’Callaghan was next out of Keating’s office, followed by the man himself. His appearance hushed the chatter and he gestured to Shepherd. ‘Let’s get that update, Detective.’
Shepherd took his place beside the board and nodded to O’Callaghan. She stepped forward and stood at the other side. Sawyer settled into Shepherd’s chair.
‘Thanks, everyone.’ The room fell silent. Shepherd spoke without hand notes, occasionally consulting his scribblings on the board. ‘By cross-referencing both investigations, we’re starting to get a clearer picture of Toby and Georgina’s last moments. First, both victims’ cars were found in car parks near to the burial sites.’
