Creepy Crawly

by Andrew Lowe

  He drove to New Order’s Substance. The B-sides. ‘In A Lonely Place’, ‘Procession’, ‘Cries and Whispers’. He preferred them to the A-sides. It was the orchestral heft, the gauzy melancholy, the link with their Joy Division past.

  At the outer cordon to the Padley Gorge crime scene, he showed his warrant card to the luckless duty officer and clambered up to a ridge which overlooked the clearing. The tent was down, the FSIs were done, and only a few detectives remained, co-ordinating the Covert Rural Observation Post ordered by Keating, in case the killer returned.

  The last remaining Paladin light blasted out from behind, dazzling the scene, draining the colour. The branches shuffled, casting jittery shadows across Georgina Stoll’s murder site.

  The rain, like static. The murmuring detectives.

  Sawyer pictured the killer plunging the marker cross into the soil. Systematic. Not rushed. No panic. Planned. When did his planning begin? And why? He knew that nobody woke up one morning, after years of living a stable life, and decided to kill for kicks. There would be horror in his past. Abuse. Tragedy. Trauma. And love withheld, or withdrawn, or snatched away.

  Again, he sensed a stage. Theatre. Something presented for the benefit of observers. Was there an authentic signature here, or was the killer’s true motivation buried behind a melodrama?

  A raindrop slid down his nose and formed a drip that didn’t drop. He brushed it away and ran his fingers through his hair, clotted with water. He wasn’t the umbrella type.

  He drove to the lane, parked in a lay-by and walked across a soggy field, into the trees.

  The agony rose inside him; a whisper to a roar. Time had healed nothing.

  He stood at the spot where his mother had fallen and looked across at the grass where he had grabbed at the ground, inhaled the soil, blacked out.

  A swarm of ghosts, unspooling it all.

  He pulled ahead with Henry. The dog snarled and dashed back, towards his mother and Michael.

  He tried to turn but the impact fell on him, broad and blunt against the back of his head.

  His mother’s voice. A shout of outrage. A flash of her orange jacket.

  He squinted into the memory and, for the first time, heard her tone.

  Questioning.

  Not scared. Confused.

  He saw the sequence. The man had hit him first, probably because he was the bigger of the two boys, despite being the youngest. Michael would catch up in their teens.

  Then, he had attacked Michael.

  Then, their mother.

  The dog had reacted, but he had subdued and killed it with ease.

  Executed it.

  And then his mother’s tone had changed. Pleading. Desperate. But still the note of confusion.

  Further impacts. Screaming.

  He could see the figures, the images, the movement.

  He could smell the terror.

  He could hear his mother telling him to run, telling him not to look back.

  But the rest of her words withered in the air. However hard he flexed, he could not will them to take form, to shine through the decay of the decades.

  23

  ‘Professor Ainsworth. Is it fair to say that the results of this experiment could signify a new frontier in science?’

  Ainsworth glanced at Thomas Lamont, perched on the edge of the patchwork armchair, off to the side of the interview. Opposite, The Times journalist Marsha Murphy tilted back her head, waiting for an answer. She was a steely young woman with a permanent smirk and an arch, asymmetrical haircut.

  He reclined in his desk chair. ‘That is really the nature of science itself. It is always pushing for new frontiers. Anything new or radical or controversial is often dismissed as spurious, or even dangerous.’

  Marsha leaned forward and pushed her digital recorder further into the centre of Ainsworth’s desk. ‘It’s certainly controversial. Some commentators have questioned the rigour of the methodology, and the fact that the Challenge has become something of an embarrassment for the university.’

  Ainsworth shook his head. ‘Speculation. I would argue that the Challenge has set the standard for claimant testing, and the length of time it’s held this benchmark status speaks volumes about its rigour.’ He couldn’t quite settle into the groove between credible and cocky. Would she write about his pomposity or his uncertainty?

  ‘But you must accept that the publicity is good for the university’s profile?’

  Lamont spoke up. ‘We’re hardly struggling for admissions. The department is one of the most oversubscribed in the country.’

  Marsha looked to Ainsworth for a comment, but he stayed silent. Kelly entered and set a cup of coffee down on the desk, taking care not to rattle the saucer.

  Marsha smiled and gave her a thumbs up. She reached over and took a cautious sip. ‘When will Mr Beck receive the prize money?’

  Lamont took that one. ‘Within the next few days. There’s no fund to raise. The money has been ringfenced for some time now.’

  Marsha nodded. ‘And are there any plans to repeat the experiment? To confirm Mr Beck’s abilities?’

  Lamont shrugged. ‘That isn’t part of the proposition.’

  Ainsworth picked up. ‘We’re satisfied that he has met the standard of the Challenge.’

  Marsha squinted at Lamont, then Ainsworth. ‘Can I just be absolutely clear? I am to confirm to my editor that the Science section of The Times newspaper is to run a piece confirming the existence of extrasensory perception?’

  Lamont smiled. ‘I would suggest that the story is more about the university’s paranormal Challenge, and its successful claimant.’

  Marsha took another sip of coffee. ‘Are you aware of the Stargate Project, Professor Ainsworth?’ He smiled and nodded. ‘A $20 million US military research project. Its focus was the ability claimed by Mr Beck, and confirmed by yourself. Remote viewing. After almost twenty years, the project was wound up with no hard evidence of paranormal phenomena, and not a scrap of actionable intelligence. How long has the Challenge been running?’

  Ainsworth shifted in his seat. ‘Almost four years.’

  ‘So, in a quarter of the time, and at a tiny fraction of the cost, in this modest section of a British university, you have succeeded where the entire US government failed?’

  Ainsworth sighed and held the moment. ‘I would never be so bold as to tell you your job, Miss Murphy. But, yes. You do appear to have quite a story on your hands.’

  Marsha nodded and produced a notebook from her handbag. ‘I apologise, Professor, but I need to ask you about a rather sensitive issue. I believe you’ve endured a degree of personal tragedy in recent years.’

  Lamont darkened. ‘Is this relevant? Why do we need to focus on Donald so much?’

  Marsha took a breath. ‘Colour. Context. A personal angle will give the story crossover appeal. Readers will want to know a bit of backstory about the man who might conceivably have turned everything we know about physics upside-down.’

  Donald lowered his gaze down to the desk. ‘Miss Murphy. By “colour”, I assume you’re referring to my wife, Judith, and daughter, Lena?’

  Now Marsha let her eyes drift away, into the notebook. ‘Yes. I understand that—’

  ‘Lena took her own life during a family holiday ten years ago. She was a beautiful, beautiful girl. Nineteen years of age.’ His knuckles found his forehead. Figure of eight, figure of eight. He looked at the photograph: Lena in the pool with the beach ball. ‘My wife was… She found it impossible to recover. Our marriage ended soon after.’

  Marsha closed the notebook and slipped it back into her handbag. ‘I’m so sorry, Professor.’

  Ainsworth nodded and forced his hand back to the desk. ‘Is there a lot more, Miss Murphy? I had rather a restless sleep last night. It was a dramatic day.’

  ‘Just one final thing. How do you respond to the commentators who say that the Challenge has been informed by your own difficulties, rather than the advancement of parapsychology or
science?’

  Lamont jumped to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Murphy. I have to insist that Professor Ainsworth gets some rest now. This is simply—’

  Ainsworth raised his voice to cut in. ‘I remember my last conversation with Lena, almost word for word. We were side by side, sitting at the edge of the pool, dangling our toes in the warm water. She wanted to know if I thought death was the end of everything. I said that she should stop worrying about what might come after death and focus on the moment. She laughed and said how it’s impossible to live in the moment because by the time the brain has processed it, the present has become the past. And so we talked about how all the big, broad, meaning of life stuff is all just distraction. A way of coping with our smallness in a vast, unfathomable world. We spend an eternity not existing, we exist for a short time, and then we return to eternity. We distract ourselves, with what came before and what might come after. But the only thing that truly matters is the bit in the middle. The brief existence. The loves we share. The connections we make. And it’s also the bit in the middle that concerns science. The measurables. The certainties. I just wanted to honour my daughter’s memory by investigating the immeasurables, the uncertainties. The Challenge is a reflection of her curiosity, Ms Murphy, and Mr Beck represents more than just a successful claimant. He has given me a way back to my daughter.’

  24

  The Farmyard Inn was a rustic mainstay on the edge of Bakewell, around twenty minutes’ drive from Padley Gorge. Sawyer and Maggie had to duck under the door frame and stoop into the gloomy bar, past a chalkboard which announced the following week’s Pie Night.

  Sawyer nodded towards it. ‘Fancy an evening of pastry worship?’

  Maggie forced a smile. ‘I doubt they do gluten free.’

  A few tables had been sectioned off to the side by a bay window, with a buffet breakfast laid out for residents only.

  Sawyer nodded at the spread. ‘How many rooms here?’

  ‘Four, I think.’

  ‘Surely they can spare us a croissant.’

  ‘Lucy?’ Maggie headed for the far corner table, where a petite, pale young woman in a pink baseball cap stirred the cream into a mug of hot chocolate.

  She leapt to her feet, eyes wide. ‘Hello. Are you Maggie?’

  ‘Yes. This is Detective Inspector Jake Sawyer.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘I’m so sorry about Georgina, Lucy. We appreciate you making the effort at such an awful time.’

  Lucy bobbed her head up and down. Maggie realised she was nodding and rested a hand on her shoulder. They sat.

  Lucy took off her baseball cap. Her uncombed, shoulder-length hair was dyed chalk white. A few strands stood upright, propped on the static from the cap. She smoothed them down. Her fingernails peeked through cracked, glittery varnish. ‘Thank you. Sorry. It’s a bit early for me. I don’t really know…’ She was loud, with a strong local accent.

  Maggie smiled. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be quick. We just need to know as much as possible about Georgina’s movements on the night you had dinner together. Tuesday.’

  She sipped at her drink, hand trembling. ‘We met about eight. Had a bit of food, in here. Lasagne. I’ve known Georgie since college, you know? We did teacher training, but ended up going different ways. She was studying hotel management, working somewhere local. Big place. I work in the tourist shop, down the road.’

  Sawyer toyed with the groove in a raffia placemat. ‘What happened after you’d eaten?’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘We said bye and went home.’

  ‘What happened exactly, Lucy? Talk us through it.’

  ‘We went out the side door, had a hug. She walked up to the car park round the back, and I went the other way, up the road. My place isn’t too far.’

  ‘Was the mood good? Did she seem worried by anything? Did she share anything that concerned you?’

  Lucy pushed out her bottom lip and shook her head. ‘No. We had a laugh, caught up a bit. She was still tanned from her honeymoon.’

  ‘Do you know her husband? Danny?’

  ‘Not really. Met him at the wedding. Seemed nice.’ Her eyes widened. ‘You don’t think he had something to do with it, do you? They were really lovely together.’ Her chin wobbled and she shook off a shudder of grief. Maggie leaned in and rubbed the back of her hand. The contact seemed to yank her back from the brink of tears.

  ‘I’m alright. Thanks.’ She took a deeper swig of hot chocolate.

  Sawyer leaned back and pushed away the placemat. ‘Do you know a lad called Toby Manning, Lucy? Has Georgina ever mentioned him?’

  ‘Only that he’s also died. I was reading about it this morning. I didn’t know him. Never heard Georgina say anything, either.’

  ‘Did she mention any worries? Anything troubling her? Anything odd or threatening that had happened to her recently?’

  Lucy pulled a napkin from a glass in the centre of the table and dabbed at her nose and eyes. ‘No. Nothing. I don’t… I don’t understand it. She’d just got married. She was so happy.’

  Sawyer shook his head. ‘People are good at that, Lucy. Seeming happy when they’re not. Putting on a show.’

  She was sobbing now: shoulders shaking, head down, hiding herself. Maggie moved her hand to Lucy’s wrist and squeezed. She glanced at Sawyer and gave him a tiny nod.

  ‘There was a bloke…’ Lucy lifted her head, eyes sparkling. ‘Tall. Scruffy. Big beard. Me and Georgie were over there, in the bar area. He came in through the side door, bought a drink and sat at a table near the door, reading. I walked past him when I went to the toilet and there was that horrible smell. When someone hasn’t washed for a while.’

  Sawyer leaned in again. ‘Did you see what he was reading?’

  ‘Some book. He’d gone by the time we left. It was just one of those things that makes you feel uncomfortable, you know?’

  Maggie smiled. ‘Intuition. It’s underrated. Keeps us safe. Can you name anything specific that made you uncomfortable about him?’

  Lucy blew her nose and took a couple of steadying breaths. ‘He was just so… still. I could see him from the corner of my eye. Turning the pages. Just the odd sip of his drink. There was no natural shifting around. Didn’t see him look up once.’

  Sawyer got up and spoke to a slight, elderly man sketching the day’s lunch specials onto a fresh chalkboard. The man led Sawyer around the back of the bar, out of sight.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Lucy mopped at her tear-streaked mascara.

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, Lucy.’

  She nodded again, riding another tremor of sorrow. ‘I mean, that I can’t help you more. And this.’ She laughed. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘It would be strange if you didn’t feel this. It’s just empathy, Lucy. Don’t be ashamed. Are you taking time off work? You will need to take a break. Spend some time with friends. Boyfriend?’

  She forced a smile. ‘I like to work. It’s busy in the shop. And I like helping people. Helping strangers. I like a bit of life around me, you know? I’ll go mad if I just sit around at home, thinking about Georgie.’

  Maggie folded herself into the Mini’s passenger seat. It was a squeeze, even for her slight build. ‘Couldn’t you have chosen something a bit more spacious?’

  Sawyer watched her wriggle into position. ‘I like the compactness. It’s comforting. He started the engine. ‘There’s a lever under the seat. Pulls it back.’

  ‘Thanks. And can I politely request that you wait until I’ve got my seat belt on before we start moving? This is a big deal for me, remember?’

  Side glance. ‘What is?’

  ‘Getting into a car with you.’

  He smiled and moved off. ‘I spoke to the manager. They have CCTV stored digitally. I was worried it would all be held on cassette or reel tape or something. He burned me a CD of Tuesday’s footage. Lucy’s bearded guy might be nothing, but we should take a look for ourselves.’

  They turned onto the Buxton Road. Sawyer was on his best behavio
ur: driving for her comfort, overcompensating with overtakes, holding a steady speed. His braking was a little strong and sudden, but if she had been the examiner, she would have given him a narrow pass.

  The last time Maggie had been his passenger was after his leaving drinks, four years earlier. It had been a filthy night: sheeting rain. Apocalyptic. He had raced and revved his way through the narrow lanes up to the Roaches. Visibility had been a few feet, at best, and they would have stood no chance of reacting to any obstacle or oncoming vehicle.

  After a few minutes of gripping the seat and begging him to slow down, she had turned away from the waterlogged windscreen and focused on his face. It was no thrill ride for him, no maniacal headrush. He was sober, clear eyed, thoughtful. The eerie calm at the heart of a storm. It was as if the devil were on his tale but he was composing a grocery list.

  When he had stopped the car outside her house, they had exchanged a smile, hugged.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Jake.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Maggie had ducked out of the car and rushed to shelter under the porch, the rain masking her tears.

  25

  In the basement at Buxton, Karl Rhodes, the station’s digital media advisor, slid Sawyer’s CD out of its slip case.

  Rhodes was skinny and square-headed, with a moustache that looked like it had come from a disguise kit. He had a broad, pock-marked nose that propped up a pair of crooked rimless glasses. He glanced from Shepherd to Sawyer and back again. ‘Is it urgent?’

  Sawyer sighed. ‘Just the two dead bodies. Maybe kick it down the road a few days. Wait until we’ve got a few more.’

  Rhodes turned to Shepherd. ‘Is he new?’ He was nasal, Mancunian.

  ‘He worked here before. Few years ago. Then he sought his fortune in London. Came back a DI.’

  Rhodes whistled. ‘Fuckin’ ’ell. So I should be breaking out the knee pads.’

  ‘I’m not that easy.’ Sawyer stepped around him and hovered at the side of his computer terminal: two monitors, monolithic desktop PC, a stack of external media drives.