Creepy Crawly

by Andrew Lowe

  Sawyer drained the mug. ‘What do you see, Frazer? What is this?’

  ‘It’s the drug, or rather the choice. Hemlock.’ Drummond took a deep breath in through his nose. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It seems cruel and sadistic, keeping them aware of what’s going on while they’re effectively paralysed. But if it were me…’ He caught Sawyer’s raised eyebrow. ‘And it isn’t. But if it were me, I would use something more definitive and enlivening. Given the rest of the trouble he’s taken to make their last moments as nightmarish as possible, the hemlock is an odd touch. It lets them off lightly, like a permanent anaesthetic. In some ways, you could see it as a sort of kindness.’

  ‘Could he be a developing sadist? Seeing how far he wants to take it. Could he be ready to escalate now?’

  Drummond shuffled through his papers. ‘He’s a contrary fucker, all right. On the one hand, he’s anaesthetising them to death and giving them a nice, slow, fuzzy decline. But on the other, he doesn’t seem to have much excess in the empathy department.’ He pushed Georgina Stoll’s pathology report over to Sawyer. ‘There’s something I saw straight away that either he didn’t know about or it didn’t bother him.’

  Sawyer looked up from the report. ‘Georgina was pregnant.’

  ‘You set?’

  Shepherd nodded and dug into his KFC lunchbox. His office was small and cluttered and now reeked of cooking fat and the cardboard carbohydrate of takeaway fries. ‘Yeah. We go at three. Keating wants the starring role. I field the questions.’

  ‘The easy ones?’ Sawyer took a bite of his sandwich.

  ‘I showed the bearded guy to Paul Manning. He didn’t recognise him. Maggie took it to Danny Stoll. Nothing. I also heard from the bespoke porn client. Bloke from Leeds, working in America for the last year. The company owner told me he’d commissioned a video where a woman in full sex wear was buried alive, but he hadn’t been happy with the casting and they’d eventually cancelled the gig.’

  Sawyer shook his head. ‘Dead end.’

  Shepherd stripped a layer of flesh from a chicken wing and winced as he held it up to the light. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Chicken and cucumber.’

  ‘Well, that’s dysfunctional.’

  Sawyer spluttered. ‘Says the man inhaling a bucket of fried chicken and chips.’

  ‘It’s not a bucket. Jesus, I’m not an animal.’

  ‘You’re a human being.’

  ‘Working on it.’

  Sawyer leaned over and picked up the metal pen he had pickpocketed from Shepherd at Padley Gorge.

  ‘What is this thing?’

  ‘Tactical pen.’

  ‘You can write with it?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s also a steel tip. You can use it for smashing windows, self-defence. It’s made of titanium. Writes in all weathers. Looks pretty cool, too.’

  Sawyer eyed him, smiling.

  They indulged in a minute’s silence, chomping through their food. Sawyer took great care working through the sandwich, gnawing away the central filling but avoiding the edges.

  Shepherd laughed. ‘You leave your crusts? Sorry. Are you six? I think I’ve got a curly straw somewhere if you need it for that Coke.’

  ‘Crusts are like, the skin of the bread. Nobody eats the skin.’

  ‘Adults do.’

  Sawyer nodded to the frame on Shepherd’s desk. ‘That recent?’

  The photograph showed Shepherd in bright red trunks, topless, knee-deep in seawater. He held a laughing toddler in matching red water wings above his head.

  ‘Couple of years. That’s my boy, Theo. Little terror then. Worse now. Nearly five. You got kids?’

  Sawyer shook his head. ‘Maybe when I grow up.’

  Shepherd pushed the lunchbox away. He wrinkled his nose and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘Not that hungry.’

  ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘What will?’

  ‘The conference.’

  Shepherd chuckled. There was a desperate edge to the sound. ‘It’s not that.’ He took a slug of Fanta. ‘Did Drummond say anything else?’

  ‘Apart from Georgina’s pregnancy, not really. He was curious about why the killer would use hemlock. If he wanted the victim to suffer, maybe he would use something that keeps them awake rather than shuts them down?’

  ‘We should find out who the father is. How far was she?’

  ‘Drummond reckons about eight weeks. I spoke to Maggie. Her husband didn’t seem to know about it. I’m sure she did. Maybe playing it safe and not telling him until the end of the first trimester.’

  Shepherd picked at his fries. ‘We need the paternity. It could give us a pointer if we find the father isn’t Danny.’

  ‘Let’s see what comes out of the conference. It’s the kind of detail we should spare him from if we can help it. I think we’ll learn more from the drug. Drummond said he wouldn’t need much knowledge of poison, and he could get most of what he needed off the internet. I’m just wondering why he would kill that way, with second-hand knowledge of his killing substance. It feels like he’s willing to compromise on that because of confidence in another element.’

  ‘The precise dosage? Injection? Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s medical. Look at Ed Gein, Dahmer, Richard Marquette. They did what they did with bodies, and they didn’t have medical training.’

  Sawyer tuned in to the sound of street bustle from Shepherd’s open window. ‘Yeah. All you really need is the will to do it. But is it pathological or righteous?’

  Shepherd’s phone rang. He snatched it up, mumbled an acknowledgement, listened for a few seconds. ‘Give us a couple of minutes.’ He hung up and jumped to his feet.

  Sawyer tilted his head. ‘What?’

  ‘To the Batcave!’

  Sawyer pushed his face closer to the screen. He turned to Rhodes. ‘It’s a tooth.’

  Rhodes smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Sawyer stepped back and Shepherd moved in for a close look. ‘You can pretty much see both roots. Or at least the stumps of both roots. Nicely done.’

  Rhodes nodded. ‘So you’ve got a killer who keeps trophies of his victims’ teeth and sets them into rings?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Sawyer. ‘We’ll need to get that confirmed by the pathologist and dental records. Shepherd, get a uniform on to a jeweller. Check how such a ring could have been made. We might even get lucky and find a record of him commissioning it from a local place. Get them all checked.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Sawyer glanced at Shepherd. He was smiling.

  Shepherd scratched something into his notebook. ‘Could you get any clarity on his face? From either of the shots?’

  ‘Nah. Their CCTV is hardly Hollywood. And it’s a bit murky in there. His beanie and beard keeps him pretty well covered. Best hope is that someone might recognise his general look. There is something else, though.’ Rhodes pulled up a separate window from his image enhancement software. ‘His book. It’s flat on the table, but I managed to get a partial enhancement on the spine when he packs it away.’

  Sawyer and Shepherd shuffled close to the screen again. Rhodes zoomed in to the image and surrounded the words with his mouse pointer.

  Sawyer squinted and read from the screen. ‘“—f the Peak District.”’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Must be “of”. Something of the Peak District.’

  Rhodes navigated to his browser and pulled up a pre-saved Amazon tab. ‘Found a few title possibilities. Folk Tales of the Peak District. A History of the Peak District. But only one book matches the font.’

  The book’s cover image showed a man in a turquoise helmet with a fitted head torch, squeezing through a gap between two moist and shiny rock walls.

  Shepherd and Sawyer read the title out in unison. ‘Caves of the Peak District.’

  28

  ‘We’re following several lines of enquiry and we’re particularly keen to speak to this man, or anyone who mig
ht recognise him.’

  Keating was good at authority; he wore it well, projecting in sonorous Welsh-Irish to the modest boardroom of hacks and hangers on: some sitting, most standing. He sat, in full uniform and cap, flanked by Shepherd and Sally O’Callaghan, at the centre of a wide beechwood table littered with micro recorders and old-school omni mics. Sawyer stood off to the side with Maggie and Stephen Bloom. He had changed into an informal blazer and shirt, no tie. Next to Bloom—sublime in his petrol blue suit with all the trimmings—he felt inconspicuous, which was the whole point, since he was still walking the advisory line.

  Behind the table, a vast banner displayed the Derbyshire Constabulary logo, with phone numbers and web address. The long silver petals of the force insignia fanned out behind Keating, and to an observer in the centre of the audience, it would look like he had sprouted angel wings.

  On the desk in front of Shepherd, two large upright frames displayed blown-up CCTV images of the bearded suspect: the stand-up shot from inside The Farmyard Inn and the picture that captured him walking towards Sickleworth Golf Club.

  ‘We’re aware that this man was present at locations near to where Toby and Georgina were last seen, and so we need to speak to him with the utmost urgency. The left image was captured at The Farmyard Inn, near Bakewell, on the night of Georgina’s murder. The image on the right was taken from the roads around Sickleworth Golf Club on the night of Toby’s murder. These are the places where Georgina and Toby were last seen alive. We also have a reliable witness who can place this individual near certain other locations at times that tally with the events leading up to the crimes. If anyone recognises this man, please contact us on one of the numbers behind me.’ Keating glanced at Sawyer. ‘We’re hopeful this information will lead to identification and arrest.’

  Camera flashes. A journalist near the back called out, ‘What are the other locations?’

  Keating sniffed. ‘I’d rather not divulge that at the moment. We are appealing to the public to inform us about any other sightings of this man in these locations on the nights in question. We are also asking anyone who might have seen any unusual activity in the rural areas in and around Padley Gorge over the last seven to ten days to come forward. Anyone digging or behaving oddly or furtively. Has anyone been approached by someone resembling this man and felt uncomfortable? We’re particularly keen to speak to anyone who has felt unwell or perhaps been hospitalised after an encounter with someone resembling this man. We believe he is familiar with certain naturally available toxic substances.’

  Sawyer kept his eyes on Shepherd. He seemed fixated on something in front of him on the desk. He willed him to look up and engage, to look less like a spare part.

  Keating continued. ‘Both victims were taken from their own cars, and so we urge the public to park in an area where vehicles cannot easily be tampered with. When you return to your vehicle, check that there’s nothing unusual before you get back in. If this man is indeed the perpetrator of these horrendous crimes, then we are dealing with a motivated and dangerous individual, and I urge members of the public not to approach him, but instead to contact your nearest police station or, again, call one of the numbers behind me. All contact will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

  He fielded a few logistical questions and, after a beat of silence, pointed to Dean Logan, a widely known local news reporter sitting on the front row. Logan—scruffy and pompous—indulged in a second of contemplation before squeezing out his question. ‘DCI Keating. Both these murders have happened in a short period of time. How close are you to catching this man? If he is the perp?’

  Sawyer narrowed his eyes at the pretentious truncation.

  Shepherd leaned towards Keating into the central cluster of microphones. The action looked amateurish. ‘We’re working extremely hard and, as DCI Keating says, following several lines of enquiry. This is—’

  ‘Sorry, who is this?’ Logan spoke to Keating.

  Keating started to speak but Shepherd cut across him. ‘Detective Sergeant Ed Shepherd. I’m overseeing day-to-day enquiries. Mr Logan, I’m confident that we will apprehend this man very—’

  ‘I don’t dispute your hard work. I’m just wondering…’ Logan looked away from Shepherd and smiled. ‘It seems strange that you say you’re “confident” and you’re following several “lines of enquiry”, but here you are, asking the public for help. These are shocking crimes, and the public want to hear concrete evidence of progress, not some warning about being careful where they park their cars.’

  Keating got in first this time. ‘Dean. I share the concern, which is why I want to open up every possible avenue of investigation. This is quite a distinctive-looking individual, and I’d be surprised if someone out there doesn’t recognise him. Would you rather we wait until he kills another before asking for the public’s help?’

  Sawyer smiled at the rhetoric.

  Keating broke up the conference and stalked out of the back door, followed by Bloom.

  Maggie turned to Sawyer. ‘Your new sidekick might be in for a kicking. Keating’s not a fan of his charges sharing his light.’

  Sawyer hurried over to Shepherd, catching him as he waited to file out of the room’s back door.

  Shepherd read his mind. ‘Drummond confirms that both vics still had all their own teeth.’

  ‘Maybe just an affectation, then. I’ll catch up with you later. Got an appointment.’

  ‘DS Shepherd!’ As Shepherd tried to shove his way through and escape the scrum, Logan pushed through to the edge, alongside his colleague with a shoulder-mounted TV camera. ‘Are you certain this is the same man who murdered both Toby and Georgina? Are we looking at a serial killer?’

  Shepherd stopped and turned. He found Logan in the crowd and spoke into his colleague’s camera. ‘We need him to kill three to call him that.’

  29

  A guard escorted Marcus Klein into the visitors’ room and he made his way over to Sawyer’s table. Sawyer stood and held out a hand; Klein took it with reluctance.

  For a man who had lurked like a smothering shadow in Sawyer’s mind for most of his adult life, Klein’s lack of stature was a surprise. He was a short, compact character in his early fifties, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, waxed and parted on top. He lowered himself to the chair, took out a pair of glasses with undersized rectangular frames and applied them to his face with the fuss and frailty of a man thirty years older. His fingers were gnarled and knuckly, bleached with nicotine. Fingernails unclipped but clean. His eyes glittered behind the glasses, but there was little depth or darkness. He was limp, neutered.

  Klein didn’t look like a murderer. He looked like what he used to be: a supply teacher.

  ‘Hello.’ The voice was soft and low. He made fleeting eye contact, then shifted focus to the table top, as if the effort of connection was too tiring, or he had learned to avoid it.

  ‘Mr Klein. Lloyd Robbins. Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

  Klein’s eyes rose from the table. ‘I’m happy to help with your work, Mr Robbins. My memory might not be up to your requirements, though. How far have you got with the research for your book?’

  ‘I’m well versed with the case. I’m convinced you didn’t commit this crime, and although I can’t give you back the years you’ve lost, I can at least help you clear your name.’

  Klein bowed his head. His shoulders heaved. After a few seconds, he seemed to steel himself and found Sawyer’s eyes again. ‘You’re right. Unfortunately, you’re in the minority.’

  ‘I’ve been reviewing the file. Not a lot left. It’s old and “solved”, so they’ve thinned it to mostly statements. But I understand your parole hearing is pending. You do realise that surviving family members will be on the victim scheme? They will be asked if they want to directly address the board.’

  Klein nodded. ‘You think they’ll try to block the parole?’

  ‘The husband might. I’m told he can be a bit of an obstacle.’

 
Klein swiped a hand across his hair. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘I’m seeing him in a few days. But as a retired officer, he’ll probably jump at the offer to address the board. I understand he doesn’t share my view on your innocence.’

  ‘I’ve been a guest of Her Majesty for thirty years now, Mr Robbins. I’ve done all the courses. My psych report is good. Favourable risk management. My offender supervisor is convinced they’ll pass me. My offender manager agrees. The report is three hundred and fifty pages and it reads like a ghost-written autobiography. Makes me sound like some kind of angel.’

  Sawyer ran his finger through a groove in the table where some kind soul had scratched out a Biro swastika. ‘Trouble is, although you know you didn’t do it, you were convicted. The main thing they look for is evidence of change. They’ll be considering whether thirty years is enough distance from the person you were when you did it to the person you are now. They may be satisfied about your progress, but the husband’s statement could rub out everything. It could turn it into an emotive issue. When’s your oral hearing?’

  Klein stiffened. ‘They’re saying sometime in the next couple of months. Hoping it’ll come through and I’ll get a transfer to a Cat D. For transition. I suppose it’ll make a change. Last time I got moved was out of Wakefield, twenty-five years ago.’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  Klein’s shoulders sagged. ‘Do you think the prospect of your book will help mitigate the husband’s statement?’

  ‘I do. And I wanted to see you today to ask you about what I see as the most crucial element of the case.’

  Klein leaned forward and peered into Sawyer’s eyes. Was he detecting a resemblance?

  ‘Your testimony. About the hammer.’ Sawyer dropped his voice. ‘You said it couldn’t have been yours. But you were unable to produce the one you said was in your toolbox when the police challenged you.’

  ‘No. One of the police who arrested me must have taken it.’

  Sawyer nodded, slow and steady. ‘You say the last time you remember using it was when you fitted a number to the door of your house, the year before.’