by Andrew Lowe
His father appeared, filling the doorway.
‘Got to go.’
‘They built this place in the 1700s, you know. For the manager of a local mining company. It’s been restored, of course, but nothing garish. Just a spruce up of the original features.’
Harold Sawyer led his son through into his studio: a converted outhouse at the back of the cottage. His work in progress—a vast, ferocious abstract in purple and green—was propped on a steel easel in the centre of the room. In the far corner, Harold’s blank canvases were stacked with geometrical precision, and his accessories had been categorised and stored on colour-coded shelving: yellow for paint, blue for tools, red for filing and admin. He had layered the floor with brushed white parquet tiles, arranged in chevron style zig-zags.
Sawyer took a seat on Harold’s corner sofa—vermillion, designer—and browsed the small stack of novels on the round glass coffee table: Roth, Bellow, Hemingway. He stomped a shoe heel into the floor. ‘Pretty slick.’
Harold nodded. ‘Sturdy, too. The Romans used herringbone patterns for their roads.’ He walked to a silver mini fridge tucked underneath the shelving. Harold was a couple of inches taller than Sawyer; solid and stable, with goalkeeper hands. But he moved with surprising grace and dexterity, particularly for a man on the home straight to seventy. He had a long, almost gaunt face and a permanently furrowed brow, set low above narrow, flashing eyes. Always clean, healthy, shaven. Always controlled. The hair—floppy and unkempt on top, grey above the ears—was the only element you might say he had overlooked. But there was probably an artist’s logic to that somewhere. Although he would never admit it out loud, his father reminded Sawyer of his favourite poet: Ted Hughes. Formidable, English, eclectic. He could cut an intellectual dash, hold his own at some community philosophy group, but he was also happy to haul on his wellies and talk silage with the farmers.
Harold opened the fridge to reveal its well-stocked interior. ‘Beer? Coke?’
‘Coke.’
‘How was the drive? Isn’t it strange to be back at Buxton?’
This was a longstanding habit: asking two questions at once.
‘Drive was fine. Buxton hasn’t changed.’
Harold set down the drinks and took a seat at the opposite end of the sofa. ‘Buxton isn’t the sort of place that changes. It’s as immovable as the gritstone. How’s Keating? I saw him last year at a quiz thing. Fundraiser. He’s done well.’
‘He has. I’m working for him. Well, will be. At the new MIT.’
Harold nodded slowly and clipped the cap off a bottle of San Miguel. ‘Surprised to see you return. I thought you were lost to London, Jake.’
Sawyer dead-batted. ‘How’s work?’
‘Good. I’m exhibiting in Newcastle next month. Plenty of galleries doubling as art shops now. Art fairs, online sales. My agent manages it all. I just make the mess. You would be amazed how much people are prepared to pay for physical art. Authenticity is quite a commodity. There’s so much fake nonsense out there. Particularly in Cyberspace.’
Sawyer smirked. ‘Cyberspace?’
Harold smiled and took a drink. ‘Whatever the fuck it’s called these days.’
Sawyer pointed at the work on the easel. ‘Is this close to finished?’
Harold glared at him in mock outrage. ‘Surely you haven’t come all this way to take the piss?’
‘Serious question.’
‘I started it at Christmas. I think I’m almost done. Still. Art is never finished, only abandoned.’
‘I saw Michael.’ Harold raised an eyebrow; Sawyer shook his head. ‘His care is getting expensive. I’ve got a letter for you. From the manager.’
Harold darkened. ‘Chris Hill. That little bastard. Fucking bean counters. All the same. Price of everything, value of nothing.’
‘They’ll all be automated out of existence soon. By Cyberspace. I’m thinking of buying a place. Might help if I saw Michael a bit more often. And there’s still work to do.’
Harold sighed and stood up. He strode to the work surface by the sink, took out a glass, and transferred the rest of his beer. ‘The matter of your mother was put to rest nearly thirty years ago, son.’
‘Not for me.’
‘We know who did it, and we know why he did it. God has forgiven him, and so have I.’ He caught Sawyer’s eye. ‘You’re the Stoic. You know how it works. Our lives were altered, and we couldn’t control that. But we can control whether the alteration was an ending or—’
‘—a new beginning? It’s all one big rebirth for you now, isn’t it? You and your resurrection.’ Sawyer broke eye contact, gazed into the painting. ‘God will forgive them and let them into Heaven. You might be able to live with that. But I can’t. And neither can Michael.’
Harold bought some time with a long drink from his glass. ‘Michael is in a lot of pain, but he’s had every opportunity to help himself.’
‘Dad. The thing about tough love? There has to be some love.’
Harold took his seat again. ‘I did my best. You know that.’
‘I do. I still don’t know how you survived yourself, let alone kept me and Mike alive.’
Harold paused, clinging to his composure. He turned and looked Sawyer in the eye. ‘Remember the dog, Jake? You must have been eight or nine. Michael had just started at Rook Heath. I was walking you home from school. It was a huge thing. Mastiff. I stopped to talk to someone and you ran ahead. It broke free from its owner and charged at you. Christ, the sound of it. Every bark was like a little roar. I’ve never heard such violence in a dog. But you just stopped and stood there, staring. Smiling. It was barking in your face, Jake. The owner got to it, but it had already started to retreat, whimpering. It was like the owner rescued the dog, not you.’
‘I remember its breath. Nasty, slimy saliva.’
Harold leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘You can’t just go head first into everything. Your condition makes you think you can, but you can’t. You start lifting old rocks, you don’t know what’s going to crawl out.’
‘You know me, Dad. I don’t scare easy.’
‘Son. Just because you don’t feel fear, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be afraid.’
Sawyer closed his eyes. ‘There’s no condition.’
‘You were examined. Once when you were nine, again when you were sixteen. I still have the scans. CT and MRI. Jake, you’ve been damaged, and denial won’t help.’
Sawyer sprang to his feet and paced around the back of the purple and green painting, edge to edge. ‘So how the fuck am I supposed to know when to “be afraid” if I don’t even know what it feels like?’
Harold kept his voice low. ‘You have to learn. I remember my first day at Buxton. I was terrified of the tiniest things. And day by day, I got used to them all. They reduced in number but broadened in scale. It was like I developed an immunity. It’s what I needed to stay alive, stay sane.’
‘They call it hedonic adaption.’
Harold smiled. ‘Your mother used to worry, ask me about the cases I was working. She used to worry that I wouldn’t come home at the end of the day. I had to remind her that I was working in Wardlow in Derbyshire and not South Central Los Angeles. But she was always so anxious. I had to learn to live with the fear. But you need to do the opposite. You’ve got to mark out your own patterns, design your own adaption. And you won’t learn, you won’t grow, until you start to leave some things behind you.’
‘I’m not leaving Michael behind.’
‘I’ll arrange something. He can have my money, but he needs you, Jake. And until he sees you going forward, leaving things behind, he won’t be able to grow, either.’ Harold stood and joined Sawyer by the painting. He rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. ‘You have a life to live, Jake. Marcus Klein did a monstrous thing. He was tried and he was convicted.’
Sawyer turned. ‘And he’ll be eligible for parole, soon. And he won’t get it, because you’re on the victim scheme, and you’re going to make a sta
tement. He’ll die in prison, Dad. An innocent man. Stop pretending that you don’t believe that. An innocent man will continue to suffer, while a guilty man lives on. Free. I admire you, for finding the strength to move on. And I’ve tried to do it. You know what Maggie said? She said the worst thing you can say to someone who doesn’t understand the way you feel is, “You don’t know what it was like. You weren’t there.”’
‘Are you saying you’re angry with me because I wasn’t around to help?’
Sawyer pulled away. ‘No. But that is true, isn’t it? You weren’t there. I was. He killed her, and he tried to kill me and Michael, and he is still out there, walking and talking and breathing the same air.’
‘Do you really want to know why you feel this way, Jake?’
‘Depends. Is it a Jesus thing?’
Harold turned away. ‘It’s because you’re not allowing yourself to forgive. Forgiveness is not a weakness. It’s a powerful force. What’s the alternative? Violence ruined our lives, Jake. What are you proposing? More violence?’
One of the dogs nosed his way around the door. Sawyer crouched and let it lick his fingers. ‘Dad. Marcus Klein did not kill my mother. I’m going to find out who did.’
On the drive back to Buxton, Sawyer was horrified to feel his eyes drooping, and the powerful urge to close them and keep them closed.
He pulled off the road and slipped into the car park of a one-storey rest stop and B&B. He dropped his chin to his chest and let the tiredness pull him down.
The nap was dreamless, and he was dragged back to consciousness by his phone ringing in the dashboard mount.
Shepherd.
The time display told him only ten minutes had passed, but the shutdown was worrying, out of character; he rarely slept for more than six hours at night, and never needed to catch up in the day.
He answered the call and switched to speaker.
‘Where are you?’
‘Been to see my dad. About half an hour out of Buxton now. What’s up?’
Shepherd paused. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
Sawyer sat up straight and rubbed his eyes. ‘Good news.’
‘That’s the wrong answer.’
‘What?’
‘Nobody takes the good news first.’
Sawyer took a sip from his water bottle. ‘Fine. Bad news, then.’
‘We’ve got another one.’
‘Fuck.’
‘With ID. Missing person from a few years ago. Same MO. Cable ties. Cardboard coffin. Shallow grave.’
‘And what’s the good news?’
‘He’s alive.’
Part II
Unfinished Sympathy
35
‘How did he get here?’
‘Flagged down a car on Bulltor Lane near Brushfield. Driver brought him straight here. Nearest hospital. Nurse called us because of his condition. ID in his pocket, like the others. Gary Follett.’
Sawyer followed Shepherd through the Cavendish Hospital reception and into one of the vast lifts, budging aside to make room for a porter with a wheeled bed. ‘And Sally’s at the site?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘A mile or so in from the road. Patch of woodland, dense in places. She says it all fits. Cardboard coffin, shallow grave.’
‘Not shallow enough. How old is this guy? How did he get out?’
‘Early forties. Looks like he snapped the cable ties. And the coffin lid was bashed up and torn.’
The porter raised an eyebrow but kept his gaze on the lift doors.
‘Big bloke?’
‘Strong-looking, yeah. Got through the lid and scratched himself out of there.’
The doors opened; they squeezed round the bed and hurried out into the corridor.
‘That’s the flaw with putting people in shallow graves when they’re not quite dead,’ said Sawyer. ‘They might get out. What about the poison? The hemlock?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘Well. He’s alive.’
‘Maybe he messed up the dosage. Didn’t scale it for size and strength? Toby and Georgina were both pretty slight.’ They cantered around a corner and joined Maggie, DC Walker and DC Myers, gathered outside a private room with a large glass window partly obscured by half-open blind slats. ‘And how’s the man flu?’
‘Oh. It’s better, yeah.’
Sawyer gave him a look; Shepherd avoided eye contact.
They stopped outside the room. Inside, Gary Follett lay on his back, eyes closed, blankets tucking him in to shoulder height. Sawyer leaned in to the glass. Follett’s head was large and rounded; shaven, with a few days’ growth. He was sunk deep into his pillow, and the crinkles in the fabric surrounded his head like long, jagged rays.
Maggie squeezed Sawyer’s shoulder. ‘He was pretty grubby and dehydrated. I saw them cleaning him up. They’ve got him on saline and they’re monitoring, but he’s otherwise okay. I suspect the real damage will be emotional.’
Sawyer nodded but kept his eyes on Follett. ‘Will you talk to him?’
‘Of course. When he comes round. This is Jani. She’s the Senior Nurse.’
Sawyer turned and shook the hand of a short, golden-skinned woman in a crisp blue uniform. ‘Deputy Sister. Are you the senior officer?’
Sawyer glanced at Shepherd and the others. ‘I am, yeah. Can you tell me about Mr Follett’s condition?’
‘He’ll be fine. He’s dehydrated so he’s on dextrose. We’re monitoring blood sugar. He hasn’t spoken and seems confused, so we may run a CT scan. There’s a bit of trauma to the back of the skull. Looks like he might have hit his head on something. He also has a fresh needle prick on his left shoulder.’
‘Nothing else in his system?’
‘The blood test doesn’t show any immediate evidence of toxicity, but we’ll know more after a deeper check. Poison Unit.’
‘Thank you, Jani.’
She smiled, and disappeared into the nurse’s station. Walker and Myers stepped forward.
Sawyer turned back to the window. ‘Who is he?’
‘Misper,’ said Walker. ‘From Stanshope. Hasn’t been seen for nearly five years. Looks like his mother’s all he’s got left, and she’s in a home a few miles away. Dementia. Can’t find any other family connections. His father died when he was young, and he spent a bit of time in prison. Petty stuff. He’d only just got off the streets when he went missing. Mother reported him gone, back when she could.’
Maggie shook her head. ‘Probably hastened her decline.’
‘Any sign he knew Georgina and Toby? Any connection there?’
‘We’re checking,’ said Myers. ‘Nothing obvious.’
Sawyer peered back into the room. ‘He messed up. He hasn’t messed up before. Hasn’t left us a crumb to work with. And now this. A live witness.’
‘That’s reassuring, right?’ said Walker. ‘He’s capable of making mistakes.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘If it was a mistake. We need to talk to him.’
Maggie moved in close to Sawyer. He could smell her moisturiser: sweet, vanilla. ‘Keating wants me to do it. We know nothing about his mental state. We can’t go in too hard, too soon.’
‘Get a couple of uniforms in here. I want him watched, and safe, and I want to know when he wakes up. I particularly want to know if he says anything.’
Walker and Myers headed off to get coffee. Sawyer, Shepherd and Maggie sat side by side in the off-white plastic chairs bolted to the corridor wall.
‘You go up to Midhope?’ said Maggie.
Sawyer nodded. ‘Showed my face.’
‘And?’
‘He seems happy enough. His work is selling. Wants me to move on, stop letting the past rule me. Usual.’
‘It’s good advice.’
He bristled. ‘What is? Forgive and forget?’
‘Neither. Just… Start at the future you want and work backwards. Stop trying to fix the past.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘That’s pretty much what he said. He has God on his side, these days, too.’
‘We should go to see Follett’s mother,’ said Shepherd. ‘Maybe she can help with connections to the other victims.’
‘Just ignore it, Luka. Don’t be nosey.’
A tall woman with ponytailed, bleached white hair and thick-framed glasses ushered a young blond boy away from Follett’s window. The boy was short and slight, with bright red glasses. He was shoeless, in a dotted hospital gown, and gaped at Sawyer, Maggie and Shepherd.
‘Is that man famous, Mum?’
The woman smiled. ‘I doubt it.’
Shepherd stood, walked to the window and crouched down to speak to the boy. ‘He’s not famous, son. He’s just had a bit of a shock. Best let him rest. We’re making sure he’s okay.’
Sawyer followed. ‘Don’t let the strange man scare you, Luka. And you shouldn’t worry about the guy in there, either.’
The boy raised his eyes to Sawyer. ‘I’m not scared.’
Sawyer shot Shepherd a look, and smiled at Luka. ‘Glad to hear it.’
Luka pointed at Follett’s window. ‘Who is he? Why are you all watching him?’
‘We’re police officers, son,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re keeping an eye on him because he might be a witness to a crime.’
Sawyer nodded at the woman. ‘DI Jake Sawyer.’ He held out a hand and she shook, avoiding his eyes. She had long, elegant fingers, and Sawyer was struck with the urge to raise her hand to his lips and kiss it.
‘Eva Gregory.’ She flashed him a look. Mahogany eyes, almost black. Faraway.
Walker and Myers returned with a tray of takeout coffees; Shepherd stood upright and took his cup back to the seats.
Sawyer filled the gap, crouching beside Luka. ‘What brings you to the hospital, Luka? Are you visiting someone?’
Luka snapped his head around and glared at Sawyer. ‘Very funny! I was in a crash.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Things like that happen, Luka. You can’t change that, but you can control how you react. Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.’
Luka narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s “inevitable”’?’
