by Andrew Lowe
Shepherd caught his breath. ‘She lives in Sheffield. Not far. Hillfoot. She wants to talk. Now. Says it’s about Paul.’
53
Tracey Manning set down two mugs on the coffee table. She added a plate of biscuits: assorted, fanned out. Sawyer reached over from the sofa and took the only Bourbon before Shepherd could get to it.
She sat in the facing armchair and poured herself a generous glass of red wine. Tracey was a short, girlish fortysomething with long, expensively cut blonde hair. Loose pink T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms. She waggled the bottle. ‘Sure you won’t have a real drink?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘It’s not the seventies any more. Caffeine is as strong as we can go, these days.’
‘Shame.’
Sawyer dunked his biscuit. ‘You been out running?’
‘Home gym on the top floor. Treadmill, rower, weights. I always work out before I write. Gets my brain on stand-by.’
‘You’re a journalist?’ said Shepherd.
Tracey shook out her hair and tied it into a ponytail. ‘Magazines.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Sorry it’s so late.’
A muscular black and white cat stalked into the room and leapt onto Tracey’s knee. ‘It’s fine. Had to be now, really. I’m going away tomorrow. Tenerife. It’s early morning for me, anyway. I’m on a self-imposed night shift. I work mostly for the women’s titles. Travel, music, lifestyle stuff. This trip is a rare freebie. Interview and photo shoot with Cate Blanchett for You Mag.’
Shepherd and Sawyer exchanged blank glances.
Tracey smiled. ‘It’s okay. Not your demographic.’
‘Nice house,’ said Sawyer. ‘You married? Partner?’
She took a sip of wine. ‘Separated last year. No kids. I didn’t want them. He did. I thought that might change. It didn’t. He was happy for me to have the house.’ She scoffed. ‘I think he was just glad to be rid of me. He owns a chain of boutique hotels.’
Sawyer studied his coffee mug. Mr Men branded; violet with orange handle. ‘Little Miss Trouble.’ ‘So what’s so urgent, Tracey? Thank you for agreeing to talk to us. It’s been an awful time for your family. We’re looking for connections. We believe we might be looking for someone who has a problem with Paul or Jayne.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Shepherd said. I’ve read all the coverage. I lost touch with Paul when we moved up here about ten years ago. I last saw him a few Christmases back. Toby was just a kid, then. He had a NERF gun battle with my husband. They talked about golf. I thought Steve might enjoy some kind of distant uncle role with Toby. Fend off his paternal instincts. But then he got busy with the business.’ She clammed up, took another drink.
Shepherd slid a biscuit off the plate. ‘You went to the same school as Paul, yes?’
‘Yeah. Hill Top.’
‘And Danny Stoll?’
She shook her head. ‘Didn’t really know him. Knew of him.’
‘He was mates with Paul?’ said Sawyer.
Tracey looked away. ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.’
Sawyer leaned forward. ‘How about Dale Strickland? Do you know that name?’
Tracey lifted her eyes from the glass and stared ahead, avoiding Sawyer’s gaze. ‘Don’t know that name.’
Sawyer gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Tracey, what did you want to talk about?’
She hunched up her shoulders and took a big slug of wine. ‘Just wanted to confirm that Paul and Danny knew each other. I thought maybe that might help you.’
The sliver of wine in Tracey’s glass quivered as her hand began to shake. Sawyer leaned to the side, trying to catch her eye. ‘Tracey. Are you afraid of something? Of someone? Whatever you tell us can be in absolute confidence. We can make sure you’re safe.’
‘I was reading the other day. Someone said that the greatest fear is the fear of the unknown.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Lovecraft.’
At last, Tracey turned to face Sawyer. Her eyes had reddened. ‘It’s not true.’
Shepherd edged his mug onto the table. ‘What are you afraid of, Tracey? Have you been told to keep quiet about something? Has Paul told you to keep quiet? Danny? Dale?’
‘Tracey,’ Sawyer leaned in further, ‘we’re trying to find someone who is severely ill. He’s clearly being driven by something we don’t understand yet. He’s murdered two young people with their whole lives ahead of them. Murdered them in a horrendous manner. And now he has a young lad. Luka. He’s nine years old, Tracey. A really lovely lad. I’ve met him. He was in an accident and I met him at the hospital. Brave kid. I think you can help us to find him. I think you want to tell us something that you know will help us put a stop to this.’
Tracey finished off the wine and set down the glass. ‘There was a boy at Hill Top. Dennis. He had… You know. He had a crush on me.’ She looked at Sawyer. ‘We were thirteen. Fourteen. Babies. He was a bit strange, quiet. But not in a bad way. He was alright. Just awkward. He had this odd way of talking. Like he was there with you but… somewhere else in his head. He was always trying to impress me with little drawings, Valentine cards, helping me out in class. I just didn’t like him in that way. I remember he was into geology. He kept showing me rocks, stones, pebbles. He knew I loved animals. I used to look after the school guinea pig, and he always loved helping me clean out its cage. He was in a different set for biology and one day he saw me in the corridor and said he’d got a surprise for me. He opened this box and showed me a frog he’d dissected. It was just spread out, pinned there, with its organs exposed. I suppose he just thought I’d be interested because I liked animals. I remember everything going fuzzy. And I fell. Fainted. Hit my head on one of those thick radiators. My mum and brother picked me up from hospital. Mild concussion. I remember my mum was upset, but Paul… he was so angry. He wanted to know what had happened, who had done it. I didn’t tell him. But he found out and went to Dennis’s house with a couple of mates.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Danny and Dale?’
‘Yes.’ She paused, drew in a deep sigh. ‘Danny was good friends with Paul. But Dale… he was the worst. Paul and Danny were doing okay, but he was older. Didn’t go to Hill Top. I think he was dealing drugs or something. I remember Paul saying he’d been with Dale on a burglary somewhere. Paul told Dale about what had happened to me and so they went with Danny. Paul made me go with them. After school. We followed Dennis to his house and broke in.’ She closed her eyes. ‘They were all big. Dennis was my age. Thirteen. Danny and Paul were in the fifth year. I think Paul was already sixteen. Dale was older, though. He might even have been seventeen. He seemed like a man, not a boy.’
She refilled her wine glass.
Sawyer put a hand on her shoulder. Sharp, bony. ‘You’re doing well. Just take us through it, step by step. What happened at Dennis’s house?’
She chewed at her bottom lip, biting back tears. ‘Paul just wanted to scare him, but it went too far. Dale pushed him. Said he’d never let anyone hurt his sister like that. Dennis didn’t hurt me, Mr Sawyer. It was just silly. An accident. We got into his house. His mum was there. She was in a downstairs bedroom. Looked like it was specially kitted out. I think she had polio or something. She was in a wheelchair.’
‘Where was his dad?’ said Shepherd.
‘Don’t think he had one. Or he just wasn’t around. His mum was really upset. Telling everyone to go. I tried to leave but Dale stopped me. Paul tried to protect me but Dale said if I went, I’d be next. And he beat up this lad. Proper punches. I felt so sick. Just kept hitting him. A man beating up a child. Dennis tried to crawl into a ball but Dale kept grabbing his arms, kicking him. He couldn’t defend himself and nobody could help. I thought he was going to kill him. There was blood on the floor. I think Dale broke his nose. I was trying to stop him, but Paul warned me off. When Dale did stop, Dennis was curled up tight, screaming. I still don’t know how the neighbours didn’t come running. Dale hit him again, told him to shut up. Then he said it was time to teach him
a proper lesson, about how you should treat women with “respect”. He was laughing, sweating. A really horrible, scary laugh.’
Tracey’s face was crumpled, contorted. She sniffed and wiped away tears with her T-shirt sleeve.
‘Dale spoke to Danny and Paul and they got his mum. They got her out of the wheelchair. She protested, but Dale slapped her and told her he would kill Dennis if she made any noise. Then they held her arms while Dale pulled down his trousers. I looked away but you could tell what was happening. He said… Jesus Christ. He said, “I’ve never had a cripple before.” I looked, and Dennis’s mum had gone limp, staring into space. Dennis got up and he was trying to get to her, but Paul and Danny held him off. I was crying, screaming. And they grabbed me and dragged me out. Before we left, Dale got Dennis’s head. Held it by the cheeks and lifted it up, so he could see. He was calling his mum all sorts. A fucking slag. She made him do it. Turned him on. And he ran at her and punched her. Knocked out one of her teeth. I saw it come out. It sat there in a patch of red on the dirty white shagpile rug.’
Tracey dipped forward and held her head in her hands. The cat scrambled away. Tracey clawed at her hair as tears dripped down onto her legs. Shepherd grabbed a box of tissues from a bookshelf and handed them over.
Sawyer rested a hand on her shoulder again. ‘Slow down now, Tracey. What happened after that?’
She recovered herself. ‘I heard all sorts from Paul. Overheard stuff. How his mum had a heart attack or something. One of the teachers, a really nice physics teacher called Mr Turner, he told us later that Dennis had gone to a special school. Paul made me go with him and Danny to see Dale later in the summer. He said that we had to “keep quiet” and it was only “justice” and that we could never talk about it or it would end up being just as bad for all of us. I can’t do that any more. I’ve kept quiet for nearly thirty years. I talked to Paul last week. He said he’s spoken to Danny, and Dale. My God. Dale. He’s out of prison soon. What then?’
‘Wasn’t the attack investigated?’ said Shepherd. ‘Reported in the press?’
‘I didn’t hear about anything. That was the strange thing. I was expecting the police to come to the school or to our house. Every day, I waited for it. But they never came. Dennis didn’t know my brother or the others, but he could have told them about me. He could have told them that I was there.’
Sawyer took out his notepad. ‘Where did it happen? Do you know the address? Any more detail?’
She shook her head. ‘It was quite a small house. Terraced. Near the school. Somewhere in Chapel. Near the war memorial, I think.’
‘And the boy? Dennis? What was his full name?’
Tracey’s gaze drifted away. ‘He was alright. Just a bit weird. Quiet. Always getting teased. I just thought he was shy. His surname was Crawley. They had a nickname for him.’
54
Luka Strickland stirred, and shuffled round onto his back. He had somehow fallen asleep. The cave floor was hard and cold beneath the slim fabric, and he lifted himself up on his elbows. His head throbbed, and the skin around his ankle pinched against the metal of the manacle.
He rubbed at his greasy eyelids and looked around, hoping for a new reality. But the lantern at his side revealed the same scene: a large cave with a high ceiling, rough walls sparkling with water, stumps of rock rising from the floor.
At the opposite end of the cave, the man—Dennis—had his back to him, lit by a second lantern. He was crouched over something, working.
Luka coughed, and the man turned.
‘I need a drink, Dennis.’
‘After this. It won’t take long.’
Dennis Crawley walked over to him. He wore a black oversuit, and as he stepped across the dark centre of the chamber, Luka could see only his head and helmet.
He knelt by the sleeping bag and set down a tray with a vial of liquid, a sealed sachet, a syringe.
‘Are you giving me painkillers?’
Crawley’s helmet torch dazzled Luka as he leaned in and gripped his chin, easing his mouth open. ‘Sort of.’
He studied Luka’s eyes and mouth, then released him and picked up the sachet. He tore off the top, took out a piece of cloth and wiped the cap of the vial, then picked up the syringe and pulled back the plunger.
Luka shuffled in place and propped himself upright, rattling the chain of the manacle.
Crawley paused, closed his eyes, took in a deep breath. ‘You will need to keep still for this, Luka. Don’t be scared.’
‘I’m not scared.’ He was trembling now.
Crawley opened his eyes and smiled. He held the syringe upright and inserted the needle into the top of the vial. He drew a clear, colourless liquid into the barrel and tapped at the syringe with his finger.
Luka leaned to the side to get a better view. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Removing air bubbles.’ Crawley pushed gently at the plunger then plucked the needle out of the vial. He turned to face Luka, closed his eyes again.
Luka nodded, too fast. ‘Will it hurt?’
Crawley opened his eyes. ‘Just a little sharp feeling, but no pain after that.’
55
Shepherd called in an emergency briefing and wedged into Sawyer’s Mini for the drive back to Buxton.
Sawyer streaked away from the stone-clad suburbs and aimed for the Rivelin Valley, the nearest insertion point into the National Park.
He turned to Shepherd. He looked spent: droopy eyed and dreamy. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine. Hell of a story. How do you carry something around like that for your whole life?’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘You bury it in the past. Try to keep it distant. Tell yourself that it’ll get easier with every passing day. That doesn’t work.’
Shepherd closed his eyes, tilted back his head. He turned onto his side, trying to get comfortable in the small space.
Sawyer glanced over. ‘You need your own Detective Mobile. You can’t be having your missus swiping your ride for family affairs.’
‘She needed it.’
Shepherd had nothing more. He tilted his head onto his shoulder.
By contrast, Sawyer was bright, buzzing. ‘We could pop to see my dad. Not far from here. You’d like my dad. He’s anal. Meticulous. By the book.’
Shepherd opened an eye. ‘Did he teach you how to fight?’
‘That was Benjamin Kwok for Wing Chun. Alan Carruthers for JKD. China via Glasgow.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Wing Chun is close quarter combat. Jeet Kune Do takes a lot from its principles but it’s less classical. It’s all about finding the most direct route to the target. Nothing fancy or extraneous. One of my instructors called it “scientific street fighting”.’
The dashboard clock ticked over to 2am.
Shepherd faced Myers, Moran and Walker; all slumped at their desks, all far from delighted at the late call.
‘We now have motive and a name. I need you to work through. Pull your teams in here early. We can all get our beauty sleep when we’ve found the lad.’
Sawyer perched on the desk beside Shepherd. ‘Like I said, if you want to understand the artist, look at his work. Dennis Crawley isn’t a sadist. He doesn’t fit the usual three traits: domination, manipulation, control. He wants revenge, and he wants it to be acute, exquisite. And he has the nine-year-old son of his mother’s most brutal attacker at his mercy.’
‘Any word from the psychic?’ said Moran. ‘Maybe hit him with the name and the details. Might help his vibe.’
‘I saw Beck’s show. Let’s just say I’m not holding out for miracles. We have solid police work to do down here in the real world. Crawley’s ring is set with his mother’s tooth, knocked out in the attack. It’s a tangible reminder. It will help him whenever he wobbles over what he’s doing. He’s keeping a part of his mother close to him. It makes it her revenge, too. Remember. He’s highly intelligent, highly motivated. But I don’t think he’s a psychopath, and there’s no sexual
sadism. He’s not killing for thrills.’
‘It makes him harder to catch,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s rational. Less prone to mistakes.’
‘We need to look into the assault,’ said Walker. ‘It happened in 1990. Check for convictions.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘I want to know everything you can find on Dennis Crawley. Where is he likely to be now? Connected addresses. And let’s dig a bit deeper with Dale Strickland. We’ll also need some protection for Tracey Manning. If she’s telling the truth, then she may well be in danger from both Dennis and Dale. Myers, how was your caving contact?’
‘Bit vague. Runs a local cavers’ group. He said he thinks he recognises our man but couldn’t place him. Maybe the name will help. He might have joined under an alias, though.’
‘All eyes on Crawley, please. Let’s find out what he’s been doing for the past twenty-eight years. Get busy. And get your teams in at seven. If you need to kip, use the intel cells.’
Sawyer drove back to The Reading Room and lay prone on the bed, eyes wide.
After a few minutes’ contemplation, he stripped down to his underwear and stood before the mirror. He swept into an elegant horse stance and began to execute the third and final Wing Chun form: biu jee. Darting fingers.
He was more wired than tired, but the lack of sleep tugged at his joints and his muscles throbbed with each efficient execution.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing extraneous.
Everything necessary.
The biu jee form was known for its lethal techniques: finger and elbow strikes that targeted nerve centres and pressure points. The idea was to find the purest, most direct path to impact, and remove the need to fight force with force. Why expend all that energy into a blunt-instrument punch to the face, when a targeted strike to the eyes required less strength and was likely to be more effective?
But the form was also loaded with principles for emergency self-preservation. Escaping grapples, recovery after attack, weapon defence.
