by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer took a coffee out to his car and sat inside, watching the video from Stuart Sutton’s ‘Great Explorer’ channel. He screenshotted a few images featuring the boy in the dark hoodie, then leaned in close, squinting, studying the boy’s eyes, again comparing the pictures to Samantha’s photograph of Darren.
His phone screen was interrupted by an incoming call message. Walker.
‘Sir. How are you?’ The voice was echoey.
‘Another day in paradise, Matt. Are you really calling me from the station toilet?’
Walker sighed. ‘It’s busy today. I’ve got to be quick. Stuart Sutton. Excluded eight years ago, from Cedar Mount School. Teacher caught him with heroin.’
‘Possession?’
‘He only had a small amount. Invited for interview but didn’t attend. Doesn’t look like it was followed up.’ Clattering noises as Walker moved elsewhere. ‘I’ve got you an address, though. Not far from here. I’ll send it.’
‘Any whiff of the hazing rituals I mentioned? Assault complaints? Officer attendance record?’
‘Not that I could find. Sir. Listen…’ He dropped his voice. ‘I’ve been reading up on the Coleman case, and also Virginia Mendez. I listened to her podcast.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Thoughts?’
‘This “interesting character” she talks about. That’s Sutton, right?’
‘I’m sure it is, yes.’
‘Well. I was wondering how she found Sutton, to record the interview. And what she might have found out. Could be something to do with her disappearance.’
Sawyer’s phone pinged with a message from Walker.
He checked the address, started the engine.
Sawyer took a five-minute drive to an estate of identical three-storey council houses in the Northern part of Buxton. He parked near a corner building and pushed the buzzer for the ground-floor flat.
He turned to face the street as he waited, tilting back his head and inhaling the clammy air. A group of teens eyed him from the gateway to a small playing field opposite. They muttered to each other and one cackled with laughter, as he held a bright red inflated balloon out of reach of another.
The sound of a chain sliding away. Sawyer turned as the door opened on a man with dark, tanned skin and a dense monobrow perched above heavy-lidded eyes. He was middle-aged, but well-muscled and paunch-free. He hung back in the doorway and tugged at the neck of his wifebeater vest.
Sawyer smiled. ‘Mr Zengana?’
The man gave a slow nod and folded his arms. ‘Yeah. What’s up?’
‘My name is Lloyd Robbins. I’m a private investigator, looking into the case of a missing young boy. I’ve been told that a close friend of his lives at this address.’
‘I can’t disclose any information about my tenants without their permission.’
‘Of course not. Have you been the landlord here for long?’
Zengana paused. ‘Yeah. Going on ten years. I look after the properties. My brother is the actual owner. He lives in Turkey.’
‘I see.’ Sawyer looked over his shoulder; the teenagers were crouched in a group, facing into the gate, backs to the road. The boom and click of hip-hop drifted over from a portable speaker. ‘Did you know of a lad called Stuart Sutton who used to live here?’
Zengana scowled and cast his gaze to the ground in front of Sawyer. ‘Yeah. Long time ago. And no, I don’t know where he is. I told the woman the same thing.’
‘The woman?’
‘Yeah. She came looking for him a few weeks back. Vanessa or something.’
‘Virginia.’
He looked up. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Did Stuart leave on good terms, Mr Zengana? Was he a good tenant?’
Zengana gave a bitter laugh. ‘Not really. Always having parties, too many people over. Upsetting the other tenants.’
‘Any problems with illegal activities?’
‘What kind of illegal activities?’
Sawyer managed a smile. ‘The kind we’re both thinking of.’
‘Alright, then. Yeah. Needles. Drugs. Plenty of that round here.’
‘Was that why you ended the tenancy?’
Zengana sniffed, pondered. ‘It was periodic. Rolling. Six months. I gave him plenty of notice. He didn’t seem that bothered. Left the place in a state, though. Listen, I’m very busy. I’ve got to get on.’
Sawyer took out his phone. He glanced back at the teenagers; they had begun to shuffle away, across the playing field. ‘One last thing. Do you recognise this boy? I know it was a few years ago. Take a close look.’
Zengana crouched forward and peered into Sawyer’s screen, at the image of Darren in the red-and-black lumberjack shirt. He gazed for a few seconds, then stood upright. ‘Yeah. He’s been here.’ He shook his head. ‘Long time ago.’
Sawyer headed back towards the car. He raised the transponder fob, paused, then crossed the road to the park entrance. The teenagers had disappeared into trees at the far side of the field, leaving a scattering of litter at the foot of the gate. Deflated balloons, energy drink cans, a Styrofoam takeaway carton, and a pile of silver nitrous oxide canisters.
He crouched and sifted through them. All spent, apart from one, with an unpierced cap. He slid it into his pocket.
26
‘Detective Sawyer.’
DCI Farrell opened the interview room and stepped to the side. Sawyer entered and hovered by a chair opposite a central desk. DSI Keating sat in the facing chair, in full uniform with his cap on the desk, writing with a stout ballpoint. Two other men, suited, sat at a temporary desk by the window. One was around Sawyer’s age, slim and bearded with rimless glasses; the other was thickset with unkempt grey hair.
Farrell took a seat at an open laptop next to Keating. Sawyer lowered himself onto the chair.
Farrell looked up. ‘Do sit down, Detective Sawyer. No need to stand on ceremony.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Are you being sarcastic, sir? It’s hard to tell.’
Keating sighed and looked up from the paperwork. His white hair had been shorn down to stubble, and his eyes betrayed a moment’s tiredness, before he snapped into character and fixed Sawyer with his standard patrician glare. ‘Let’s keep it cordial. Nobody is enjoying this process.’
Sawyer caught a tiny smile on Farrell. He nodded at Keating. ‘Sir.’
‘You know our fellow inquisitors,’ said Farrell, indicating the other two men. ‘Federation rep DC Simon Gail and IOPC Lead Investigator Callum Whitehead. Since our last meeting, I’ve interviewed Stephanie Burns and her husband Jordan. Stephanie is sticking to her story.’ Keating eyed him. ‘By that, I mean she is adamant that, although your actions were responsible for the death of David Bowman AKA Malcolm Powell, you acted in self-defence and used acceptable force—’
‘Against a man who had committed five murders at that point, and had kidnapped Stephanie Burns.’
Farrell nodded, squeezed out a smirk. ‘Indeed. But, in my professional opinion, I got the impression that she was rather…’ He glanced at Keating. ‘Well briefed. Maybe even coached.’
The bearded man spoke up. ‘DCI Farrell. Baseless allegation helps nobody.’
‘Absolutely, DC Gail.’ Farrell turned his gaze to Sawyer. ‘I just wanted to get my impression on record, and to report that Jordan Burns has recently contacted me and seems rather keen to privately discuss his wife’s account.’
Whitehead cleared his throat. ‘With respect, Jordan Burns was not present at the incident. Let’s not lose focus.’
Keating scribbled something, murmured a note of assent.
Farrell ignored him and typed into the laptop. ‘The last time we spoke, we mentioned the axe used by Detective Sawyer, and a damaged section of the blade that held traces of a metal alloy consistent with that used in the manufacture of bullets. I have a final report from an independent forensic firearms team, with a spectroscopy analysis, which confirms that the axe was indeed struck by a high-calibre bullet, suggesting a long-range weapon. A rif
le. I trust the Federation and IOPC will share my curiosity on this matter.’ He ran his fingers through his waxy hair. ‘Detective Sawyer, could you explain the origin of this firearm discharge? Did you see anything? Hear anything?’
‘Not that I recall. Bowman was threatening me with the axe, and I was attempting to control the man we now know was his unwitting accomplice, Julius Newton. It was a chaotic scene. I saw him drop the axe, and then Newton hit me from behind.’
Farrell tipped his head back, grinned. As the corners of his mouth upturned, the skin on his face seemed to transform into liquid and sloshed upward, sealing over his eyes.
Sawyer looked down at his shoes, trying to shut out the emerging scene.
Voices. Imploring, echoing.
Sawyer calling. ‘No!’
He braced, but still flinched at the shotgun blast, as plain and present as if Farrell himself had fired it into his own head across the desk.
Sawyer jerked his head up to the room’s low ceiling. White, polystyrene tiles with a square pattern of alternating horizontal and vertical lines. The tile above Farrell’s head was smothered in gore; blood and brain matter coaxed by gravity, oozing into a stalactite shape.
‘DI Sawyer?’ Keating’s familiar, fatherly tone cut through the reverie.
Sawyer touched a hand to his shoulder. ‘Sorry. Put my arm out, training. Bit of pain.’
‘There is nothing in darkness that will not be disclosed.’ His father’s voice. ‘Nothing concealed that will not be brought to light.’
Keating studied Sawyer for a moment, then nodded to Farrell, who angled his head. ‘If you need to take a moment, Detective Sawyer.’
Sawyer leaned forward and filled a paper cup of water from a jug on the desk. ‘No. Carry on.’
Farrell typed into the laptop, taking his time. He kept his eyes on the screen as he spoke. ‘I believe you’ve worked on cases with DS Shepherd. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
Inhale.
Exhale.
‘I wonder…’ Farrell clasped his hands together. ‘Might DS Shepherd have been aware of your impromptu operation? Might he even have been present at the scene?’
‘DS Shepherd isn’t an AFO.’
‘Oh, I’m not suggesting he might have pulled the trigger. But if he was in attendance, then perhaps he’ll be able to enlighten us as to the source of the gunshot. Seeing as you don’t “recall” it.’ Farrell raised his eyebrows. ‘Because, Detective Sawyer, if you attended the scene with armed back-up, then that rather changes the narrative. Wouldn’t you agree?’
DC Gail shifted in his seat. ‘In what way, DCI Farrell?’
Farrell took out a canister of breath mints and flicked one into his mouth. ‘It raises the issue of premeditation.’
‘Why,’ said Sawyer, forcing himself to keep his voice steady, ‘would I have any intention of killing a suspect before he’s been arrested and put to trial?’
Keating bowed his head.
Farrell continued. ‘David Bowman was responsible for unspeakable crimes against young women. He displayed extreme misogynistic tendencies.’ Keating glanced at him; he pushed on. ‘It occurs to me that there were parallels between his actions and philosophy, and that of William Caldwell, the man responsible for the murder of your mother, Jessica.’
‘Run, my darling. Don’t look back!’
Sawyer raised his eyes and locked eye contact with Farrell.
‘And,’ Farrell continued, ‘I wonder if you saw Bowman as some kind of proxy. If I’ve read the account of your apprehension of Caldwell correctly, you were in the position to take revenge on him but, rightly, chose to hand him in to custody. Perhaps you weren’t able to take revenge on Caldwell, and so you vented that anger on Bowman.’
Whitehead waved a hand. ‘DCI Farrell. This is not a courtroom. DI Sawyer is not on trial. I’m as eager to get the full picture of what happened as you are, but we’re in danger of descending into cod psychology.’
Farrell sat back in his seat and rolled the mint around his mouth, maintaining eye contact with Sawyer. ‘Nothing to say, Detective?’
‘It’s not even worth ignoring.’
Farrell smiled, nodded. ‘I’m not denying that Detective Sawyer is a competent officer. But we must all be seen as above reproach in our methods. This isn’t Life on Mars. We have a strict code of conduct to follow, and in order to carry it out, we have to leave our subjective opinion, our personal emotions, to one side. I’m sure you agree, Mr Whitehead. But, of late, Detective Sawyer’s… choices seem to suggest an individual not quite in full control of his emotions. Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean it’s good for you.’
27
Sawyer drove out of town and joined the undulating Snake Pass A road across the Pennines, aiming for Hollow Meadows and the point where the National Park blended into the scruffy suburbs of north-western Sheffield. He rolled up and over the road’s blind summits at speed, imagining Maggie’s protests over his driving.
He filled up at a petrol station in Hope, and bought a pack of six multicoloured balloons. On the way back to the car, his phone rang.
Cross.
‘Three words for you, Sawyer: Well, well, well.’
Sawyer climbed into the Mini and shut the door. ‘Can you give me a few more?’
‘Mr Fiesta has taken residence in a delightful maisonette with hardly any roof, on the outskirts of a farm not too far from your place.’
‘Have you got a postcode?’
‘No, but I can show you the way. I’m not sure he’ll be in the market for guests, though. Are you sure it’s a good idea to show up there all by yourself?’
‘Of course not.’
Greg Coleman led Sawyer down a side path to the end of a back garden that could have easily grazed a small herd of livestock. He was short and slender, with a neat corona of blond hair and a manicured beard.
Coleman unlocked the door to a recently built one-storey brick building, turned on the light, and stood aside, allowing Sawyer to enter first.
The building housed an office with a wooden floor and a central glass-topped desk that looked out across the Hope Valley. The room was sterile and uncluttered, with a calendar wall chart, corner filing cabinet and a neatly stocked bookshelf.
‘Have a seat.’ Coleman gestured to a metal-framed chair that faced the desk, and the rear of an enormous iMac monitor. Sawyer sat, and Coleman did likewise, falling into a tall-backed padded chair and wheeling it to the side to give Sawyer a direct eyeline. ‘Sorry to quarantine you out here. But Emily has friends over in the house. The boys are home, too. Bit crowded over there.’
Sawyer noted the accent: local but clearly upscaled for effect. ‘I appreciate your time.’
Coleman drummed on the desk with both palms. ‘So. You saw Sam?’
‘Samantha, yes. She’s asked me to help.’
‘And you used to be a detective, right?’
‘Still am. Just taking a break.’
Coleman offered a doubtful smile. ‘Well. I’m sure you have Sam’s perspective and there’s little point in me raking over things. But the facts are there. We separated shortly after Darren’s disappearance. But to be honest, the cracks began to show a few years before.’
‘And you live with your new partner now.’
Coleman waved a hand. ‘No reason to be coy. There was a bit of overlap. Sam and I had a lot in common, at the start.’ He frowned, and trailed off.
‘What do you remember about Darren’s disappearance?’
‘The panic. The feeling that he was going to walk in the door at any moment. Or the phone would ring and it would be him. And the way Samantha became so single-minded, with no time for anything else.’
‘Including you.’
Coleman gave a theatrical shrug. ‘It’s not always easy to keep all your emotional columns in the black. We all have our flaws. I suppose I just wasn’t a very natural father. I still find children a little tedious, to be honest. I’m sure that’s true
for many adults. It’s just not something most people are comfortable admitting.’
‘Samantha said you were good with Darren in the early years.’
‘Did she? That’s gratifying. I suppose I lost interest when he started to get hormonal and surly. I was getting enough of that from his mother.’ He paused, clearly hoping for a laugh, but didn’t get one. ‘At first I was trying to make it all add up, make it work. Failure is a part of life, but if you can fail on your own terms, confident that you at least did everything in your power to succeed, then it becomes the kind of failure you can learn from, rather than the kind you regret. Wouldn’t you agree?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Can I get you a drink? I have a mini fridge in the cabinet. Coke?’
‘No, thanks. Was there anything about Darren’s behaviour in his teenage years that concerned you? Did he confide anything in you?’
Coleman’s eyes flitted to the wall chart. ‘Girls?’
‘Possibly.’
‘No. He showed some interest in my work. I’m an architect. Mainly domestic projects. We’re sitting in one of them right now.’
‘In what way was Darren interested in your work?’
Coleman studied his fingernails. ‘I remember he asked me about exploring buildings. Abandoned places. He wanted to know what happens to places when they’re not used. Who owns them, who decides what happens to them. That sort of thing.’
‘It’s called urbex. Urban exploration.’
Coleman typed into the computer. ‘Yes. In many ways, buildings are like people. They retain a certain essence of their history.’
‘I suppose that’s because we love stories. We like to attach stories to everything.’
