by Andrew Lowe
‘So it’s not a body disposal?’
Drummond closed the file and slotted it back into the tray. ‘No. It’s a live burial.’
11
Paul Manning took a mug of tea from his mother and ferried it across the coffee table to Maggie Spark. She set it next to DS Ed Shepherd’s coffee and squeezed out a gracious smile. She didn’t want the tea, but its acceptance was part of the ritual: establishing empathy. A communion of grief.
Manning’s mother, a defeated-looking woman in her late seventies, hobbled to the edge of the room and lowered herself onto a chair. The Mannings—Paul and Jayne—sat side by side on a cheap and chintzy sofa, all four hands clasped and trembling. Paul was slight and weaselly, with thinning hair that was too long at the sides and a saggy purple polo shirt that looked lived in, slept in. Jayne was a heavyset but handsome woman. Her long blonde hair was unwashed, and her clothes were mismatched: formal blouse, hang-out jeans, thick lipstick but no eye make-up. It was the dress of a woman in a daze, in a trance of heartbreak.
Maggie leaned forward, taking care to address both Paul and Jayne. She kept her voice low but firm. ‘Mr and Mrs Manning. My main role is to gather evidence and information to help with the police investigation, to help us find the person who took your son’s life. I’ve brought some information on external counselling, and I can recommend some good and wise people.’
Shepherd leaned across her and reached for his coffee mug. She frowned at him and he withdrew. Shepherd was hefty, with plump fingers and a double chin buried behind a heavy black goatee. Maggie watched him with irritation. He sat back and fixed his gaze on Jayne, then changed his mind and focused on Paul. Satisfied with neither, he settled on studying the clasped hands in his lap.
Paul stared down at the scuffed wooden table. Maggie addressed Jayne. ‘I know at the moment it seems like your world has been changed so terribly, but I would urge you to seek some care for yourselves. Toby has been the victim of a dreadful crime, but you are both also victims and you have a period of recovery ahead of you.’
‘You’re police, right?’ Paul didn’t look up.
‘Yes. I’m a specialist officer. Family Liaison. I’m trained in criminology, psychology. I also work as a freelance counsellor, specialising in trauma. I’ve been assigned to you as a point of support. Alongside DS Shepherd, I’ll keep you updated on the progress of the investigation, and if there’s anything you need or want to know, please contact me at any time. I can’t say that I’ve been through anything like you’re going through, but I do know how you’re feeling right now.’
Jayne jerked her head up. ‘Toby was our son. Not yours. You don’t know how we feel.’
Paul wrapped an arm around his wife. She buried her head in his shoulder.
Maggie sucked in a slow breath, held the silence. ‘Shock. Isolation. Loneliness. Anger. Maybe even some guilt. You’re running it all over in your heads: the last time you spoke to Toby. What you said, what you didn’t say, what you wished you’d said. It all seems distant, as if it’s happening behind a veil. Like a nightmare that doesn’t end when you wake up. If you sleep at all, that is. And you’re not sleeping much right now. I would advise you to try some medication to help you rest. You will need it for the first few weeks, at least.’
The doorbell rang. Maggie’s assistant FLO, Patricia, went to answer it.
Jayne pulled away from Paul and staggered over to his mother, head in hands. She was crying so hard now that her tears trailed behind her, spattering onto the wooden floor. Paul’s mother led her out.
Paul straightened his shirt and slumped forward. Maggie let the room settle. Shepherd kept his eyes on his hands.
Voices out in the hall. Patricia came back into the sitting room.
‘Someone to see you, ma’am. DI.’
Maggie sighed. ‘Would you excuse me for a second, Mr Manning?’ Paul nodded. She got up and followed Patricia out into the hall.
Sawyer was shuffling through a stack of papers on a table beneath a large oval mirror. He had scrubbed up. Navy suit, white shirt, orange tie, white cotton gloves for evidence handling. He glanced up at Maggie and raised an eyebrow. ‘You screening their mail?’
Maggie closed the sitting room door behind her. ‘Yes. That’s today’s batch. Hasn’t been checked yet.’ He nodded and continued to flick through the letters. ‘It’ll be condolences. Maybe the odd confession. A troll or two. Have you seen Keating? Are you on the case?’
Sawyer held a white padded envelope up to the light. ‘No.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘And yes.’
Maggie nodded. ‘Officially?’
Sawyer set down the envelope and tidied the pile. ‘I’m working on it. I saw Drummond. Did you tell him I was quitting?’
Her eyes flicked to the side. She folded her arms. ‘DI Sawyer. I appreciate your—’
‘Let me talk to them. I’ll be good.’
‘It’s not my call, Jake.’
‘Do you know how this lad died, Maggie?’
‘I’ve heard the initial assessment.’
He stepped closer. ‘Just a few minutes. I won’t be any trouble. I couldn’t get hold of Keating today. I tried. Really. It’ll be official as soon as I can.’
‘You’re supposed to be relaxing.’
‘I tried that. It stressed me out.’
She leaned in and lowered her voice. ‘And this is your idea of a distraction?’
Sawyer turned. He smelled exquisite: sweet and woody. Shaved. Haircut. The signs were good, although the tie was a concern.
He took off his gloves and walked past her into the sitting room. ‘Mr Manning. My name is Jake Sawyer. Detective Inspector. I am so sorry this has happened to you.’
Paul looked up and nodded. He blinked his eyes, clearing the tears.
On hearing Sawyer’s rank, Shepherd sprang to his feet. ‘Sir.’
‘You must be exhausted, but do you mind if I ask a couple of questions? I want to find out who did this to Toby. I realise that we can’t bring him back. But you can help us to find the person responsible and make sure we don’t have to visit another parent in the same situation.’
Paul nodded and wiped the moisture from his cheeks.
Sawyer walked round the sofa and sat next to Shepherd. ‘Mr Manning, is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm Toby?’
Paul peered up at Sawyer through eyes bruised by rubbing. ‘Nobody I know of. I sort of lost track of his social life in the last couple of years.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘That’s understandable. He had his mates, yeah? The relationship changes. It gets deeper. More complex. In a good way. Like a wine.’
Maggie flashed a look at Shepherd and took a seat next to Sawyer. ‘Did you meet Toby’s friends, Paul?’
‘A few. I used to know a lot of them. Changes, though. Like you say.’
Shepherd spoke up. ‘He had his own life.’ His voice was deep but quiet, with a soft Scouse accent.
‘Yeah. He never came to me with any worries about people. And he would have done. We were close.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Do you know where he would have been last Tuesday night?’
‘He plays golf up at Sickleworth on Tuesdays. I know he’ll have a drink and something to eat with the others in the clubhouse before he drives home. No alcohol. He’s always said he’ll never drink. I used to tease him, saying he’d grow into it. He never did, though.’
Maggie stole a look at Sawyer. He had his head tilted back, as if in thought, but his eyes were scanning the details of the room. ‘He never mentioned any problems up at the golf club?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Nothing. He was a good lad. He’d got a place at Sheffield. Engineering. Brilliant A levels.’ A tremor shot through him and he plunged his head into his hands. ‘If I find out who did this…’
Shepherd risked a sip of his coffee. ‘Can you give us some details about who he plays golf with, Mr Manning? Did Toby have a girlfriend?’
Paul looked out through his fingers. Maggie
offered a thin smile. ‘One question at a time, DS Shepherd.’
Sawyer leaned forward. ‘Carry on, Paul.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said, “If I find out who did this…” What? What will you do?’
Maggie touched Sawyer’s arm. ‘Paul, if you don’t mind, could you give us some details of Toby’s golfing friends and, yes, his girlfriend if he had one.’
Sawyer got up. ‘Do you mind if I have a look around, Paul?’
‘Okay. My wife is here, too, though. With—’
‘I won’t disturb anyone.’
Sawyer nodded at Maggie and walked out into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Maggie and Shepherd spoke to Paul for another fifteen minutes. Sawyer didn’t return.
‘Is this going to take much longer?’ Paul had started to tremble. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
Maggie stood, followed by Shepherd. ‘I think we’ll leave you to rest for now, Mr Manning. I’m so very, very sorry for your loss. I’ll leave Patricia to run through the contact logistics and to brief you on how things work from now on. It would be helpful to speak to your wife soon, but only when she’s ready.’
Manning showed them out.
In the hall, Maggie checked herself in the mirror and looked down at the table with the pile of mail.
The white padded envelope had gone.
12
The visitor’s room was the size of a small hall: brightly lit, with a carpet of broad stripes in alternate shades of grey. Families huddled around beechwood tables with their bases riveted to the floor. The inmates always stepped up their hygiene for this weekly access to the limbo between captivity and freedom, and the air was fresh and soapy: a miasma of budget shampoo and statement cologne.
Eva Gregory endured a brief rubdown search and made for the tea kiosk. As she waited in line behind a rowdy family with young children agitating for snacks, she felt a familiar itch to check her phone. But it currently sat alongside her handbag in one of the lockers in the entrance atrium. As usual, her Karen Millen jacket had been scanned and confiscated (no outdoor clothing allowed) and she had passed through the metal detector with no alert and little acknowledgement from an indifferent attendant.
It all reminded her of an airport security check, but without the promise of escape to somewhere exotic. She realised she had never flown with Dale; their holidays had been restricted to weekend trips to Wales, and a couple of overlong stays with his parents on the coast in Mablethorpe.
She bought two teas in cardboard cups and turned to scan the room. Dale had been led to a free table by a tubby guard in a high-tucked white shirt with HMP epaulets. She took a breath and made her way over.
‘Hello, sweetheart.’ Dale took the cups and set them down on the table. He was a slight man with deep double frown lines, a shadow of dark stubble and a sideswipe of dense greying hair. He wore a fitted sky blue shirt—fresh, ironed—and formal grey trousers. A pair of thin-framed, rectangular glasses softened his features, but didn’t obscure the steel in his stare. He looked more like a visiting politician than a permanent resident.
He reached both arms out to Eva and drew her in for a hug. She complied, and returned his kiss, but while he lingered and reached his hands up to her cheeks, holding her head steady, Eva wriggled away and took her seat. Dale stayed on his feet and studied her for a second, then smiled and sat.
‘You smell good. Is that Gucci?’
Eva shrugged. ‘Clarins, I think. Shower gel. Nothing fancy.’
He nodded. ‘Not exactly a fancy place. How’s the little man?’
Dale’s accent was local—Derbyshire—but more abrasive, with none of the natural lilt.
‘He’s fine. They’re doing some more tests. Just being cautious. He had quite a knock. He won’t be in much longer.’ Eva took a sip of her tea, avoiding Dale’s gaze. His continuing silence eventually forced her to glance up.
He seized on the eye contact and leaned forward, beaming. ‘He’s not the only one.’
Eva shook out her white hair and re-tied her ponytail. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Hearing next week. Governor called me in the other day. Tried to make it look informal, asking about my plans “moving forward”. He’s passing it on to the board, obviously. Bit of prep. Probably knows I know, too.’
Eva peeled a hair out of the corner of her eye. ‘You don’t know for sure, though. Could be the other way round. Calling you in because you’re not a release prospect.’
Dale sat back and took the lid off his tea cup. He shook his head. ‘Nah. One of the screws. Terry. He’s alright. He says you get in front of the governor when the board is ready to send you home. Final flight check. I’ve done half my time, no sanctions. He says they’ll probably let me out, put me on licence for the rest, then some kind of “post-sentence supervision”.’
Dale reached across the table and pulled Eva’s hands towards him. She kept her eyes fixed on her cup, spellbound by the swirling steam. ‘It sounds good, love. Let’s hope it works out.’
He laughed, without humour. ‘You don’t sound too excited.’
Eva looked up. ‘Why did you call the hospital?’
Dale frowned. ‘They told me about Luka. I tried to call you but your phone was off.’
‘They said you were aggressive. Abusive.’
He scoffed. ‘I was worried. They said he was fine but I wanted to hear it from him. What’s happened to the driver?’
Eva sighed. ‘Nothing. It was an accident. He ran into the road. It wasn’t the driver’s fault. Luka’s friends said—’
‘I don’t give a fuck what Luka’s friends said.’ Dale raised his voice too far above the chatter level and a female guard glanced over. ‘They’re kids. The driver was an adult. He can’t just get away with it.’
Eva took a long sip of tea, letting him cool down. ‘Nobody is getting away with anything. Luka’s been in trouble a lot lately. Acting up to teachers. He’s a typical Leo.’
Dale closed his eyes and flared his nostrils. ‘He needs his father.’
‘He needs a father who won’t get out of prison and fall in with the same old mates, slip back into bad habits, end up back in here.’
Dale opened his eyes and dropped his head. For a moment, he almost looked humble. He pulled Eva closer, reached over to her chin and tilted her head up, trying to draw her gaze. ‘Sweetheart. Luka is everything to me, and I realise I’m going to have to earn back his respect. Listen. I made a mistake. Never again. I’m getting out of here soon, and we can move on. We can be a family again. Yeah?’
Eva looked him in the eye and, with a monumental force of will, pulled out a broad smile. ‘Yeah.’
13
In the evening, Sawyer faced the full-length mirror at the end of his bed and prepared himself: eyes closed, five slow and even breaths. He was topless and barefoot, in light jogging trousers.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
His physique was taut, with little excess, and modest muscle definition. Pretty much optimum for a thirty-five-year-old.
In, and out.
He rested his hands at his side, palms placed on thighs.
In, and out.
As he breathed, his head bobbed up and down. Before the visit to the Manning house, he had combed and styled his hair, using a dab of sculpting wax to cover the albino patch at the back of his head. But it had been a warm day, and the hair had settled, revealing the small cluster of shining strands.
In, and out.
Across his back, a neat row of Greek characters was scored into the space between his shoulders.
Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού
The idea of the tattoo had nagged at him since a school trip to Paris in the mid-nineties. At the Père Lachaise cemetery, he had slipped away from the scheduled tour of literary headstones to visit the graffitied grave of Jim Morrison. It was one of his few clear early childhood memories: his mother’s passion for the darker shades of sixties music—
The Doors, Hendrix, Cream—and the way it seemed so urgent and volatile, compared to the aloof classical music that drifted from his father’s study.
He had copied the inscription on Morrison’s grave into his notebook, researched the meaning (‘True to his own spirit’) and, on his eighteenth birthday, flattened the sketch over the workbench of a Greek-Australian tattoo artist in Amsterdam’s old town.
In, and out.
Behind him, Sawyer’s ageing laptop sat open on the bed, a small black flash drive protruding from the USB socket. The white padded envelope from the Manning house lay opened on the bedside table.
In, and out.
He opened his eyes, assumed the training stance, and began to work through the first Wing Chun Kung Fu form: Sil Lum Tao (‘Little Idea’). The form was a series of prescribed, sequential movements intended to strengthen legs and arms, and to embed the core principles of the system: absolute economy of movement, and the idea of an imaginary vertical centreline around which the practitioner focuses defence and attack.
Always efficient, always direct.
Nothing classical or traditional. Nothing for show.
As a teenager and twentysomething, Sawyer had trained in Wing Chun, and its contemporary spin-off, Jeet Kune Do. He had found the study both empowering and soothing, and although the self-defence benefits were obvious, he now used the Wing Chun forms as a dynamic meditation, fanning away the mental fog.
He executed the one hundred and eight movements with fluidity and precision, and towelled down his hair. After a few warm-down stretches, he sat on the bed next to the laptop, sipped a glass of water and clicked on the video’s Play icon for the third time.
The footage was dark, but had clearly been captured by a static camera with good light-enhancing ability. It showed the head and shoulders of a young man—Toby Manning—lying prone, in a confined space. As he writhed, Toby’s head jerked from side to side. He bucked and nodded, wobbling the camera as he clunked his head on the roof of the space.
