by Andrew Lowe
Beck settled at centre stage. The music faded and he ran through his intro spiel.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, you know my name. I have been gifted various abilities, and I’m here tonight to demonstrate a few of them.’
Eva was surprised at how short he was. In the flesh, his features were bland—more inoffensive than good-looking—and the black dress made his head and quiffed hairstyle seem disembodied.
‘I’m able to sense things that are troubling people, and their problems come to me in fragments of emotion.’
The Slavic accent was exaggerated. Eva imagined him as a Rochdale native who had considered his stretched Northern vowels too proletarian for the showman’s life.
Beck’s routine was similar to his support acts, but he selected more people and performed reading after reading, spending only one or two minutes on each. And he made stars of his subjects, projecting them onto the screen behind him via a live feed from an assistant with a portable camera.
Near the end of the show, Beck smiled as he took his applause. Eva expected him to bid them a florid farewell, but instead he bowed his head and lifted a hand to his forehead. The applause died away.
‘I am getting a sense of someone in pain. Possibly in hospital at the moment.’
Several hands went up.
Lily bounced in her seat. She nudged Eva and called to the stage. ‘Over here, love!’
Beck edged forward on the stage and held out a hand to Eva. ‘Would you mind standing up for me, my dear?’
Eva’s stomach fluttered as an attendant handed her the microphone. She looked at Lily who was nodding, wide eyed. Eva pulled herself upright. Beck’s cameraman scurried over and her image appeared on-screen.
Beck squatted by the uplighting at the edge of the stage. ‘Could I ask your name, please?’
‘Eva’.
‘Beautiful! Eva, I am getting someone coming through. Quite strong. It’s a woman. Could it be your mother, Eva?’
‘Uh. My mother is still alive.’
‘I think that as a child, you used to be unhappy and that nobody understood you. Would I be right?’
Eva laughed. ‘Well… I had quite a happy childhood, but my mum and dad split up when I was young.’
‘I think that must be what I’m getting. It wasn’t your preferred situation, but you were happy. And you spent a lot of time with someone special. This might be the woman who’s coming through from the spirit world, Eva. I think it’s your grandmother. I’m getting the letter M. Margaret, Marla…’
Eva snatched in a breath. ‘Her name was Marlene.’
Murmurs from the audience. Pockets of applause.
‘Is there a necklace, Eva? She wants you to know about the necklace.’
Eva shook her head.
Beck smiled. ‘Maybe the meaning hasn’t revealed itself to you yet. I’m also getting the image of a house. On a corner. It’s a small street. Quite crowded.’
‘My grandmother used to live in a house on a corner, yes.’
Gasps.
Eva tilted her head and smoothed her long white hair over one shoulder.
‘I am sensing that you are quite an anxious person, Eva. But that anxiety disappears when you’re with someone you’re really close to. A partner, maybe, or a child?’ Beck looked confused for a second. ‘Now. Marlene says you’re facing a big choice. She says it might be time to re-evaluate something that isn’t working. Something that’s holding you back. Does that make sense?’
She thought of Dale’s impending release. ‘It does, yes.’
‘Eva, I’m getting a name now. Marlene is giving me a name for the person you’re worried about.’
Tears prickled at the corners of Eva’s eyes.
‘It’s the letter L. Is it Luke? Luka?’
Eva nodded and crumpled forward, trying to hide her tears. Beck’s cameraman crouched to capture her reaction. Lily wrapped a beefy arm around Eva’s shoulders.
Beck stood upright. ‘Eva, Marlene is saying that Luka… She says you shouldn’t worry about him. She says he’s going to be okay.’
32
Keating swivelled away from his computer screen and faced Sawyer. ‘Blowback. Press conference and coverage. Deputy Chief meeting in half an hour. Shepherd has called in sick.’
‘Why not the Chief?’
Keating stirred his tea. ‘Not quite there yet. Deputy Chief is more of an HR shield. Governance of Professional Standards. It’ll be friendly. Smiles. They’ll want to know about Shepherd’s reporting chain, up and down.’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Unless we catch our man, you’ll be replaced as SIO in a week, anyway. Just stall them.’
‘The scrutiny is broader than that. This is an interim set-up, and they’ll be questioning my judgement at overseeing an official MIT.’
‘Shepherd is solid. He just got excited. You know what the press are like. They try to get us emotional, dig up a more human quote. Reads better. He’ll learn from it.’
‘It’s a lurid case, Sawyer. Visible. The work is good but there isn’t a lot of solid progress.’
Sawyer ran his palms down his face, stretching the skin. ‘I don’t want some DCI stepping in to take your place when we get that Sheffield team set up.’
Keating smiled. ‘So the mystery is solved. That’s the reason you came back home. To work with me.’
Sawyer looked out at the office through the glass pane in Keating’s door. Detectives had crowded in. Sally O’Callaghan, Maggie. ‘Get to your meeting. I’ll brief them.’
‘Anything on the ring?’
DC Myers shook his head. ‘Nothing. We’ve tried every place we can find in a sane catchment area. Place in Longnor did a child’s tooth recently, but says bespoke requests are rare. Probably did it himself.’
Sawyer turned his back on the audience and pored over Shepherd’s whiteboard. Victim pictures. Rhodes’s images of the bearded man. Times, places, connecting lines, question-marks. ‘Victimology still uncertain. Walker?’
DC Walker had secured a spot near the front, as usual. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to indicate that Toby and Georgina knew each other. No evidence of a connection, direct or indirect. Different social circles. No overlaps in their work or family.’
Moran spoke up. ‘So he’s stalking people at random?’
Sawyer turned. ‘We spoke to someone. Morris Bowen. He told us he’d seen our man a few months ago, in the street in the middle of the night, holding a shoebox. Spate of cat killings around his area.’
‘Practising the hemlock dosage,’ said Sally. ‘He must have escalated, though.’
Sawyer nodded, and held the room in silence for a few seconds. ‘Walker. Look into mispers for the last year. Unexplained deaths.’
‘How, boss?’
‘Sorry?’
‘How would I do that?’
Moran sniggered. ‘Just Google it. “Local deaths not tested for toxicology”.’
Walker blushed and kept his gaze on the whiteboard.
Sawyer sighed. ‘Coroner.’
Walker made a note.
‘Let’s get a team together. In the pub, he was reading a book. Caves of the Peak District. Look into local caving groups. Do they recognise him? Has anyone been acting strangely lately, or been kicked out? Any caving connection with Toby or Georgina?’
‘I’ll take that, sir,’ said Myers.
‘Work with Moran. It’ll be a big job round here. Sally, are both scenes still open?’
She nodded. ‘Keating said he wants to shift resource soon, though.’
‘Keep them open. Look at them again. Broaden the line search area. Look at other walking routes. He must have left us something.’
Sally slumped into a sulk. Sawyer stepped forward. ‘DS Shepherd can’t be with us today, so I’ll channel him. Get back to your principles. What, where, when, who, why, how. Apply them to both victims, and try to answer with as many factual responses as possible. Form your hypothesis based on your answers. Moran. These are not random killings. He wa
nts us to find the bodies quickly. He wants us to know who they are. This is systematic and carefully planned. It’s a project. He’s a man on a mission and we need to figure out his philosophy.’
33
It was time. He’d done the prep: he’d spoken to Klein. Now for the hard bit.
He hurried out of a side door into the car park and unlocked the Mini.
‘Boss?’ It was Walker, calling from the station entrance. ‘Visitor for DS Shepherd.’
Sawyer sighed and headed back in to the reception area. A young woman—twenties, short black hair, heavy make-up—sat on the bench by the main desk. She glanced around at the posters and noticeboards.
Walker leaned in close to Sawyer and whispered. ‘Cassie Crawford. That Shepherd’s missus?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Don’t know. Doesn’t look like his type.’ He stepped towards the bench. ‘Cassie?’
She stood. She wore pin heel boots that drew her eye to eye with Sawyer. ‘Mr Shepherd?’
He shook her hand. ‘Off sick. I’m the next best thing. Detective Inspector Jake Sawyer. How can I help?’
Cassie glanced at Walker, still watching from the doorway. ‘Can we talk in private, Mr Sawyer?’
They took a first floor meeting room.
‘What’s brought you here today, Ms Crawford?’
‘“Cassie” will be okay.’ The accent was further North. Maybe Leeds. Her perfume was cheap and fruity, and her voice had a gauzy texture, corroded by nicotine. ‘It’s about your press conference. On the telly. You asked if anyone had been sick after an “encounter” with someone like the man you’re after.’
Walker brought in two coffees.
After he’d left, Cassie cradled her mug and closed her eyes. ‘Are we, like, confidential in here?’
‘Of course. We’re trying to catch a killer. I’m not interested in collaring you for soliciting.’ Sawyer pulled out a mini pack of Custard Creams. ‘Biscuit?’
Cassie smiled. ‘I’m alright, thanks. You don’t miss much, do ya? Listen. I work hard, Mr Sawyer. Not everyone agrees with what I do, but it’s a living, right?’
Sawyer dunked his biscuit and took a bite. ‘Oldest profession. No moral outrage from me.’
‘I work in Sheffield. Kelham Island, Attercliffe Road. It’s no secret what goes on round there. I try to avoid street work. There’s a couple of brothels, run by women. You usually get clients online and book the rooms there. Few months ago, I did some street work near one of the local bars. Picked up a client and we went back to one of the brothels. Big lad. Not bearded, like your pictures, but… Let me just tell you what happened.
‘Now, I didn’t have a good feeling about him, but sometimes you just have to turn that off. Balance the risk and reward. That’s what it’s all about, really. You get an instinct for it. So we had a drink. Glass of Coke each. Turns out he couldn’t get it up, but he did pay in advance. He said it happened a lot and he was sorry, and that he would pay a bit more if we could just talk. You get those from time to time. Blokes who can’t quite go through with it. Guilt about who’s at home or whatever.’
‘Was he wearing a ring? Do you remember?’
Cassie thought for a few seconds. ‘I don’t. I’m really sorry. But, here’s the thing. I started to feel really weird, like my head was all heavy.’
‘Roofie?’
‘No. I’ve had that done to me before. That’s like a total shutdown. Like you have to sleep. You wake up with a big headache and, like, lots of little half memories. This was more than that. It was like a sickness. I was struggling for breath. But he didn’t take advantage. It was really odd. He looked after me. He had one of those ear thermometer things.’
‘Did he feel like a doctor? Did he have that manner?’
‘Not really. He just made sure I was okay. It was a hot night, and he kept the room cool by getting a fan from downstairs. I was there for a few hours, and then I started to feel up to leaving. He drove me back to my flat. Total gentleman, really.’
Sawyer leaned back and tilted his chair onto two legs. ‘And you’d been feeling fine before that?’
‘Yeah. Really good. No problems at all. I mean, he must have slipped me something. But why? Y’know. It was on and everything. I was hardly playing hard to get.’
He smiled. ‘Do you think you could remember his features? Our sketch artist is in tomorrow.’
Cassie nodded. She reached over and took a Custard Cream. ‘Bring it on. My memory for details is rubbish, but I never forget a face.’
34
Sawyer dropped in on Howard and renewed the Mini rental for another week. He propped his phone in the air grille and set the satnav for Upper Midhope.
He cued up a lengthy ambient playlist—Eno, Global Communication, Biosphere—and drove North, along the western boundary of the National Park. At Glossop, he pivoted East, dipping through the arcadian idyll of the Longdendale Valley. He crossed the Woodhead Reservoir and pushed on through the desolate tracts of moorland top that drew him into the Dark Peak.
His father’s house squatted, castle-like, on a high point outside the village of Upper Midhope, surrounded by a virtual moat of cottongrass bogland. Sawyer juddered along the pitted dirt track and parked next to his father’s laurel green Volvo warhorse. As ever, the car looked showroom fresh, with not the faintest scratch or mud scar.
He killed the engine and the music and sat there, gazing down at the unruffled expanse of the Langsett Reservoir, stretched across the valley like cellophane.
He called Shepherd.
‘Sir. I’ll be in later. Just a bug or something.’
‘Shepherd, when you call me “sir”, there’s something military about it. Almost medieval.’
He coughed. It wasn’t convincing. ‘I could switch to “sire”, if that helps?’
‘I spoke to a sex worker from Sheffield.’
‘Prostitute?’
‘If you like. She says she had a client who doped her but didn’t take advantage. He took her temperature, looked after her until she felt better.’
Shepherd rustled some papers, distracted. ‘Takes all sorts. You think it could be our man, testing his dosage? Does she work Kelham Island? It’s hardly a Mecca for the well adjusted. Isn’t that the place in that Arctic Monkeys song?’
‘You’re thinking of Neepsend.’
Shepherd laughed. ‘I wouldn’t know. I stick to the classics.’
‘I’d have pegged you as more of a hip-hop sort.’
Another cough. Maybe he wasn’t faking. ‘I looked into teeth. There are a few cults that use teeth as part of rituals, but nothing we can use. Just fell into a load of online rabbit holes, obscure practices in Zambian kinship groups. I read a thing about a barmy Victorian doctor who believed that teeth extraction could cure mental illness.’
‘Probably a descendant of the people who thought that drilling a hole in your head would release the “devils”.’
The house door opened, and the dogs—two hulking German Shepherds—bounded out to greet him.
‘I did the briefing. We can pick up later.’
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.’
