by Andrew Lowe
Ainsworth’s mouth fell open and he drew in a deep, desolate breath. He lurched forward, stumbled around the coffee table, and pulled Beck into an awkward bear hug, his sobs blending to laughter.
39
Sawyer dragged a chair over from the edge of the room and took a seat within touching distance of his brother. Michael hunched low in an armchair, his back to Sawyer. His wall-mounted TV screen displayed a mass block of armoured soldiers, marching, on Michael’s command, towards a heavily defended castle. The group shifted forward en masse, then rippled to a halt, awaiting the countermove from Michael’s online opponent.
‘Quite a case, Mike. Murders by live burial. Seemingly random victims. Latest one managed to live through it. Not sure if I would want to.’
Michael invested some virtual currency in a defence upgrade for his spearmen.
‘I’ve decided. I’m going back in. I spoke to Klein. He didn’t do it. Saw Dad. He wants me to leave it alone. Says it’s laid to rest.’
Michael’s opponent invoked an orc-like mega warrior at the front of his troops. It brandished a gigantic broadsword and bellowed a battle cry.
‘Saw a woman. Reminded me of Mum. Most women do. That’s what I always get from the therapists. My relationship with my mother ended dramatically, and so I seek dramatic relationships with women. Or at least I always have to end them dramatically.’
Michael commanded a phalanx of archers, stationed further back from his frontline, to fire on his opponent’s troops. The arrows soared into the air and showered down on the group, thinning their numbers and sending ethereal skeleton symbols drifting upwards.
‘Were they happy, Mike? Mum and Dad? I don’t really remember anything. Just a few fuzzy memories. Raised voices. Maybe you heard more. You were a bit older.’
The enemy troops waded in, behind their oversized barbarian leader. He crouched and swept the broadsword around in a wide arc, scything through Michael’s forces.
‘I know you don’t want this. I know you’re scared of what I might find. But you should never be scared of the truth. The unknown is far worse. Lovecraft said the unknown was the deepest fear. And I think it’s the unknown that’s chewed you up. The dark. The hidden. Well, I’m going to throw some light on it all. You know how it goes. Better to light a candle than curse the darkness. I’m hoping you can help me. I’m hoping there’s still something inside you that can help me balance this out and get some justice for Mum, and for a man who’s spent most of his adult life in prison for something he didn’t do.’
Sawyer stood. He edged to the side of Michael’s chair and stooped down, embracing his brother. Michael didn’t reciprocate. He stretched his neck to the side, looking around Sawyer’s head, keeping sight of the screen.
Sawyer squeezed. His brother felt bulky and doughy, but his smell—somewhere between wet clay and freshly dried laundry—was soothing. It reminded him of the days after; the hollow, unholy days of denial, of love and pain, of delirious adults. Weeping. Ranting. Reassuring. They had moved into the same room, slept in Michael’s bunk bed, sometimes huddled together in the same bunk, as if their two bodies could merge and expand and fill the void. Michael had woken him each morning with one quiet, uncertain word.
‘Jake.’
Nothing more.
And then, nothing at all.
Sawyer stood upright and turned to the door. ‘Nice to see you, Mike. I do enjoy our little chats.’
40
In the early evening, Maggie drove Sawyer back to the Sunrise Retirement Home. As they parked, Sawyer took out his phone and brought up Maggie’s picture of Gary Follett.
‘I know,’ said Maggie, ‘it’s not his best side. But it’ll have to do.’
‘You’re weirdly defensive about your photography. It’s a good shot.’
The image showed Follett in bed at the Cavendish Hospital. Maggie had taken it from the front and had managed to capture the moment when Follett had moved his empty eyes over to the lens. The effect was unsettling, as if he were looking straight through the photographer, at something behind.
‘I wouldn’t advise him to use it as a profile picture for any dating websites, but it’ll do for us. You didn’t get anything else out of him?’
Maggie shook her head. ‘Just, “creepy crawly”. I tried being cold, warm, lateral, stimulating answers by being open about myself. Nothing. Then he kicked into a rage and started to repeat it, over and over again. “Creepy crawly, creepy crawly, creepy crawly.” Jani asked me to let him rest. Shepherd is on guard.’
‘Let’s show her the picture. It might jog her memory. Wake things up. She might give us a bit more. Come up with a connection to Georgina and Toby.’
Maggie killed the engine. ‘Dementia doesn’t work like that, you know.’
‘Yes, but once she’s seen the photo, the names might come into focus. I need your help, though. I’ll be too eager.’
Judy Follett took a long, long time to dig her ‘special glasses’ out of her dresser drawer. They were thick framed and far too large for her face. She lifted them to her eyes and hooked an arm over her left ear, took them off again, re-aimed and, at last, settled them onto her nose. Behind the lenses, her eyes expanded to twice normal size.
She peered into Sawyer’s phone. Her eyeballs swam and bounced as she studied the image of Gary Follett. She pondered for a few seconds, and jerked her head away.
‘He may have changed a bit,’ said Maggie. ‘Since you last saw him.’
Judy flapped her hand through the air. ‘I know what you’re doing. Don’t think just because I’m in here, I’ve lost my marbles.’
Sawyer looked at Maggie. ‘What do you mean, Mrs Follett?’
She hissed. ‘It’s her, isn’t it? This is a psychology test or something. See how long I’ve got before I go properly round the bend.’
Maggie took a seat and moved around near to where Sawyer was standing, by Judy’s dresser. ‘How do you mean, Judy? What kind of test? We’re with the police. We’ve found your son and we wanted to see if—’
Judy turned to Maggie and pulled off the glasses. ‘You must think I fell off a bloody Christmas tree.’ She jabbed a finger at Sawyer’s phone. ‘That is not my Gary. He looks a bit like him. Same kind of face. But my Gary had more hair. And he’s a miserable-looking bugger. Gary was a happy soul.’
‘Mrs Follett.’ Maggie moved her chair closer. ‘I know it might be a little distressing, as he looks quite unwell. But he’s in excellent hands. He’s being looked after in the hospital.’
Sawyer looked down at his phone screen, blinking. The reception tool bar read, NO SERVICE.
He turned and crashed out of Judy’s door.
He ran down the beige corridor and rapped on the glass of the locked double doors. An orderly let him out, and he sprinted through the day room, out to the car park.
The phone screen now showed two bars.
He called Shepherd.
The phone rang and rang and rang.
Sawyer felt Maggie’s hand on his arm as she drew up behind him, panting.
At last, the call connected.
‘Shepherd. Listen. Call Keating. Get some back-up there now.’
‘Sir…’
‘Listen to me, Shepherd. Follett isn’t a victim. He’s the killer.’
Shepherd coughed. ‘He got me, sir. Hit me from behind. He got away. And he’s taken the boy.’
‘What boy?’
‘The young lad. Luka. He’s taken him, sir.’
41
Keating stalked out of his office, trailed by Sawyer and Shepherd. He stopped at the whiteboard and turned to face the team.
‘We now have a crime in action. The man we thought was an escaped victim has abducted a young boy, Luka Strickland, from the Cavendish Hospital. Nine years old. We can’t be certain, but it’s likely he’s been taken by the man responsible for the murders of Toby Manning and Georgina Stoll. Not only is this an appalling turn of events, it’s a gross embarrassment for everyone in this room.’<
br />
Shepherd answered the obvious first question before anyone asked. ‘I was guarding the offender at the hospital. He jumped me from behind.’
Sawyer thought he saw a smirk from Moran, sitting up front. Moran waved a hand. ‘So, this guy’s not Gary Follett?’
‘Gary Follett is probably dead,’ said Sawyer. ‘Similar build to the bearded man. He will have found him on a missing person list. Faked an ID. We showed his mother a photograph of our escapee. She’s not in a good way, but it was obvious she didn’t recognise him. It’s all been carefully planned. Possibly over years.’
Keating continued. ‘Hospital cameras show the offender carrying Luka out through a back staircase. He goes down to basement level, where there’s no coverage. Probably got him out through utility doors at the side of the hospital.’
Shepherd sighed. ‘I wasn’t out for that long.’
‘No,’ said Sawyer. ‘But he would have been long gone into the surrounding lanes by the time you raised the alarm.’
Shepherd stared down at his shoes, stung by the implication of negligence.
‘We need to work hard and fast,’ said Keating. ‘Get a vehicle team on recent stolen cars. Cross-ref with ANPR from roads near the hospital.’ Keating issued his orders to Shepherd, but he avoided eye contact. ‘He must have parked up somewhere over the last few days. I doubt he’s planned to carry the boy far. And he’s not stupid. He may well dump the car and take another.’
Sawyer stepped forward. ‘We know this isn’t Gary Follett. So, who is he? And we now have an extra element for victimology: Luka Strickland. What is Luka’s connection to Toby and Georgina?’
‘And why would he go to so much trouble?’ Walker added. ‘Why not just take the boy from school?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Maybe his routine made it difficult to find an opportunity. The accident gave him an option. What’s disturbing is the theatricality. We’ve seen it in the burials, the video footage. This is a big escalation. Getting inside the hospital to get the boy out. It’s starting to feel like a bit of a thrill to him. It’s a challenge, and a display of boldness. It also explains why he wasn’t worried about CCTV outside the golf club and The Farmyard Inn.’ The room fell silent. Keating closed his eyes. ‘The unkempt look was a disguise. It placed him in our mind as bearded, hairy. It’s also made it easier for him to escape with the boy.’
‘Forensics!’ Keating barked the word too loud.
Sally O’Callaghan jumped to attention. ‘Nothing from The Farmyard Inn. All the DNA has been traced and eliminated. I doubled the resource on the line searches over all possible routes from both scenes. We should get something from surfaces at the hospital, and the blood test.’
‘I took a picture of him,’ said Sawyer. ‘The un-hairy version. Let’s get that circulated. Myers? Moran? Anything on the caving connection?’
Myers shook his head. ‘Nobody recognised the picture. I’ll try again with the new shot, though.’
‘Nothing on mispers or unexplained misper deaths,’ said Walker.
Keating turned away. ‘Jesus wept. Have we got anything on anything?’
‘Facial composite from your prozzie, Sawyer.’ Moran held up a colour printout. ‘Came through a couple of hours ago.’
Sawyer snatched up the paper. The likeness wasn’t conclusive, but the eyes and facial shape bore some resemblance to the shaven-headed man. He stared into the eyes. ‘Walker. Any ideas about the phrase “creepy crawly” yet?’
‘Nothing jumping out, sir. I have an old mate from Hendon. Good officer. He’s a real word nerd. I’ll see if he can suggest something.’
Keating jerked away from Sawyer’s side and barged through a group of detectives, headed for his office. ‘Get moving, everyone. I’ve got a call with the Deputy Chief.’ He stopped and turned. ‘Sawyer, find this boy.’ He beckoned to Bloom and the two disappeared into his office.
A moment’s silence, broken by Sawyer. ‘How is the mother?’
‘As you’d expect,’ said Maggie. ‘Patricia is with her. I’m going over now.’
‘We have three people to consider. Toby Manning, Georgina Stoll and Luka Strickland. An eighteen-year-old, a twenty-four-year-old and a nine-year-old. So far, we haven’t found any connection between Georgina and Toby, but now we have Luka in the mix I want all resources devoted to victimology. If we can’t track him from the hospital, then everything depends on us making that connection and working out where he’s taken Luka, and what he might be planning next. I want Georgina and Toby’s life histories, their social media feeds, troubles at school, medical histories. I want to know where they went on holiday five years ago, ten years ago. I want to know about boyfriends, girlfriends, distant uncles. Get the picture of our shaven man to Danny Stoll. Maggie, show it to Luka’s mother. Find me a connection or die trying. Walker, co-ordinate the intel cells. Everybody, say goodbye to the weekend. I want an update at four.’
The detectives returned to their desks and gathered into groups.
‘DI Sawyer?’
‘DC Moran.’
Moran smiled. ‘Just a little confused about chain of command. We need to be clear, yes? There’s a lot at stake.’
Sawyer nodded. He walked over to Moran’s desk, laid a hand flat on the edge and leaned forward, skewering Moran with a steady gaze. ‘Who just gave you orders?’
‘You did.’
‘Well, then. Where’s the confusion?’
42
They took the Rover to the Manning house at Hathersage: Sawyer at the wheel; Shepherd slumped in the passenger seat, glaring out at the blackened moors.
‘How’s the head?’
Shepherd startled at Sawyer’s voice and looked across, over his shoulder. ‘Not too bad. Thick skull.’
‘Stubborn.’
Shepherd snorted and turned back to the fields and the huddles of collapsed sheep.
‘It’s not your fault.’
Sawyer accelerated past a delivery van and swerved back into lane at the brow of a hill, seconds away from meeting a wobbling farm lorry, loaded with haystacks. The driver gave him an angry blast of his reedy horn. ‘We need to get back to our ABCs. Accept nothing. Believe nobody. Check everything.’
Shepherd turned. ‘We?’
‘Yes, we. Keating hates poor judgement, but he won’t ditch you for being surprised by a guy we thought was a basket case. And if I didn’t think you were capable, I’d be pushing to take over officially.’
‘As if you haven’t already.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Not officially.’
They crawled through a bottleneck outside Castleton. Shepherd rummaged in the glovebox and pulled out a Tracker bar.
Sawyer glanced over. ‘What’s that?’
Shepherd tore off the wrapper and took a bite. ‘Don’t judge me. I’ve had a bad day.’
At the edge of Hathersage, the trees gathered by the roadsides, tunnelling them in. Sawyer turned off, into the village. ‘Did you set up anything to help with your thing?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Look at us. Progressive men, bravely discussing our problems, looking for things to help with our things.’
‘Okay… Have you booked in any therapy to address your issues with anxiety?’
Shepherd bristled. ‘It’s not a big enough problem for therapy.’
‘If it has you faking physical sickness, it’s a big enough problem.’ Shepherd turned away. ‘Talk to Maggie.’
‘Let’s get through this first.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘One dragon at a time.’
They parked outside the Manning house: a bland semi with chequered brickwork.
‘It’s late,’ said Shepherd. ‘They won’t appreciate this.’
‘No. But Luka Strickland might.’
Paul Manning spread his arms across the back of the sofa while Jayne perched at the edge of an armchair. Shepherd and Sawyer stayed on their feet; this time, there was no offer of tea.
Jayne’s hair was neater, her clothes more co-ordinated. She had submitted t
o the current of grief. Paul, though, seemed bullish and irritated by the continued police attention. Sawyer didn’t buy his open body language.
Sawyer settled by a tall sideboard, crowded with sympathy cards and photos of Toby. ‘We have an extremely dangerous situation. We believe that the man responsible for Toby’s death has also murdered a young woman, and he’s now abducted a nine-year-old boy.’
‘My God.’ Jayne Manning jerked her head to the side.
‘Do either of you recognise the name Gary Follett? Did Toby mention him at all?’
Both shook their heads. Paul Manning had still not spoken. Jayne lit a cigarette; Paul shot her a glare. ‘Who’s the young boy?’
‘His name is Luka Strickland,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can’t imagine he and Toby would move in similar circles, but does the name ring a bell? Have you heard it mentioned?’
Paul closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, his irritation had turned to anger. ‘Why won’t you let us grieve for our boy? Isn’t all this your job? Haven’t you got specialists in finding missing kids? Why are you harassing us?’
Sawyer studied him. ‘Because there’s a nine-year-old boy’s life at risk, and we need to explore all possible—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Paul scratched at his scalp, ‘but why is this my problem? Like you say, Toby didn’t hang around with nine-year-olds. Listen, I hope you find this lad but we can’t help you.’ He stood up, gesticulating.
‘Love...’ Jayne reached up and squeezed Paul’s arm. He didn’t retreat.
Sawyer remained seated. ‘Take it easy, Mr Manning. You’re going through a nightmare. We understand that. But so is the mother of this young boy, and if there’s even the slightest chance that you might be able to help with any of these connections, we have to explore it.’
‘Right, right. But like we say, we’ve never heard the boy’s name before, so can you please get out of our house? We’ve had a tiring day. We’ve got a funeral on Tuesday.’
