by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer drove out of Buckley Hall and camped in the M62 fast lane back down to the Peaks. The Mini rattled a little, up in the high nineties, and he had to crank the music and keep the windows sealed.
He cued up a playlist based on his mother’s favourites—Hendrix, Doors, Stones—and trained his mind on the peripheral details of the case. The implications beyond the actions.
He had agreed with the governor not to share details of the delivery with Dale Strickland. The news would reach Eva soon enough, and he would rather it came from him.
He drove into Bakewell and followed Maggie’s Google Maps link to the Gregory house: an off-white semi lurking behind a telegraph pole on the Eastern outskirts. He retrieved his backpack with evidence bag out of the boot and rang the bell. Maggie answered. Her red hair was uncombed and her normally sharp hazel eyes looked weathered.
‘You haven’t told her?’
Maggie shook her head. ‘She’s steadier today, but go easy.’
Sawyer followed her into the kitchen, past a large portrait photo of Eva and toddler Luka. They were sprawled on the floor of some studio, both shoeless. Eva lay on her back, holding a giggling Luka aloft with both hands, her white hair splayed and scattered across the dark wood floor.
Sawyer took a seat at the kitchen table, next to Eva. She lifted her eyes to him. She looked pale and ravaged. It was the first time Sawyer had seen her without make-up. The natural look didn’t compromise her beauty.
‘Ms Gregory. There’s been a development.’
She sat up, terrified. ‘What?’
‘Your husband, Dale, has been sent a package.’
He unzipped the backpack and took out the transparent evidence bag containing a pair of children’s glasses with cherry red frames. Eva lifted the bag up to the light. She turned it around, examining the contents. Her eyes misted over: desolation, disbelief. She handed back the bag and covered her face, long fingers clawing at her forehead. She slumped onto the table, convulsing, whispering over and over, ‘Oh my God, oh my God.’ She dropped her hands to the table, fingers splayed, trying to steady her slanting world.
Maggie moved to sit beside her, but Sawyer reached out and rested both hands on her fingers. ‘Eva, I think Luka is alive. And I wouldn’t just tell you that to comfort you. Not if I didn’t believe it.’
She looked at him. ‘Why do you think that?’
Sawyer glanced at Maggie. ‘There’s a detail we’ve kept from the public. The killer of Toby Manning and Georgina Stoll captured video footage of their deaths and sent it to their families.’
Eva took in a sharp breath, as if she’d just been plunged into freezing water.
Sawyer kept hold of her fingers and moved closer. ‘Eva, the glasses are a message. They tell us that Luka is alive, but under the suspect’s control. We are trained to look for behavioural change. It’s always significant. This is radical behavioural change. He’s moved from a demonstration of his cruelty to a straight-up power play. He’s reminding us who is in charge.’
‘Why not me?’
Sawyer withdrew his hands. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Why send Luka’s glasses to Dale? Why not send them straight to the police?’
‘We don’t know yet. Maybe he liked the thrill of sending them into a prison. We’ll watch your mail over the next few days. We will need to screen it in case he sends something else. I have the prison governor on call, too.’
Eva wiped her face and picked up the evidence bag. ‘He’s so short-sighted, Mr Sawyer. He needs these glasses.’
‘We have to check them for forensic evidence.’
She slumped back in the chair and turned away. ‘How will that help?’
Sawyer leaned over the table, trying to catch her eye. ‘We are doing everything possible to find him, Eva. I promise you.’
Eva snapped her head round. ‘Have you found him yet? Have you? No. Well, then. It doesn’t matter how much you’re doing, does it? Because it’s not enough.’ She drooped, exhausted by the outburst. ‘I’m sorry.’ She reached out and grabbed him, squeezing his hand. She just about managed to push out her words between the tremors and the tears. ‘Please, Mr Sawyer. Oh my God. Please. Bring me back my boy. He’s only a child. A young boy. He needs his mother. Don’t just promise me that you’re doing everything to bring him back. Promise me you’ll bring him back.’
Sawyer looked up to Maggie. She deflected his gaze and turned to the kitchen window.
‘I promise.’
Sawyer strolled into Shepherd’s office and placed the KFC lunchbox onto the desk with great ceremony. He sat down and dug his own lunch out of a paper bag: tuna sweetcorn on white baguette, Walkers cheese and onion crisps, orange Fanta Zero.
Shepherd shut down his email window and turned to face Sawyer. ‘What’s this?’
‘Lunch?’
‘That’s very kind, but…’ He held up a transparent tub and white plastic fork.
‘That’s a lot of green.’
Shepherd unpeeled the lid and dug in. ‘Green is good. Thanks, though.’
‘Diet?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Doctor not pleased with my cholesterol. Need to lose a bit of weight, too.’
‘You are what you eat.’
‘What have you got? Garage meal deal?’ He forked in a mound of foliage. ‘How’s the mother?’
‘Bad. Worse than ever. I’ve just been to see Sally. He sent Luka’s glasses to his father’s prison.’
Shepherd was caught mid-fork lift. ‘Definitely the boy’s? Not another fucking troll?’
‘Eva confirmed. Sally is going to test them. I doubt she’ll find anything.’
Sawyer’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
Shepherd mashed and prodded at his lunch. ‘Jesus Christ. I know how Keating feels. Do we have anything to work with?’
Sawyer took out the phone. Keating. ‘Myers is working the caving route. Says he’s following up with someone who thinks they recognise our man.’ He took the call. ‘Sir?’
‘Had a call come through to me a few minutes ago. Guy called the station, asking for you. They put him through to me because you weren’t around.’
‘I don’t work for you yet officially, sir. Remember?’ He took a bite of the baguette.
A sigh at Keating’s end. ‘Sawyer. Luncheon can wait. Call him back. I’ll text you the number. Name is Donald Ainsworth.’
46
‘Mr Sawyer. Good of you to respond so briskly.’
Faint Scottish accent. Sawyer guessed at sixty-something. He ducked into a spare intel cell and closed the door. ‘No problem. How can I help?’
‘You are a detective, is that right? Detective Inspector? How do I address you? I like to get these things right.’
Sawyer sat at the desk and jiggled the mouse of the hulking PC. The screen lit up with the green home page of the HOLMES evidence management system. ‘Well, Mr Ainsworth. My civilian name is Jake. But go with DI Sawyer if you like. My boss simplifies it to Sawyer. I’ve been called many things, but those are my three favourites. Follow your heart.’
Ainsworth chuckled. ‘Quite. Let’s dispense with the veneer, Jake. Do call me Donald.’
Sawyer typed edshepherd as user. ‘Okay, Donald. You wanted to speak to me. What about?’
‘A young woman has contacted me. Eva Gregory.’
Sawyer closed his eyes. ‘I know Ms Gregory.’
‘Yes. She explained her situation. Appalling. I understand you’re leading the enquiry into her son’s disappearance?’
‘It looks that way, yes.’
‘I’m sorry?’
Sawyer typed theo2013 into the HOLMES password box. No joy. ‘Nothing. Please carry on.’
‘I’m a professor of psychology, Jake. I run a specialist sub faculty up here in Strathclyde University. The Persinger Parapsychology Unit.’
Sawyer tried edshepherd as user and theo as password. Nothing. ‘Parapsychology? Ghost hunting? Supernatural investigation?’
‘That’s the broad view
of our work, yes. More formally, we view it as the study of unknown science.’
‘More things in heaven and Earth?’
‘Exactly.’
Sawyer tapped at the keyboard. Two unsuccessful log-ins. He assumed that three would register as suspicious and closed the HOLMES window. He sat back in the chair and turned away from the screen. ‘Professor, if a phenomenon can’t be explained, how can you call it “science”? Whether it’s “unknown” or not.’
‘An intelligent question. It’s more about the academic rigour we apply in studying the phenomena. Are you aware of the recent conclusion to our Paranormal Challenge contest? We awarded a cash prize of £50,000 to a remarkable individual called Viktor Beck. He was able to demonstrate a unique ability, under tightly arranged conditions.’
‘Ability?’
Ainsworth broke into a short coughing fit. The sounds were distant, indistinct, as if they were travelling from another planet. ‘Yes. Mr Beck is what we call a remote viewer. He can identify the location of an individual by coming into contact with an item they use frequently, or which is intimately connected to them.’
‘And you accept this is genuine?’
‘Well…’ Ainsworth paused. He seemed affronted by the question. ‘Of course. I was present during the testing and I have had subsequent contact with Mr Beck. I’m convinced that he’s the real deal. An exciting test case. The implications are—’
‘Sorry. What does this have to do with Eva Gregory?’
He paused again. ‘Excuse me. I can get a little ahead of myself. Ms Gregory telephoned me earlier to ask the same question. Is Mr Beck for real? She said she’d recently seen him at a live show, and he had impressed her. She read about the Challenge and wanted to know, from me, if he could be trusted. I told her that I believed he could. She then asked if I could contact you and pass on his details. As the officer in charge of the enquiry into her missing son, it seems that Ms Gregory trusts you and would like you to make this happen.’
Sawyer opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a notebook and pen. ‘She wants you to introduce me to Viktor Beck. And I then convince Beck to help Eva find her son. Correct?’
‘Precisely. It seems that she feels a sense of embarrassment about this. And, of course, she’s in quite a complex emotional state at the moment.’
Sawyer clicked open the pen and doodled onto the pad. ‘Donald. I don’t mean to be rude about your work, but down here we’re stuck with known science. Actions and consequences. Testable. Provable. We gather forensic evidence, talk to witnesses, join the dots based on experience and training. I’m not going to abandon all of that and have a missing boy’s glasses used as some kind of talisman for a charlatan who has managed to convince you he has mystical powers.’
Ainsworth fell silent. ‘I’m sorry you find it difficult to see beyond your own constraints, Jake. Do you have children yourself?’
‘That’s not relevant.’
‘Perhaps not. But the bond between parent and child is so very powerful. One of nature’s most formidable forces. A marvel of biology. That is, one of your “known” sciences. You would be astonished at the extraordinary lengths we are prepared to go to, in the name of the people we love.’
47
Sawyer paced Keating’s office. Shepherd hovered by the window, staring out at the football ground.
Keating massaged his forehead. ‘DI Sawyer, please. Have a seat. You’ll wear out the carpet.’
Sawyer turned. ‘DCI Keating, we can’t set this kind of precedent. The press are laughing at us now. Imagine the headlines when they find out we’re trying this. Keystone Cops Use Mindreader To Find Killer.’
Shepherd edged away from the window. He looked, sounded and moved like a man still in the doghouse. ‘Sir, it might feel like a kind of victim support. Belt and braces. But it’s actually done harm in the past. In the States in 2004, a so-called psychic, Sylvia Browne, told the mother of a kidnapping victim that her daughter was dead. The poor woman never recovered. Died a couple of years after. Her daughter was found alive ten years later.’
‘I’m not expecting miracles,’ said Keating. ‘But this man, Beck. However he does what he does, it must involve some kind of sensitivity to subtle reactions. Maybe he can detect something we can use in the mother’s responses. And we don’t have to believe in his abilities. If the mother believes, then he might help us to unlock something. A piece of information or a memory. Something that might lead us to the boy.’
Sawyer leaned on Keating’s desk and loomed over him. ‘There are two possibilities behind this. Either Beck has magical supernatural powers, or there’s more under the surface that we don’t yet know about. A more rational explanation.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Occam’s razor.’ Keating frowned at him.
‘He bribed this professor. They agreed to split the money. Sir, nobody has psychic powers. Nobody can talk to the dead. The dead have gone. They’re just memories. They exist only in the brains of the people who once knew them. You can’t communicate with them, as if they’re still here in the present.’
Keating stood, rising eye to eye with Sawyer. ‘Tell that to the people he’s done readings for.’
Shepherd stepped closer to the desk. ‘Only one in six people who have seen a psychic believe the reading was accurate.’
Sawyer turned and walked to the window, leaving Shepherd hanging in the centre of the room. ‘It’s a cheap trick. Manipulation. Psychology dressed up as something special and supernatural. It’s what Derren Brown does. It’s what all magicians do. The difference is, they’re honest. They admit to being entertainers. They don’t claim to have powers.’
‘There’s no precedent, sir.’ Shepherd took a seat, keeping his eyes on Keating. ‘The outcome of police engagement with psychics is always inconclusive. In the sixties, police used one to help with the Sharon Tate murders, and—’
‘We’re not conducting a fucking seance.’ Keating dropped back into his seat. ‘We’re just parking our cynicism and trying every possible approach.’
Sawyer sighed. ‘We should be pushing real world leads. Myers has someone at a caving place up in Castleton who thinks he recognises our man.’
‘Good!’ Keating’s voice had risen to the point where detectives outside the office were taking an interest. ‘I’m not saying we ignore those angles. I just want to respect this woman’s wishes. There was a service for Luka at Trinity Church yesterday. Presumably you wouldn’t object to someone praying that we find him alive and well?’
‘No. But it does nothing to help us find him.’
Keating fixed Sawyer with a clock-stopping glare. ‘Get it done. Once O’Callaghan has finished with the glasses, get them back to the mother. She says she needs them to help Beck. It’s just an angle, Sawyer. We have nothing to lose.’
Sawyer approached the desk. ‘You mean you have nothing to lose. Or you won’t soon, because you won’t be SIO for much longer.’
Keating looked down, gathered some papers.
Sawyer loomed in again. ‘It makes us look desperate.’
Keating leapt to his feet. ‘We are desperate!’
Sawyer left Shepherd to the afternoon briefing and drove back to Bakewell. He called Sally O’Callaghan, wedging the phone between cheek and shoulder.
‘Jake. Keating was a little robust with you earlier?’
‘He lost it. He’s under pressure. Anything from the glasses?’
She blew a sigh down the phone. ‘Lab is working through the tests. I can get them back to you this evening. I know you’re overwhelmed by all the good news at the moment, Jake, but you shouldn’t expect any big revelations. Glass, plastic. No DNA or prints. Sorry, marks. Keating has already called, asking for progress. I had to disappoint him.’
‘How did that go down?’
‘Like a shit sandwich. He hung up on me.’
Sawyer had to brake hard to let an elderly man and his dog over a pelican crossing. ‘He wants to bring in a psychic.’
S
ilence from Sally. ‘Right. So he really is losing it.’
‘He’ll be off the case in a day or two.’
‘A drowning man grasping at a twig.’
Sawyer sped over the crossing and turned off towards the Gregory house. ‘Keep going. We’re in a fight now. Cold, hard science versus the fucking Fortean Times.’
Sawyer and Eva Gregory took the same spots at the kitchen table: side by side, chairs angled. Eva had changed and re-applied her make-up. She looked hollow and ghostly, but somehow undiminished, as if the torment had tapped a deep seam of resolve.
‘How much is he charging?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How magnanimous.’
She shifted in her seat. Her hands rested on the table. ‘I just want to try everything, Mr Sawyer. I honestly don’t mean to put you in a difficult—’
Sawyer drew the chair closer to the table edge. ‘It’s my job to be sceptical, Ms Gregory. To only trust evidence from sources that have proven helpful in the past.’
Eva slid her hands over and rested them on his own. Long, graceful fingers. Magenta nails. Shining skin. ‘I sense you’re a sceptic. So was I. Really. But then I went to Mr Beck’s show with a work colleague. He picked me out from the stage, and he was so accurate. He even knew Luka’s name.’
‘You’re hearing what you want to hear. You were worried about Luka. He was recovering in hospital. He must have known that.’
She withdrew her hands. ‘How?’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Research. He would have had the ticket details. Acquaintances in the queue. Mingling. Listening. Did you mention Luka’s name to your friend?’ He leaned forward. ‘This is how they do it, Eva. They research everyone and they pick out susceptible candidates. Vulnerable people. Beck’s assistants knew who you were and where you were sitting. He just has to find a way to access the information during the show. It’s all trickery, and you’re way too smart to be taken in. You should let the police focus their resources on the real work.’
She dropped her head. ‘I’ve always read my horoscope. But I never saw myself…’ She looked up. ‘Oh! Mr Ainsworth told me a story. He said that Beck did a reading for him.’
