by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer nodded. ‘When?’
‘After he’d won the prize. He said that Beck told him the name of his late daughter’s pet elephant. The toy she had as a little girl. She named it Winny, after Winifred from The Jungle Book. How could he possibly know that?’
‘I don’t know. But he won’t have found out by talking to the dead.’
Eva stood and walked to the sink. ‘Mr Sawyer. Regardless of what you personally believe, I would like my son’s glasses returned as soon as possible.’
‘Of course. I should have them early tomorrow.’ Sawyer stood. He spun his jacket over his head, twisting it and slotting in his arms in one motion, then shrugging it up over his shoulders; a trick he’d seen Martin Sheen perform on The West Wing.
‘I saw your husband. I think he’s also planning to take a practical interest in finding Luka. When he gets out.’
She turned. ‘How is he?’
‘Are you asking after his health or looking for my opinion? He does seem a bit below your grade, if I may be so bold.’
She kept a steady face. ‘No, you may not. Dale has many faults, but he loves his son.’
‘Ms Gregory, I understand your frustration. You’re welcome to try psychics and let your husband marshal his contacts. But earlier today, I sat at this table and I promised you I would find Luka. And I will.’
At The Reading Room, Sawyer stood before the mirror and worked through the second form, slower this time. He sat down on the bed, navigated to the contact list on his phone, and made the call. It was late—close to ten—but he doubted Jensen had changed his rhythms since their time at Keele.
The call connected.
‘Mr Sawyer. What a delight.’
‘Hi, Rich. I was worried it would be past your bedtime.’
Jensen laughed. ‘Still a nightcrawler, Sawyer. As you know, all the best fun happens in the dark.’
Richard Jensen was a sharp and sensible home counties boy who had studied psychology with Sawyer, and had almost followed him into police training. But his thesis, Supernaturalism, which equated paranormal phenomena with simple psychological quirks, had been published as a pop science paperback, and he’d built a decent career with follow-ups and occasional live shows.
‘Have you got a minute?’
‘I can do you three or four, but then I really must get the hot water bottle filled.’
Sawyer turned to the gig listings pages of Derbyshire Life magazine. ‘Have you heard of a character called Viktor Beck?’
‘Oh, yes. The paranormal prize winner. Impressive stuff. I read the Times piece. I’d love to test him myself. I’ve spoken to Ainsworth before. The guy at the Persinger Unit. He’s one of the good guys. Strange that he was duped like this.’
‘Beck has a gig tomorrow night in Sheffield. He’s been doing a bunch of ensemble shows, but this is his first big headliner.’
Jensen snorted. ‘Never underestimate the public appetite for a plausible charlatan. Our political system was founded on the principle.’
‘Can you have a look at him? YouTube, whatever. I want you to come with me to the show tomorrow.’
48
Sawyer came round from his temazepam haze and hauled himself out of bed. He washed, brushed his teeth, and threw on a hoody, grubby jeans and a pair of old Timberlands. The sun was barely up, but Jenny had stocked the breakfast room with the basics, and he shovelled down a bowl of chewy cornflakes.
He drove too fast, with the top down, hosed awake by the stinging air.
He dipped and swerved beneath the yellowing canopies, down into the Manifold Valley.
He slowed for the single track road to Wetton Mill, and parked—unofficially—by one of the limestone outhouses.
He walked, back in time, along the Tarmac track, into the trees and across the brook where his howling five-year-old self had been fished out by his mother after a fall.
At the base of the muddy steps that led up to Thor’s Cave, Sawyer paused. There was music, drifting down from above. Close harmony singing, and drumming. As he climbed to the cave, the sounds grew louder and more distinct. The style sounded African: tight, disciplined. Glissandos and whistles. Swoops and yodels. Rasping, buzzing. Call and response. It lifted his soul, to discover such natural beauty by chance, in a place of ancestral splendour; a place already imbued with such private portent.
He clambered up the dewy stone into the vast entrance. The singers had gathered in the central chamber, around a modest campfire. There were ten of them, all wearing identical blue-and-yellow shawls; all smiling as they sang. He raised a hand and settled in his usual spot: by the slit in the stone which overlooked the valley.
For Sawyer, the cave had always been a place for lone contemplation; a sanctuary of private peace. But the singing seeped into him and broadened his thinking. He let the threads and details of the case gather, visualising and colour coding. The sounds receded, and he sank into a state of bliss, of quiet clarity; a limbo between real world and dreamworld. He gathered all the players in his mind—the living and the dead—and he interrogated them all as they filed past.
Toby Manning: so young and cloaked in potential. Forever interrupted.
Georgina Stoll: a life so loaded, never to be fired. She regarded him with a withering disappointment, and he shuddered as she peeled away.
Luka Strickland: invincible, invisible. He implored him for answers. Luka registered the questions, but could only shake his head. Sawyer sensed a judgement: a disbelief at his reckless pledge to Eva.
He walked back to Wetton the hard way: wading through wild fields, up and over the steep crag that folded away from the river. As he climbed down onto the track, he saw two figures, vaguely familiar, pushing bicycles down the steep decline to the disused railway trail.
Beth and Alec, from The Reading Room.
He waved and wandered over.
Alec’s shoulders slumped into a sulk. Sawyer nodded to him, but spoke to Beth. ‘Hi. Strange to see you out in the wild.’
‘We wanted to get out early,’ said Alec. ‘It’s so nice when it’s quiet. When there’s nobody else around.’
Sawyer smiled and kept focus on Beth. ‘You’re a dark horse, you know.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You didn’t tell me you were an advanced nutritionist, Miss Lawrence.’
She angled her head. ‘How do you know that? And my name?’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘I did a bit of checking up on you. Don’t worry. I didn’t go too deep.’ He leaned in and whispered. ‘You do have some odd habits, you know.’
She squinted. ‘What “odd habits”?’
‘You left your book behind. Business card as bookmark. I left it for you at reception.’ Sawyer glanced at Alec. He sat astride his bike, rigid. ‘So. Resisting the draw of Soli-dull? They must be missing you. Your absence has raised the average age by about ten years in the last week.’
Beth laughed and swept her arm around in a wide arc. ‘How come you’re out in the world so early, anyway?’
‘I used to come here as a kid, usually with my mum. It’s probably my favourite place in the world. She would take me up to the cave, watching my back, lifting me over the difficult bits.’
‘Thor’s Cave? I’d like to see that. We’re going home tomorrow, though.’
Sawyer tipped his head back. ‘Damn! I could have shown you around. I mean, it’s mainly dark and…’
‘Cavey?’
He smiled. ‘Very cavey, yes. I thought you said you hadn’t been before.’
‘Look. I’m sorry.’ Alec hitched himself off the bike. ‘Are you for real?’
Beth took a small step into the space between Alec and Sawyer.
‘For real? What do you mean?’
‘I mean… You are aware of boyfriends and girlfriends, right? The birds and the bees. You’re not from another fucking planet?’
‘Alec. Calm down.’
Sawyer held his ground, keeping an eye on Alec’s hands. ‘Are we back on this again? I’m not
allowed to speak to her because she belongs to you or something? Have a look around. We’re in England, not Saudi Arabia.’
Alec snorted. ‘No. You’re right. She does not belong to me. But she is my girlfriend. We’re in a relationship. We’ve both agreed on it. So, when you ask her to go on jolly walks with you, or take trips up to your childhood haunts, then that is aggressive to me. By association. Yes?’ Alec jutted his head forward and screwed up his features.
Sawyer’s gaze drifted to Beth, then back to Alec. He felt the bright greens and blues around them recede to a vague, sludgy texture. His breathing quickened.
He turned, and ran. Down the slope, onto the Tarmac, sprinting for Wetton Mill.
He drove too fast, with the top up, twisting the elements around and around in his mind.
At Buxton, he spun the Mini into the police station car park and abandoned it laterally, across two bays.
The lift dawdled on the third floor, so he crashed through to the staircase and leapt up the steps, two and three at a time.
On the first floor, he fell into Keating’s office. Keating had his back turned, typing. He held up a hand as he finished, then turned to face Sawyer.
Sawyer stood there. Red faced. Panting.
‘What?’
‘It’s the drug. Hemlock. Drummond called it “a sort of kindness”. We need to shift focus. Completely. He’s not targeting the victims. They’re incidental to him. Collateral. He’s targeting their loved ones. He doesn’t want the victims to suffer. He wants to make it look like they’re suffering. It’s a distraction. That’s why he uses the hemlock. To anaesthetise them. On one level, it looks diabolical. But for the victims, it’s a brief panic, and then... Sleep. That’s why he spent so long refining the dose. His plan is to maximise the suffering of the people who know and love the victims. The flash drives. The footage. The glasses.’
Keating nodded. ‘But why?’
‘We need to divert every resource to victimology. Scrutinise the victims’ families. There’s a connection—an association—between Toby Manning’s parents, Luka Strickland’s parents, and Danny Stoll, Georgina’s husband. He wants to hurt them, and if we can find out why, then it will lead us to him. And to Luka.’
49
Sawyer caught up with Shepherd and called a briefing. As the team gathered, he erased everything on the whiteboard while Shepherd took down the notes and photos and filed them into a folder. He took a marker and squeaked out the names.
PAUL MANNING
JAYNE MANNING
EVA GREGORY
DALE STRICKLAND
DANNY STOLL
He turned the board to face the group. ‘What do these five people have in common?’
Moran waved his pen. ‘Victims’ families?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘They are all related to our three victims. Two dead, one hopefully still alive. Paul and Jayne Manning—Toby Manning’s parents. Eva Gregory and Dale Strickland—Luka Strickland’s parents. Danny Stoll—Georgina Stoll’s husband.’
‘Both her parents are dead,’ said Myers.
‘Yes. It might be specific to Danny, though. They have all been sent either distressing footage of their loved ones helpless, at the point of death, or, in Luka’s case, an intimately connected item. I believe that the killer has no direct animosity towards the people he has killed. The aim of the crimes is to maximise the pain of these five people. We need to find out why.’ Shepherd took his spot next to Sawyer. ‘DS Shepherd.’
Sawyer retreated, leaving room for Shepherd to step forward.
‘Our focus has to shift. We are now one big victimology intel cell. And we are treating these five people as our victims. There is something that connects them, something that is motivating our killer. I want life stories. Education, geography, medical. I want run-ins, convictions. Parking tickets. I want to know every time they were told to stand in the corner at school. Get it all into HOLMES. Find me matches. Our man has gone to a lot of trouble to make these people suffer. The answer is out there. Go and find it. Briefing at three.’
Sawyer found Shepherd’s eye and nodded.
‘Sir?’ DC Walker raised a hand. ‘The boy’s glasses were sent to Dale Strickland, at the prison.’
‘Correct,’ said Sawyer. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Two things. Why send them to the father and not the mother? Or send something to both since they’re in different places. And if he wants to hurt the families so much, why hasn’t he followed his pattern and sent footage of Luka Strickland’s death?’
Sawyer stepped forward. ‘DC Walker. Go with DS Shepherd. See the Mannings again. It’ll be good to get fresh eyes on them. I don’t think Paul likes me. Sally?’
‘Jake!’ Sally O’Callaghan stood to exaggerated attention at her desk.
‘Did we got paternity for Georgina’s baby?’
Sally nodded. ‘Chorionic biopsy. It’s Danny’s.’
Sawyer marched towards the exit. ‘I need to see him.’
‘Sir!’ Shepherd called after him. ‘Seriously. This guy’s in a bad, bad place. Go easy.’
He gave Shepherd a thumbs-up without looking behind. ‘I’ll take back-up.’
‘Your driving is definitely improving.’
Sawyer eased the Mini through a bottleneck at the edge of Hartington.
He changed the music. The Doors. ‘The Crystal Ship.’
Maggie tore off half an apple turnover and passed it to him.
‘Is this a reward?’ Sawyer took a bite and his eyes widened. ‘It’s still warm!’
She smiled. ‘Got it from that new farm shop before the briefing.’ They endured a minute of silence as they passed through the village centre, past the pub, the general store, the red telephone box. ‘So are you really tired of London? Coming back for good?’
Why?
He looked at her. ‘Quality of life. You just can’t get pastries like this in Stamford Hill.’
‘All that culture you’d leave behind.’
‘There’s Buxton Opera House. What more could you want?’
She eyed him. ‘You hate opera.’
‘It’s nice to know it’s there, though. For someone else to enjoy.’
She sat back, limp. ‘I seem to have gone off art lately. Not reading a lot. Justin bought a painting. He built it up too much. Unveiled it in a big flourish. I had to fake enthusiasm. Didn’t do anything for me.’
‘You sound like Drummond. He’s a proud philistine.’ He turned off the main road and found the terraced block with the Stoll flat. ‘So how’s family life for you? It can’t all be pondering interior design choices, down in the darklands.’
‘The Roaches.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s bright enough.’
He pulled in and looked up at the first floor. Movement at the window. ‘I never saw you as the matriarch type. Did Justin change the nappies?’
‘We had a nanny.’
He nodded. ‘Ready? He’s expecting us.’
‘So why are you back, Jake? What do you want? Need?’
He looked up at the window again. The cord for the blind swung against the glass. ‘I don’t think it’s a good time for a therapy session.’
‘Stop deflecting.’
‘A new challenge. The usual. The opportunity to work with Keating on the MIT, after earning my spurs in big, bad London.’
‘And nothing else.’
He looked at her. ‘And nothing else.’
‘Can I get you some tea?’
Danny Stoll shuffled into the kitchen. His movement was bowed, but he was compact and athletic, with short, tidy hair: peppering at the sides, dwindling on top. He was still tanned from the honeymoon, but the bronzing jarred with his monochrome disposition. He had The Stare—one of the worst Sawyer had ever seen—and he spoke in a whisper, as if nervous about eavesdroppers.
‘Really, Danny. Don’t worry about that.’ Maggie got up and guided him back to the wide armchair facing the TV. It was a short journey, but each step was a stumbling exploration. Danny took h
is mobile phone from a bookshelf, looked at the screen, and slipped it into the pocket of his grey fleece. He sat, and turned the chair to face Maggie and Sawyer on the sofa.
Danny was still for a few seconds, then shook his head, waking to their presence. He cracked a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I’m still a bit all over the place. Please let me know if you want that cup of tea. It seems rude to let you just sit there—’
‘How did you meet Georgina, Danny? Quite an age difference.’ Sawyer took a photograph of the couple from a side table: clinking champagne glasses at a beach restaurant. Danny was a few pounds heavier, healthier, in the picture. Georgina, her hair garlanded, mugged to camera. She was exquisite, brazen, wallowing in the temporary opulence.
Danny nodded and closed his eyes. It took him a few seconds to retrieve the information. ‘Castleton Rugby Club. About three years ago. I used to play. Christmas party. She was working for the caterers. We barely spent a day apart since. I have answered all of this before, you know.’
‘I understand that, and I’m sorry to make you go over it again. But I want to explore a few new ideas on what might have happened.’
Danny shifted in his seat and slumped forward. ‘It feels like he’s killed me, too. Or like the old me has died and there’s been some kind of rebirth. Fucking stillbirth.’ He looked up, to Maggie. ‘Does this ever go away?’
Maggie edged forward and took his hands. ‘Remember, Danny. We talked about it. Things will change. But it will take time.’
Sawyer looked around the flat. It was a good size, and the sitting room window drew in the light from the low, wide fields at the back of the building. A decent starter place. Now a non-starter. ‘There’s a book I love, Danny. It’s called Slaughterhouse-Five. Sort of science fiction. By a guy called Kurt Vonnegut. He says that it’s painful to think of time as past, present and future. It’s better to see it as a landscape. Your life, your memories as ever-present scenery, rather than a journey through time with all those beginnings and endings.’ Danny turned his desolate eyes to Sawyer. ‘And so a person who has died, they’re just in a bad way at a particular point of the picture, but in great shape in lots of other moments.’ Sawyer stood, wedged in next to Danny on the chair, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. ‘I lost someone, Danny. When I was little. That’s the way I deal with it, all these years later. I don’t think of them as part of the past. I see them as a part of me. Guiding me.’
