by Andrew Lowe
‘Abducted child. The mother thinks he can help us find him.’ Jensen flopped back in his seat, appalled. ‘I know. Not my decision.’
‘Makes sense, though. There’s such an illustrious history of police using psychics.’
‘So what is he doing? How did he win this prize?’
A twinkle in Jensen’s eye. ‘We’ll get to that.’ He patted the device in his lap; it looked like a chunky old mobile phone with a dial and a tall, tubular aerial. ‘For now, meet the Motorola XT180 radio scanner. Ideally, we’d be inside the auditorium, but it’s powerful enough to pick up frequencies from here. From what I see with Beck, there are two possibilities. One, he’s from another planet and has the power to read minds, contact the dead and remote view based on contact with objects. Two, he cheats using technology and accomplices. For the purposes of this experiment, we’re going with two. All the tickets in this show are locked to specific identities. He will have researched a number of people with colourful situations. Illness, recent bereavement, other ongoing issues. He’ll have a theatrical way of picking them out of the audience and, probably via a wireless earpiece, one of his most trusted researchers will be feeding him details about whoever gets singled out. During the show, I’ll search all the local radio channels using Mr Motorola here, and I should latch on to the sweet sound of Beck’s accomplice. We can match the information with your detail from the show later.’
‘And you’re recording all this?’
Jensen lifted another device from the footwell. ‘Tascam DR-05. Once I’m happy we’re on the right frequency, this will mop it up in high-quality stereo. I’ll text you when I get something and we can work it out later. Question, though. Why? What are you going to do with all of this?’
Sawyer opened the van door. ‘Expose a fraud. Score a victory for science over bullshit. Get this idiot out of the picture so we can focus on the police work.’ He turned to Jensen. ‘And there’s a woman.’
Jensen lit up the van’s interior with another toothy grin.
Beck devoted the first half hour of the show to a tiresome, TED talk-style confessional about his parents’ struggles in 1980s Romania. Despite the mawkish content, Sawyer couldn’t help being impressed by Beck’s stage presence. All in black with white tie, he stalked the vast art deco stage like an underfed panther: jabbing both hands into the air to labour a point, stopping and bowing his head in silence for a few seconds before spinning on his Chelsea boot heel, pacing and retracing. A stage spanning backdrop showed a series of still images, synchronised with the talk: a young Beck with his parents, the Ceausescus addressing a crowd at the Palace of the Parliament, Ceausescu in the UK with Queen Elizabeth II, unrest on the streets of Bucharest.
The screen dimmed and the house lights cut out. A spotlight picked Beck out centre stage. ‘But enough about me!’ Murmurs of laughter. ‘Now, I would like to hear about you. I have a question, for each and every one of you here tonight. What do you fear? Deep down, as you try to drift off to sleep each night, what is the one thing that reaches out, reaches up from inside of yourself, and holds you in place? Awake. Afraid.’ An ominous, sustained string note built over the theatre’s sound system. ‘This fear takes many forms but its theme is always the same: death. The fear of not being here, not being anywhere. The fear that when you stop breathing, there is nothing.’ He paused. The house lights faded up a little. ‘But I stand here tonight with amazing news, ladies and gentlemen. You do not need to be afraid. There is more life beyond this. Another world. It is possible. I have spoken of my mother, Bianca, who was persecuted and driven from her homeland. My mother passed many years ago, but in a sense, she stands here on the stage with me. I believe that she left me with an immense gift. A privilege. A channel from our world to this world beyond, where our loved ones reside.’ The stage was now visible again, and the spotlight shifted to the darkened audience, randomly flashing from seat to seat. It settled on a startled elderly woman.
Beck raised a hand out from the stage, palm up. ‘Please. Lynette. Lynette Hampton. Please, my darling. Stand now.’
The rest of the show ploughed a familiar furrow. Beck used the spotlight to single out an audience member whose image was displayed on the backdrop screen. He drew gasps by revealing a specific detail that he either cold-read from their responses or clearly knew in advance. Eventually, he informed his mark that someone who had ‘passed’ was ‘coming through’ and offered them reassurance on another specific matter, usually mentioning a name: to more gasps.
After the second encounter, Sawyer’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He dimmed the screen and read the message from Jensen.
Got him! Great signal. Must be an earpiece. Can you meet him? Try and see it? :)
After the show, Sawyer showed his warrant card to the theatre security and navigated a backstage warren of corridors to Beck’s dressing room. He knocked, and a sleek young blonde woman opened the door. She was taller than Sawyer, in vertiginous high heels.
She scowled at him. ‘Who are you?’ Slavic accent. Heavy but impeccable make-up. Russian look.
‘I was hoping to speak to Mr Beck?’ He flashed his card. ‘We met earlier today. He’s helping us with an investigation.’
She brightened and shook his hand. ‘Darya.’ Sawyer looked over her shoulder into the room. She squeezed out into the corridor and closed the door behind her. ‘I am Viktor’s partner. You saw the show, yes? He is so good.’
‘He certainly is. I’d like to speak with him, if that’s possible?’
‘He has gone to the theatre bar. Viktor likes to talk with the public after a show. It is his… human touch.’
Sawyer indulged in a dimpled smile. ‘Thanks. I’ll catch him there.’
He turned and retraced his steps, back to the auditorium. At the end of the corridor, he looked over his shoulder. Darya was making a phone call, stern faced. She spotted Sawyer and forced a smile and wave.
At the bar, Beck was holding court before a cluster of audience members, shielded by an immense bodyguard in a fitted black T-shirt. He waved the fans closer, one by one, and they shuffled forward, shook Beck’s hand, and hovered as he signed their programme or ticket stub. The bodyguard patted them on the shoulder, and they stepped aside to make way for the next disciple.
Sawyer stepped around to the front of the group. Beck’s bodyguard shifted to the side, blocking his way. Up close, he was at least a foot taller than Sawyer: bald, with a black beard trimmed so neatly it looked painted on. He bowed his head, keeping his calm, amused eyes on Sawyer. His T-shirt blared out three large, stacked words, printed in bright white: JUST BRING IT.
Beck rested a hand on the bodyguard’s stocky shoulder. ‘No problem, Stefan. Mr Sawyer! Did you enjoy the show?’
Stefan looked doubtful, but pivoted away from Sawyer and jerked his head towards Beck.
Sawyer stepped in, close to Beck, and held him in a lingering handshake. ‘Very impressive, Mr Beck. You have a fascinating backstory.’
Beck prickled. ‘This is not a fiction, Mr Sawyer.’
‘Of course not. But it all helps with empathy, yes?’ He released Beck’s hand.
Beck glanced at Stefan, nodded. Darya appeared and kissed Beck on the cheek, snuggling in close. ‘I am pleased with the show. It is a blueprint. Hopefully for a tour to come. Now, if you would excuse me, Mr Sawyer, I have many people here who wish to talk to me.’
Stefan placed a heavy hand on Sawyer’s shoulder, trying to shift him along. He didn’t turn.
‘Mr Beck, before I go, can you do me a quick favour?’
‘Favour?’
Sawyer leaned in, close to Beck’s ear. ‘Can you ask Stefan to move his hand before I charge him with assaulting a police officer?’
Beck nodded at Stefan; he complied.
‘Look, I’m sorry to interrupt the festivities, Mr Beck, but I was just wondering how things were going with Luka Strickland’s glasses.’
Beck shook his head. ‘I will be working with Ms Gregory tomorrow. With this show
coming up, my emotional state was not correct for remote viewing. It is highly demanding. But now, I can devote all of my psychic energy towards finding the boy. I hope you do not think I am favouring this kind of attention over such an important duty? We all have to make an honest living, no?’
Darya fawned over Beck, preening the shoulder of his jacket. It looked rehearsed, affected. ‘Judging by your car, Mr Beck, you’re making a pretty good living.’
Beck grinned. ‘Nothing wrong with that, no?’
‘Of course not.’ Sawyer moved off, towards the toilets. ‘“Honest”, though. That’s quite a subjective term. No?’
Sawyer locked himself into a cubicle and slipped Beck’s wallet out of his inside pocket. He took out a photo: Darya in elaborate lingerie and heels, lying on an enormous bed, head tipped back over the edge of the mattress, legs spread high and wide. He opened out the wallet’s main section. Four £10 notes, Costa Coffee loyalty card, business card for a Mercedes-Benz dealership in Kensington, and a grip seal cellophane bag containing what looked like a flesh-coloured earplug with a short transparent wire sticking out of the centre.
Sawyer took a phone picture of the earpiece and sent the image to Jensen. He replaced the bag, slotted the wallet back into his inside pocket and walked back out to the bar.
Shepherd was there, scanning the crowd. He saw Sawyer and headed over. He looked flushed and his beard glistened with sweat, but there was a childish excitement in his eyes.
‘Sir. We’ve got something. Tracey Manning. Paul’s sister.’
Sawyer held up a hand. ‘In a second. Nearly done here.’
He pushed his way through the drinkers. Stefan spotted him and walked towards the knot of Beck’s fans with his huge arms held high, shooing them towards a table of merchandise.
‘Mr Sawyer!’ Beck called over.
Darya stepped off to the side. Stefan turned to face Sawyer, blocking his path to Beck again.
Beck approached. ‘I have a question for you. Where did you learn?’
Sawyer stopped. Eyes on Beck. Stefan clear in his peripheral vision. ‘Learn?’
‘To pick pockets. It was an excellent lift. Not completely clean, but decent for a layman.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Apollo Robbins. He’s the best. I studied his videos and interviews. Read a few books on the basics when I was a teenager.’
‘I don’t know him. I’ll look him up. Still, an unconventional skill for a policeman.’
Stefan took a step towards Sawyer.
‘Good to be able to think like a poacher when you’re a gamekeeper.’
Beck held out his hand. Sawyer lifted the wallet out of his pocket and leaned forward to hand it over. The angle left him with his back to Stefan for a second.
Beck took the wallet and turned away. As Sawyer leaned back and stood upright, he saw Stefan move for him.
Shepherd stepped between them and gripped Stefan’s arm. ‘Easy, big fella.’ Shepherd had decent bulk, but Stefan was taller, broader shouldered and had good hand speed for a big man. He yanked away from Shepherd’s grip and swatted him to the side.
Shepherd tumbled to the floor, almost bowling over a group of fans with his momentum. He rolled to the side and struggled to correct himself.
Stefan moved in on Sawyer.
Sawyer faked a kick to Stefan’s knee and drew his attention. He didn’t fall for it, but the momentary twitch of distraction gave Sawyer the tempo advantage.
Stefan drew back his arm, telegraphing his punch. Sawyer stepped into him and deflected the blow with a palm-down lap sau forearm block while simultaneously driving a jabbing biu jee finger strike into his prominent Adam’s apple. As Stefan staggered, Sawyer drove his palm into his chin, pushing his head back. He shifted behind Stefan and held him in a choke hold, pulling his upper body down and resting his back against his knee. Stefan panicked and flailed his arms, but the strike had sucked the air out of him, and Sawyer’s chokehold made it impossible for him to regain his balance and counterattack.
Stefan wheezed and waved an arm in submission. Sawyer kept him tight in the chokehold.
The crowd scattered. Beck crouched down. ‘Please! Mr Sawyer.’
Shepherd was up now. He stumbled over and flashed his warrant card. ‘Police!’
Sawyer lowered Stefan to the ground, stood upright, and shunted round to his front, alert to any reprisal. Beck tried to help Stefan to his feet, but he flapped him away, wide eyed and wheezing.
Sawyer held up his warrant card to the crowd and spoke to Shepherd, beside him. ‘You okay?’
No answer.
Sawyer turned. Shepherd had crumpled to his knees, steadying himself with a hand on the floor. His face was lashed with sweat and beetroot red, eyes closed, trembling, breathing fast and shallow, as he had done at Georgina’s crime scene.
Sawyer squatted down next to him. ‘Slow breaths, Ed. Deep and slow. We’re good. We’re safe.’
Shepherd opened his eyes and nodded at Sawyer. ‘Sorry.’
‘Forget that. Focus on the breathing.’ Sawyer’s phone buzzed in his pocket. And again. Phone call. ‘Hold in those breaths. Hold them in, then let them out again.’
Shepherd clawed at Sawyer’s arm. ‘Scary, sir. Fucking scary! Sorry. Feels like I’m dying.’
The crowd had pushed against the wall, clutching their beer bottles and wine glasses, looking on with appalled wonder. It occurred to Sawyer that some might think this was part of Beck’s show.
‘You’re not dying, Ed. It’s panic. Confusion. Keep up with the breaths. It’s passing.’
Phone still ringing.
‘Do you need a drink, mate?’ A hand came in from the side. Sawyer took the water bottle, nodded thanks, and gave it to Shepherd.
‘Small sips. Keep hydrated. Keep breathing.’
More voices.
‘Do you need an ambulance?’
‘Hello! I’m a nurse. Can I help?’
Shepherd waved at them as he spluttered through the water. ‘I’m fine. Really. No ambulance. Just… I’ve had a bit of food poisoning. Should have rested.’ He hauled himself to his feet. His breathing was slowing.
Sawyer took out the phone and connected the call. It was Jensen. He was laughing.
‘You absolute beast, Sawyer. Did you lift that? It’s a classic inductive coil earpiece. He’s picking up information from someone backstage. Woman.’
‘Russian sounding?’
‘No. Couldn’t hear an accent. Sounded English to me. They’ll be using research and linking the marks to seat numbers, as we said. I’ve got plenty on the Tascam. Christ al-fucking-mighty. There’s a book in this. Easy.’
Sawyer turned. Beck, Darya and Stefan scuttled down the corridor that led backstage. ‘I found it in his wallet. He caught me. He’ll know I’ve seen it.’
Jensen snorted. ‘Oh, fuck. Well. Let him sweat. Listen, will you be much longer? I’ve been summoned. If you know what I mean.’
‘Richard, thanks. I’ll catch up with you. Keep everything secure.’ He rang off and turned back to Shepherd. ‘How are you doing? Is it settling?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘He just winded me. It’s nothing.’
‘Shepherd, that’s the most acute case of “nothing” I’ve ever seen. Tell me about Tracey Manning.’
Shepherd caught his breath. ‘She lives in Sheffield. Not far. Hillfoot. She wants to talk. Now. Says it’s about Paul.’
53
Tracey Manning set down two mugs on the coffee table. She added a plate of biscuits: assorted, fanned out. Sawyer reached over from the sofa and took the only Bourbon before Shepherd could get to it.
She sat in the facing armchair and poured herself a generous glass of red wine. Tracey was a short, girlish fortysomething with long, expensively cut blonde hair. Loose pink T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms. She waggled the bottle. ‘Sure you won’t have a real drink?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘It’s not the seventies any more. Caffeine is as strong as we can go, these days.’
‘Shame.’
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Sawyer dunked his biscuit. ‘You been out running?’
‘Home gym on the top floor. Treadmill, rower, weights. I always work out before I write. Gets my brain on stand-by.’
‘You’re a journalist?’ said Shepherd.
Tracey shook out her hair and tied it into a ponytail. ‘Magazines.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Sorry it’s so late.’
A muscular black and white cat stalked into the room and leapt onto Tracey’s knee. ‘It’s fine. Had to be now, really. I’m going away tomorrow. Tenerife. It’s early morning for me, anyway. I’m on a self-imposed night shift. I work mostly for the women’s titles. Travel, music, lifestyle stuff. This trip is a rare freebie. Interview and photo shoot with Cate Blanchett for You Mag.’
Shepherd and Sawyer exchanged blank glances.
Tracey smiled. ‘It’s okay. Not your demographic.’
‘Nice house,’ said Sawyer. ‘You married? Partner?’
She took a sip of wine. ‘Separated last year. No kids. I didn’t want them. He did. I thought that might change. It didn’t. He was happy for me to have the house.’ She scoffed. ‘I think he was just glad to be rid of me. He owns a chain of boutique hotels.’
Sawyer studied his coffee mug. Mr Men branded; violet with orange handle. ‘Little Miss Trouble.’ ‘So what’s so urgent, Tracey? Thank you for agreeing to talk to us. It’s been an awful time for your family. We’re looking for connections. We believe we might be looking for someone who has a problem with Paul or Jayne.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Shepherd said. I’ve read all the coverage. I lost touch with Paul when we moved up here about ten years ago. I last saw him a few Christmases back. Toby was just a kid, then. He had a NERF gun battle with my husband. They talked about golf. I thought Steve might enjoy some kind of distant uncle role with Toby. Fend off his paternal instincts. But then he got busy with the business.’ She clammed up, took another drink.
