by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer tipped back his head and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I want to talk to Walden. He’s our closest connection to Crawley. I’m wondering if he had any favourite spots, networks, bothies. DS Shepherd, come with me.’
He turned, but Shepherd was finishing up a call. He caught Sawyer’s eye; it wasn’t good.
He finished the call and opened the web browser on his computer. ‘That was Eva Gregory. She says that Viktor Beck is making an announcement. Streaming live on his YouTube channel.’
They gathered round Shepherd’s screen. Viktor Beck stood in the middle of a patch of bright green grass with a fringe of pink and yellow flowers; Sawyer recognised it as Eva’s back garden. Eva stood off to the side, with Darya and Stefan.
Beck chopped at the air with his hands, impassioned. ‘My client has been utterly failed by the local police! They do not wish to pursue my vision, despite the veracity of my remote viewing performance in the recent paranormal challenge.’
Moran joined the watchers around Shepherd’s desk. ‘He thinks he’s the fucking President in the Rose Garden.’
Beck pointed at the screen. ‘I tell you now. Luka Strickland. Nine years old. The wonderful son of Ms Eva Gregory.’ He gestured to Eva. ‘Hear me. Luka is still alive.’
‘Jesus,’ said Walker.
Moran nodded. ‘Yeah. President not enough for him.’
Beck held up Luka’s glasses. ‘I have handled Luka Strickland’s spectacles, and I see him scared, but alive, in a place where water is nearby. I see relatively still water, not the ocean. Perhaps a lake or slow-moving river. And it is dark, too. There is darkness. Please. I can give no more precise details, but if you know of a place near you where this could apply, then please check it, search it. I want to make it clear that I have not completely lost my faith in law enforcement. But the police work in one way, and I work in another. Only around thirty years ago, the idea that you could use DNA evidence to implicate a suspect was absurd. Back then, it was a step into the unknown, into unknown science. Now, DNA is a primary weapon in the forensic arsenal. I say to you that my abilities will, I hope, one day be seen in the same way. As science. Now unknown, soon to be known.’
Eva stepped forward and swiped at the sides of her eyes, smudging her mascara. ‘I know that people will laugh. I know that people will laugh at me. But ask yourself this question. If this were your son, wouldn’t you be willing to try everything, try anything, to find him?’
Sawyer drifted away, dazed and fatigued. He sat at an empty desk and called Sally O’Callaghan. It took her a long time to pick up.
‘Jake Sawyer. Nice timing. I was just completing the forensic report on Luka’s glasses. Would no news be good news?’
He slumped. ‘No. That would be bad news.’
‘Nothing on the glasses themselves. Told you so. But…’ She blew something out, crackling the mouthpiece. She was smoking. ‘Particle analysis did find one thing in the linen cloth he wrapped them in. Could be a contamination from before the boy was taken, but it is fresh. The teeniest, weeniest trace of chalcopyrite.’
Sawyer had played this game with Sally before. He turned it back on her by pausing, staying silent.
‘Jake? Are you Googling?’
‘I wouldn’t want to deny you the chance to womansplain.’
She laughed. ‘It’s a fucking mineral. It’s where we get copper from.’
58
Craig Walden’s shop was built into the ground floor of a three-storey mid-terrace in the centre of Castleton. The storefront had been whitewashed and pebbledashed and capped with a lurid yellow and black sign blaring out its name: Frostwork Supplies.
Sawyer and Shepherd both had to duck under the front door frame, turn left past the base of a roped-off staircase, and stoop under a second interior door onto the shop floor.
The equipment was arranged in labelled zones—caving, climbing, walking—each with rotating racks of specialist clothing: oversuits, undersuits, wetsuits, elbow and knee pads. Each zone had a couple of shelves carrying books, maps, novelties.
‘Can I help, gents?’ A man with a shiny bald head and white goatee looked up from the counter. ‘Going up or down?’
‘Is that an existential question?’ said Sawyer, browsing Opening Goliath: Danger and Discovery in Caving.
The man frowned and looked to Shepherd for help. ‘I mean, are you going underground or up the crags?’
He was fifty-odd; short and bland in a grey polo shirt. He stepped out into the shop and took off his half-moon glasses, revealing neatly trimmed eyebrows.
Shepherd held up his warrant card. ‘DS Shepherd. This is DI Sawyer.’
‘Ah! I spoke to Mr Myers. I’m Craig, by the way. Walden.’ He shook their hands. Sawyer flinched at the dampness of his palm. ‘I take it you’re here for business, not pleasure?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Oh, yes. We mean business. Nice place.’
Walden looked around, as if noticing the shop for the first time. ‘It’s built up over the years. I’d like a bit more space, but that’s for the big boys like Cotswold. They can afford the rents. I live here, too. We do most of our business online, of course.’
Sawyer replaced the book. ‘Mr Walden, we’re keen to speak to an old associate of yours.’
‘Dennis? Your colleague said, yes. I told him everything I know.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Tell me.’
He shrugged. ‘Good caver. If you didn’t know him, I suppose you might say he was a bit standoffish. He was always fine with me, though. And I don’t suffer fools.’
Sawyer side-glanced at Shepherd.
‘We took school and college groups up at White Hall. He was good with the technical spiel but not great at knowing when he was going too deep, yes? When he was switching them off with too much detail. We talked about setting up our own thing. That was going to be called Frostwork, too. I wanted it to be based on safety and enjoyment, for individuals and work groups. He was more into the extreme side. Exploration. I didn’t think there was a market for that.’
Shepherd made a note. ‘And you fell out?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. Just… didn’t work out. No point doing that kind of thing unless everyone is on the same page, yes? It’s a shame, because we would have worked well together. I’d have been more client facing, I guess. He could have been the technical brains. I just don’t think it excited him, taking people down steady, pre-surveyed networks. The repetition of it.’ He paused, looked between the two of them. ‘Do you really think he’s got something to do with those murders? And that young boy?’
‘We know he has,’ said Sawyer. ‘I understand it might be difficult to believe. He hasn’t been in touch?’
Walden shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen him in years, no. I’ve met his uncle. He used to cave. Probably knocking on now, though.’
‘Are there any local caving societies he might have joined? Anyone there he might have been in touch with recently?’
Walden laughed, caught himself. ‘Dennis wasn’t really the club type. He never liked the weekenders, the armchair cavers. He was good in a crisis, mind. I remember one trip down Oxlow. Fella took a tumble on a false floor. That’s a remnant of a sheet of flowstone, usually between passage walls. Sometimes it’s just ledges, but this one was a proper floor. Even Dennis didn’t spot it. Anyway. Dennis got him right, pulled him out. Then got him up on his shoulders and hauled him up out of the shaft. Turned out the fella had broken his ankle. I mean, Dennis is a big ’un, but it still struck me, how strong he was.’
Sawyer tried on an orange helmet. ‘Mr Walden, did Dennis have any favourite spots? Cave networks? Somewhere he might feel comfortable? In control? Safe?’
Walden reached up and adjusted the helmet, tightening the strap. Sawyer looked at Shepherd who winced and shook his head.
‘Quite a few,’ said Walden. ‘He liked Winnats Head, Lower Cales, Maskhill. Titan to Peak. He loved Oxlow to Giant’s Hole. That’s where you have to go through a connecting passage they call the Cha
mber of Horrors. It’s a hundred-foot crawl and it’s body size for the entire length. No turning around. It’s cold, because of the constant draught and limited air space. It’s sumped, too. After rain. Almost completely filled with cold water. In some sections, you’d have to crawl through on your back and keep your lips above the water. I’ve known cavers who take snorkels.’
Sawyer unclipped the helmet and hung it back on its rack. ‘Tell me about copper, Craig.’
Walden squinted. ‘Copper?’
‘Yeah. As in the metal. Not the police. Are there any networks where you would find copper? Chalcopyrite?’
Walden pinched at his beard. ‘There’s Alderley. But that’s open and popular. Like Piccadilly bloody Station. The only other place is Ecton Deep Mine. But it’s tightly controlled. Gated and padlocked. You need special permission to get in there, yes? That’s a place Dennis liked. He was forever telling us about trips there. All the entrances are well protected, but we thought he must have found his own way in. Ecton is a fascinating place. Mostly lead mines around here, so it’s unique as a copper mine. They bled it dry in the seventeen hundreds. Built Buxton on the proceeds. It was like a local gold rush.’
Sawyer took a pair of elbow pads off a shelf and squeezed the foam. ‘If you were going there now, if you had permission, where would you get in?’
‘First, I’d tell Derbyshire Cave Rescue that I was going in. Then, I’d pack up my gear and head to Ecton Hill, near the padlocked entrances. There are plenty of bothies where cavers sometimes get their stuff ready, get changed. I’d probably go to the Ratcliffe place near Butterton, though. It’s a funny old house. A folly built by a local politician in the thirties. It’s out of the way. Walkers on the Manifold trail go up there sometimes, but it’s a bit of a diversion.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘I know it. Spent a lot of time around Manifold as a kid. It’s like a weird Gothic castle thing. But badly built. With a turquoise steeple.’
Walden pointed. ‘Yes! That steeple was made out of ore from Ecton mine.’
‘You’ve been an enormous help, Mr Walden,’ said Sawyer. ‘Just one more question. What are you doing now? Could you take us up to the Ratcliffe house, and the mine?’
Walden chuckled, raising crinkles of laughter lines. ‘That’s two questions.’
‘You can let the rescue group know you’re going in. I’ll handle the legals.’
Walden shook his head, incredulous. ‘I’d be happy to take you up there. But like I say, the network itself is locked up. They were surveying last year and there are parts that are unstable. I’ve also seen a report about heavy CO2 deposits. You would need to know what you’re doing. It’s not a place for novice cavers.’
Sawyer pulled out a dimple smile. ‘And would you describe yourself as a novice caver?’
Walden recoiled. ‘I certainly would not! I’ve been caving for thirty-odd years.’
‘Lucky we’ll have you with us, then. Yes?’
59
Sawyer pulled the Mini up to the shopfront and Walden stuffed the boot and back seat with gear: one-piece fleece undersuits; heavy duty nylon oversuits; Petzl helmets (Sawyer bought the orange model); head torches; wellies; backpacks with drinks and energy bars.
He pushed the boot closed, squeezing in the contents, and stood back, surveying the Mini like a doubtful tradesman. ‘Nice little car for zipping round the country roads, but not great for storage.’
‘You should apply for a job at Top Gear dot com,’ said Sawyer.
They climbed in: Walden in the back seat, Sawyer and Shepherd up front.
‘Hope you’re not losing too much business,’ said Shepherd.
Walden shrugged. ‘About to close up. Getting quiet now, anyway. Summer season’s over. We tend to get a new rush once all the schools are safely restarted.’
Sawyer screeched away and weaved into the traffic on the road out of Castleton.
Walden clipped on his seat belt. ‘Jesus Christ. It’s not the bloody Italian Job.’
Sawyer smiled, looked over his shoulder. ‘If we do need to get into Ecton, who’s got the keys to the padlocks?’
‘Chatsworth own the mine, but normal people would need to arrange the visit with the Ecton Trust.’
‘And what do the Derbyshire Cave Rescue people do? Would you need to tell them what we’re planning?’
‘No. But I’m not going anywhere without letting them know where to find me if I don’t check in later. Don’t worry. I know them well. It’ll stay confidential.’
Sawyer clipped his phone into the dashboard mount and opened Google Maps. ‘Ecton Hill, yeah?’
Walden scoffed. ‘Don’t bother with that. Satnav will take you the wrong way. Take the Pass through Sparrowpit then down past Doveholes. I’ll guide you in from there.’
‘How long?’ said Sawyer.
‘Be about forty minutes.’
Sawyer squeezed the accelerator. ‘Half an hour it is.’
He bullied the car along the narrow, serpentine roads of the southwestern Peak, never slowing, keeping his racing line by holding the right side of the road at bends, often blind to oncoming traffic. He clattered through flooded potholes at top speed, and swerved towards wider vehicles, forcing them to jink to the left, at no speed cost to himself.
A blush of early evening sun lit the way through Hartington, but as Sawyer weaved into Hulme End, it was doused by a tantrum of hail. By the time they parked at the foot of Ecton Hill, a vast mothership of smoky black cloud had smothered the sky, and the rain swarmed in, dense and dispiriting.
They got out and ducked under the relative shelter of an overhanging tree. Walden took out his phone and took an age to type something, using only his thumb. He pocketed the phone and stole a nervous squint at the sky. ‘Pretty bad, this. Flood weather. Not the kind I’d normally choose to cave in.’
‘Is “cave” a verb, then?’ said Sawyer.
Walden popped the boot open and pulled out the undersuits. ‘You’re not the language police, too, are you?’
‘No. But… Seems weird. You don’t get climbers “mountaining” up mountains.’
Walden gave him a look. ‘Suit up.’
‘Over normal clothes?’ said Shepherd.
Walden shook his head and wriggled out of his sweater. ‘No. Don’t be shy. Get down to your pants. It might be tight in there. Clothes will restrict movement. And these are waterproof.’ He checked his phone. ‘Right. Message from Pete. Cave Rescue. He knows what I’m up to. I’ve promised I’ll send an all-good in a couple of hours. And I will.’ Sawyer glanced at Shepherd. ‘Don’t worry. He’s solid. We’re like brothers.’
‘Sounds a bit Masonic,’ said Sawyer.
Walden raised an eyebrow and passed over the one-piece fleece undersuits and nylon oversuits. ‘Get ’em off, and get ’em on. There’s a Velcro inside pocket in the oversuits. I’d put your phones in the waterproof bags, but you won’t be getting any service or bloody WiFi in there. We’re not just going into the Earth. We’re travelling back in time. If we can get in, that is. We really should get permission from the Trust for this.’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Better to do it and say sorry than ask and get a “no”.’
They trudged up the steep lane to the folly house, heads bowed before the splattering rain. Shepherd and Walden looked snug and efficient, but Sawyer’s two tone oversuit sagged at the centre and his toes barely touched the tips of the wellies; he felt like a novice astronaut stepping out onto a new planet.
Walden stopped by the rotting wooden gate at the front of the house, set in its own grounds, away from the cottages at the foot of the hill. ‘They call this place lots of things. The Folly. The Castle. The Eyesore.’
Sawyer looked up. It was crass and cartoonish; a spooky castle as conceived by an architect with no taste or sense of proportion. The bottom two storeys had been built as a standard detached building, but then the owner had layered on a third storey with cosmetic overhangs and leaded windows set behind brickwork arches. It was quite a ca
rbuncle: a dash of Gothic, a splash of Tudor, buffed with a sheen of Hammer Horror. The grounds had been scattered with random features: portly plant pots, the turquoise spire, a flagpole, and, most absurd, two winged gargoyles flanking the front gate.
‘Who lives here now?’
‘Not sure. The Ecton Mine Trust stores gear in the outbuildings. It’ll probably get bought up by the National Trust and refurbished. Eventually.’
‘Sir.’ Shepherd waved Sawyer over to the back side of an outbuilding, set behind the main house. A red Ford Fiesta was parked tight up to the building, making it invisible from the lane or the road below. ‘Can’t see anything inside. Locked.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Call in the reg.’
‘Can I help you?’ A voice from the front door. Sawyer looked over the head-height perimeter wall to see a sixtyish man hovering inside the open front door. He was formally dressed but a little out of time: careworn tweed jacket, buttoned up white shirt. Sawyer shifted over to a recessed gap in the wall to get a more direct connection. The man had swept his grey hair down to form a long, crooked fringe. As Sawyer moved, he pouted out of the side of his lip and puffed the hair out of his eyes.
Sawyer held up a hand. ‘Police.’
‘You don’t look like police.’
‘No. We’re looking for someone. I’m DI Sawyer.’ He tore open the inside pocket and held up his warrant card.
