by Andrew Lowe
Myers, a hefty detective with rolled-up sleeves and a tall, shiny quiff, raised a hand and waggled his pen. ‘Was she local?’
‘Miller’s Dale,’ said Sawyer. ‘Maggie and the FLOs are with the husband. Says he was about to call her in missing when they turned up.’
He turned to the whiteboard. Susan Bishop was still there, smiling at him, suspended in time, brimming with the composure of a natural performer. Gleaming teeth, salon-fresh hair: inky black, crimped at the edges. He saw it plastered into the grooves at her neck. He saw her skin: bloodless, blanched.
He saw Jessica Mary Sawyer, beaming from the garden gate in his wallet Polaroid. Christmas morning, 1987. Black hair, fanned around her neck by the winter wind. Eyes shining with love and pain, freighted with secrets.
‘Why?’
His heart lurched. Susan Bishop had been given sixty-one years. His mother only thirty-four.
‘DI Sawyer?’
Keating’s voice, swimming up from somewhere. He turned back to the group. Side-glances. Shepherd and Walker implored him with raised eyebrows.
‘That’s… what we need to find out,’ said Sawyer.
A silence. Murmurs. Sawyer was struck by a queasy possibility: he had become absent for a few seconds. Drifted off. Answered an imaginary question.
‘Find out?’ said Keating.
Shepherd moved in front of Sawyer. ‘The body is with pathology, but we believe that Susan was stabbed. Once.’
‘Once?’ A new voice, from a scrawny detective in wire-frame glasses in the group near the back.
‘Yes, DC Moran. Once.’ Sawyer stepped to the side, into Shepherd’s place, regaining ground. ‘Prelim from Drummond shows marks around wrists and ankles.’
‘She was cuffed,’ said Walker.
A beat. Sawyer continued. ‘Wound on forehead from blunt instrument. He knocked her out, restrained her, delivered the stab wound and waited for her to die. Then he wrapped her up, packed her into a vehicle and dumped the body at Fairholmes.’
‘He?’ said Shepherd.
Sawyer sighed. ‘Women don’t stab.’
‘Apart from Joanna Dennehy.’
‘The exception that proves the rule.’
‘Passive data? said Moran.
Sawyer shook his head. ‘No cameras or ANPR on the Snake Road or the path into the Visitor Centre. Speed camera near the reservoir bridge but I assume he wasn’t joyriding. Questions. Where was she killed? Wherever it was, why not leave her there? Myers, find out what you can about the route from the murder scene to Fairholmes. Check phone mast data. And why was she killed? Moran, take victimology. Tell me everything about her and find me a good reason. Old showbiz connections, possible grudges. DC Walker, work with Sally on the holdall and plastic sheeting. I want to know where and when the holdall was bought. I’ll talk to the husband in the morning. From here in, DS Shepherd is your case manager. I’m SIO. He’ll coordinate briefings and keep me up to date. Everything into HOLMES, please. And Stephen? Details out of the press for as long as you can.’
Stephen Bloom, the tall, Nordic-looking media manager stood up to speak. As ever, Bloom’s tailoring was more suited to a corporate conference than a provincial police station. He wore a royal blue waistcoat, sky blue shirt, grey tie. ‘Fairholmes have already had ITN on the phone, sir.’
‘They won’t know anything,’ said Walker. ‘The guy who found the body didn’t open the bag. He just called it in as, uh—’
‘Suspicious package?’ said Moran.
‘Keep it dark,’ said Sawyer. ‘We might get something significant from Drummond’s findings. And, technically, we’re already questioning a suspect.’
‘The husband,’ said Walker.
Sawyer nodded and headed back into his office. He was about to close the door behind him when he realised Walker was on his tail. He beckoned him inside.
‘Sir. Would it be possible for someone else to look into the holdall? As first officer attending, I’d like to work on victimology if possible.’
Sawyer took a red boiled sweet out of a bowl on his desk. He unwrapped it and squeezed it into his mouth. ‘It’s possible.’ He whipped his jacket around his shoulders and shrugged it on. ‘But that’s DS Shepherd’s call now.’
5
The lift clunked into place on the basement level of Sheffield’s Northern General Teaching Hospital. It took a few seconds for the mechanism to oblige, and the doors squealed and parted, as if prised by invisible hands. Sawyer turned side-on and slid out into the corridor before they were fully open.
As usual, the place smelled like an old car park: chalk and cement, a tingle of ammonia. But there was comfort in the lack of front, the disregard for subtlety.
As he turned the corner by chemical storage, he saw a vast figure ducking into the office adjoining the mortuary. Frazer Drummond turned and caught Sawyer’s eye as he approached, but then entered the room and closed the door behind him. Sawyer picked up his pace and followed him inside.
‘I’m impressed with your new welcoming approach, Frazer. Hearts and minds, eh?’
Drummond dropped into his desk chair and yanked a handful of tissues from a box. He blew his nose. ‘I’ve got a fucking cold coming on, Sawyer. I could have done without a weekend bat signal from Keating. So pardon me for not cupping your balls.’
The voice—sonorous, Glaswegian—rattled the windows of the box-room office. He peered up at Sawyer over the top of his semi-rimless glasses. ‘Interesting new look. Going undercover or just breakdown chic?’
Sawyer looked around the room. The walls remained bare, but Drummond had gathered a collage of family photographs on a corkboard by his desk. Signs of life. ‘Crawley is in Manchester. Says he’s insane.’
Drummond scoffed. ‘He’s as sane as you and me.’ Sawyer caught his eye. ‘Well. Me, at least.’ A silence lingered. Drummond sat back. ‘You’re not seriously seeking professional validation from the man whose wife you tried to steal.’
‘That’s not what happened. And even if it were true, it didn’t work, did it? You won. Might be time to move on.’
Drummond sprang to his feet and lifted a folder out of his filing cabinet. He flapped it onto the desk and sat back down. Sawyer ignored it and gazed through the windowed side door into the autopsy room.
‘I hear she was an entertainer,’ said Drummond. ‘Bringing a bit of light into a dark world.’
Sawyer turned and sat on the edge of the desk. Drummond bristled. He only kept one chair in the office, but hated his desk being used as a rest spot. ‘TV. Minor roles. Early retirement a few years ago. Husband runs a talent agency.’
Drummond sat back. ‘There’s no business like it, apparently.’ He opened the file. ‘Uniform bruising around the lips. He put gaffer tape over her mouth. To keep her quiet.’
‘Why take it off?’
Drummond shook his head. ‘Something that had done its job? Something he didn’t need to leave behind. He probably forced her to strip at knifepoint, cuffed her…’
‘Tell me about the wound.’
Drummond nodded and zoned out a little. ‘Closing it up. That’s a new one. Looks like he might have used a soldering iron.’
‘Cauterised? It looked like a fresh burn.’
‘Yep. Old Hippocrates was doing that way back in the fifth century BC. Heats up the tissue and blood, causing it to coagulate.’ He fixed Sawyer with a patrician stare. ‘Protein denaturation. But you knew that, right?’
‘Of course. And no worries about infection from the burns.’
Drummond smiled. ‘Very good! Dead people don’t suffer from infections, though.’
‘Everything intact, internally?’
‘Nothing removed, no. Just the stab.’
‘Any way to tell the weapon from the wound?’
‘It’s hard to even tell the depth. And the cauterisation means it’s impossible to tell the shape of the blade. So, he knocks her out, positions the knife tip where he wants it.’ Drummond held up his left hand, fingers clo
sed. He held his right-hand index finger over the gap between two left-hand fingers. ‘He drives the blade in…’ Drummond slotted his right-hand finger between the left-hand fingers, then reversed the motion. ‘He pulls it straight back out. And his aim was true. She would have been shocked awake by the stab, and then, as her heart wouldn’t have been able to pump enough blood to her brain, she would have lost consciousness again within seconds. Brain death in minutes.’
Sawyer hitched off the desk and walked to the windowed door. Gurney: surface recessed, like a shallow bathtub. Body drawers, stacked three high. All-seeing spot lighting. Stainless steel, and not a stain in sight. Not a molecule out of place. ‘Anything else?’
Drummond took a pen out of a holder and scribbled something into the file. ‘Heavy bleed into the chest cavity. To be expected. Grim Reaper ETA was less than two hours before she was dumped. Do you know what it takes to kill someone like this, Sawyer? Apart from really, really wanting to do it?’
Sawyer turned. ‘Precision.’
Drummond jammed the pen back into its holder. ‘Precisely. It has something of the abattoir about it, don’t you think? Efficient. Cold.’
‘But also specific.’
‘Well, yes. If you were just out to end someone, there are equally effective methods that aren’t quite so—’
‘Ritualised?’
Drummond angled his head. ‘That’s a reach.’
‘So why, then? Why do it that way?’
‘Out of my jurisdiction, Sawyer. I do the how. The why is your department.’
Sawyer picked up the file. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re holding something back?’
Drummond smiled. ‘Because I am?’
Sawyer frowned and flicked through the file.
‘I’m disappointed you didn’t spot the old scar when you looked over the body.’
Sawyer worked through the pages: read, swish; read, swish. ‘Cardiomyopathy?’
‘Bingo! Our fair Susan had ticker troubles. She had a transplant last year. Looks like the new heart was working well. Until someone stuck a knife through it.’
6
Amy Scott eased her ageing purple Corsa into a rare space a few doors down from her house in Crosspool, a bland suburb of Sheffield. She stepped out of the car and flattened down her nurse’s uniform. On the short walk up the steps, she stole a look at the sky. The light was fading earlier in the day now; autumn turning in for the winter slumber.
She let herself in, closed the front door, and called out. ‘Myra?’
A young woman—spindly thin with long, parted red hair—stepped out of the sitting room and pulled on a cheap-looking leather jacket. She flicked her hair over the collar and flashed a pained look at Amy.
‘I’m so sorry. It’s been a crazy day. Emergencies. And—’
‘It’s okay.’ Myra’s voice was tiny, constricted. She gathered her things, not bothering to soften her irritation. ‘Wish you’d called.’
‘I know. There wasn’t time.’
Another look. Doubtful. ‘Ava has been fine. Gave her tea, read a few stories.’
‘She likes Dr Seuss.’
Myra nodded, without smiling. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m really late.’ She pushed past and hurried out of the front door.
‘Here. Take something extra.’
Myra paused on the step. Amy turned to the empty hall table. ‘Oh! I must have left my bag in the car. Wait here. I’ll get you—’
‘It’s okay.’ Myra scurried down the steps and headed off along the narrow street, towards the main road and bus stop.
Amy bounded up the stairs, two at a time. There was still a chance that Ava would be only half asleep and she might get in a few last-minute cuddles before retiring with her lasagne and Netflix.
She eased the bedroom door open a few inches and poked her head into the darkened room. ‘Ava? Sweetheart?’
She slipped inside and closed the door.
Her eight-year-old daughter lay on her side, beneath a crumpled fuchsia duvet, using her battered old plush unicorn as a comfort pillow. Amy straightened the bedclothes and stood there for a while, basking in the sound of Ava’s slumber: her whispered breaths, regular and clear. She leaned in and pressed a light kiss to her forehead, then tiptoed out to the landing.
Back downstairs, Amy gazed into the wall mirror and saw a weary, winded character in a blue-and-white uniform. She winced at the dark smears beneath her eyes, the limp hair: unstyled and borderline mousey. She was a bright soul: kind, empathic, and, according to her friend Lisa, “a catch”. But lately, the job was washing out her colour, leaving her drained and desolate. During a recent video chat with a potential Match date, she had made the mistake of asking the man to guess her age (thirty-four). He had studied her image and announced, with confidence, that she was ‘somewhere in the early forties.’
She latched the front door and dashed down the steps to the Corsa.
The handbag sat in full view on the passenger seat. She rolled her eyes and unlocked the driver’s door.
As she leaned in to retrieve the bag, something caught her eye. One of the windscreen wipers had been lifted and an item placed underneath. She took the bag, locked the car and moved around to the windscreen.
Pinned beneath the wiper: a single red rose with a small card in a plastic wallet taped to the stem.
Amy lifted away the flower. She stripped off the wallet and took out the card.
On one side, in smudgy lettering, the sender had used an old-school typewriter to mark out a single sentence.
A reminder of our arrangement.
7
Sawyer leaned on the wooden bench and stared out at the sweep of yellowing fields and balding trees. He had dug the Mini into a lay-by off Bradshaw Lane and finished the last ten minutes of the journey on foot. The dusk was settling and the Barrel Inn car park was only half full, but the car’s distance gave him a psychological buffer; it allowed him to step out of his detective role and slip into the shoes of Lloyd Robbins, investigative journalist. It was an uneasy masquerade, but necessary. For now. Until all was well.
He squinted and tracked a white van as it slid along a farm track towards Wardlow, his home village, but then turned left, away from his old house and his mother’s old school; towards the lane and the end of his old world.
Sawyer had over four hundred years on the Barrel Inn, but it caught the top of his head as he ducked inside, scraping the albino patch at the back of his scalp. The place engulfed him like an embrace: oak-beamed bar, nail-studded doors, flagstone floor, a maw of a log fire. Marcus Klein had found a spot in a dark corner, near the entrance to the restaurant. His rectangular glasses were unchanged, but he had taken to wearing a tweed cap over his salt-and-pepper hair, had grown a neat beard, and was leaning so far over the top of his jug of bitter, Sawyer thought he might be asleep.
Sawyer slid into the seat opposite Klein. Just inside the restaurant entrance, a group of three men—chunky farm types—raised a rowdy toast. Two of them were perched on chairs, but the biggest of the three had taken a bench for himself. He downed his drink and sat back, manspreading over the width of the seat. Sawyer caught his eye for an awkward second.
‘Mr Robbins.’ Klein raised off his chair and held out his hand. Sawyer gripped it. Lean, bony. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again. How are you? How is the book?’
Sawyer wriggled out of his jacket and draped it over the chair. ‘Fine. I’ve been busy with research for a few weeks.’
Klein took a sip of beer, wiped the froth from his moustache. ‘Do you have an editor? A deadline?’ His voice wavered; not far from a whisper.
Sawyer nodded and glanced over at the big man, who was laughing about something with his two colleagues. ‘Both. My editor is a big help. The deadline, not so much. I need to deliver it early next year.’
‘Who is publishing?’
‘Small press based in London. Mostly non-fiction. The case is quite old and my agent didn’t have much success with the bigger places.
No need, these days, anyway. The story is evergreen and the marketing will be easy. A strong human interest, too. As well as the murder and attempted murder, there’s also the injustice suffered by yourself.’
Klein sighed. ‘There’s one person I doubt you’ll get a sale from. Harold Sawyer. He tried to block my release. It was fine in the end, though. I transitioned in a Cat D for a few weeks. I’m living at my brother’s place near Castleton now. He’s away a lot so it’s easy.’ He looked wistful for a second, then gathered himself. ‘I got a dog.’
In the restaurant area, the big man bellowed at the waitress. ‘All on me tab. No danger! You won’t get these cheap bastards paying for anything, anyways.’ Bristled head poking from a black polo-neck. Flushed. Already half-cut.
‘Mr Klein, I just wanted to check that you’re up for this? The investigation?’
Klein flinched and the overhead light caught his forehead wrinkles: pronounced, premature. Sawyer had heard that every year in prison puts half a year on you. Klein had only just turned twenty-four when he had been convicted of the murder, thirty years ago. ‘I would like to clear my name, yes. I did not kill Jessica Sawyer. As you know.’
‘I do. And I’ll try my best to keep you on the side lines. But I don’t know what I might uncover once we get going. If the real killer is still out there, then there’s a chance he might be nervous about you being out.’
‘After all this time?’
‘He’s got away with murder for this long. He’ll want to keep it that way.’
Klein took a long drink. ‘Christ, I wish you could still smoke in these places.’ Sawyer eyed him, waiting for an answer. ‘Yes. I’m up for it. No fear. What have you found out?’
Sawyer rose. ‘Let me get a drink and I’ll fill you in.’ As he turned, he had to step around the group of three men as they headed for the bar with their drinks. The big one took a sidestep at the last second and shouldered into Sawyer. Most of his drink sloshed over the rim of his glass and splatted onto the stone floor.
