by Andrew Lowe
‘Fuck’s sake, mate!’ He stepped towards Sawyer, eyes bulging. He was close in height but almost twice Sawyer’s width.
Sawyer looked down at the puddle of beer and lifted his eyes to meet the big man’s. ‘Looks like you need another drink.’
The big man’s companions exchanged a look.
He moved in closer. Beer breath, unbrushed teeth, stale sweat. A few grains of white powder clung to his flaring nostrils. ‘Yeah. Cheers. Pint of Grolsch.’
Sawyer smiled and moved around him. The barman raised his eyebrows. ‘Just a lemonade, please.’
The barman eyed the big man. ‘Half or pint?’
‘Half. No ice, thanks.’
Sawyer turned his back on the group and looked up and around the room as the barman took up a soda gun and aimed it into a glass. ‘How old is this place, exactly?’
The barman stole a nervy glance over Sawyer’s shoulder. ‘1597. Highest pub in Derbyshire.’
‘Has it changed much?’
The barman placed the full glass on a beermat. ‘Used to have a thatched roof, I think. Tiled now. Two-forty, please.’
‘Hey!’
Sawyer ignored the shout from behind him, and paid, taking his time. The barman caught his eye and Sawyer offered a slight nod, hoping it conveyed reassurance.
He turned, straight into the big man’s leering face. The three had formed a tight cluster, blocking his way back to the table. Sawyer took a sip of his drink. ‘Can I get past, please?’
The big man tapped at his earlobe. ‘You got a hearing problem, pal?’
Sawyer took a breath and closed his eyes, listening to himself. Still nothing. But he saw it all: the Jeet Kune Do solution.
Move first. End it quickly. A swift biu jee strike to the big man’s nose, probably dislodging a clump of unsnorted coke. Drop back, create distance. One of his pals tries a haymaker. Sidestep, gut punch, follow up with an elbow to the back of his neck. Second guy wades in. Drop further back and dodge. Stomp kick to his knee, side on. Break his leg. Longest weapon to nearest target.
He opened his eyes and leaned to the side, peering around the group. Klein had shifted his chair, watching the show.
Sawyer faced the big man. ‘Are we really doing this? The old, “you spilled my pint” routine?’
‘What’s that?’ He nodded at Sawyer’s glass. ‘Shandy? Tough guy eh?’
Laughter from the other two.
The barman spoke up. ‘Shaun. You’ve been barred once before. Leave it.’
Shaun leaned in closer, forehead to forehead with Sawyer. ‘I said, a pint of fucking Grolsch.’
Head-butt. Elbow into one of the other two. The third will probably bottle it.
Sawyer flicked his eyes over Shaun’s shoulder. Klein was transfixed. ‘Okay. My fault.’ He held out a hand. ‘No trouble. Fresh pint of Grolsch for Shaun. On me.’ He pulled out a five-pound note and flicked it onto the bar. ‘Stick the change in the tip jar.’ Shaun accepted the hand. Sawyer shook and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Have a good night.’ He picked up his lemonade and squeezed past, back to Klein. He sat down, with his back to the group, watching Klein’s eyes.
Shaun slurred a parting shot. ‘Too fucking right! Watch where you’re going next time.’
The barman poured Shaun’s drink and the group shuffled to a table near the back of the bar.
Klein puffed out a whistle. ‘Nicely done, Mr Robbins. You should offer yourself to the UN.’
Sawyer smiled and took a deep drink. ‘Arseholes. Forget about them. Let’s talk about what matters. Where were we?’
Klein gathered himself. ‘You were telling me what you’ve found out.’
Sawyer glanced over his shoulder. Shaun and his boys were grinning to each other, relaxed, enjoying the victory. ‘The last time we spoke, you said you remembered the summer before it happened. It was a hot night and you were restless and couldn’t sleep. You heard a noise downstairs. As I said, I think that was someone stealing the hammer that was used to kill Mrs Sawyer. It was either the killer or someone told to steal it by the killer.’
‘I used the hammer to fix a number to my door a few weeks before, and then I didn’t use it again. I didn’t see that it had gone missing.’
‘Yes. I think someone saw you do that and used the hammer in the attack, implicating you.’
Klein took off his glasses, revealing ruptured, bloodshot eyes. He pulled out a handkerchief and pinch-cleaned the lenses. ‘So how are we going to find out who this might have been? Have you spoken to anyone else involved in the case? Family members? Police?’
‘As far as the police are concerned, it’s a closed case. We wouldn’t get any cooperation because it would be embarrassing if we unearthed anything. Best to keep it freelance.’ Sawyer took a slug of his drink. ‘I approached the sons. They were both present at the murder, as you know. I did get one of them to speak to me. Michael.’
Klein sat forward. ‘Anything?’
‘Let me lay it out for you, Mr Klein, as I understand it. Someone sees you with the hammer. They somehow steal it, probably on the night you say you heard the noise. A few weeks later, Jessica and her sons are walking with their dog along the lane near Wardlow. A lane they often use. The killer, wearing a balaclava, ambushes them. He kills the dog, attacks the two boys. Michael is hurt but, as he tells me, he hears Jessica say something to the attacker as he’s killing her. The killer is interrupted by another walker and he has to leave. He dumps your hammer and it’s found later, convicting you.’
‘I like the way you call her “Jessica”. Not “Mrs Sawyer”.’
Sawyer dropped his gaze. ‘Too easy to forget the victims.’
Klein pulled himself closer and replaced his glasses. Fumbling fingers. Unsteady. He smelt of perfumed soap and tobacco. ‘So what did Michael hear Jessica say to the killer?’
Sawyer found Klein’s eyes. ‘He says he heard her say one word: “Why?”’
Klein slumped. ‘How does that help?’
‘A lot. I think she knew him. Most people would say, “Stop!” or, “Don’t!” or, “No!”. But “Why?” implies confusion, outrage, maybe disappointment. Some kind of connection.’
‘Romantic?’
Sawyer sloshed the remaining lemonade around in his glass. ‘When I saw you at the prison a few months ago, you said that Jessica told you she was trying to “change her life”. Get out of something difficult. Was your relationship obvious? You were both teachers at the same school. Would other staff have noticed? Might her husband have suspected something? Was it possible she was involved with someone else who worked there?’
Klein took off his cap. The hair on his head was too long. Silvery, waxed and parted. He propped his elbows on the table and massaged his temples. ‘We thought we were pretty discreet. But, you know. It’s hard to gauge it. You think she knew her killer. Well… She knew me. Didn’t make much difference in the end, but I suppose I’m lucky that didn’t come out in the trial.’ He tipped back his glass and drained the drink. ‘You still think I’m innocent, Mr Robbins?’
Sawyer blinked. ‘Of course.’
‘So what’s the next step?’
‘I have a good police contact who might be able to get me access to the local arrest records from a year or so around the time of Jessica’s death. There may be something that sticks out. I think you were burgled, Mr Klein. There may be a burglar who was active at the time who was involved in taking the hammer. Career burglars in the area who might know something.’
Klein shook his head. ‘It was a long time ago. It sounds like a long shot.’
‘You know how it goes. You miss every shot you don’t take.’
‘Mr Robbins. A question. What if we do find a link to the person who did it? You say the police won’t even be interested in investigating because of the embarrassment.’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Depends what we find. They might have good reason to not want to re-open the investigation. You might get compensation.’
Klein grima
ced and dropped his chin to his chest. ‘I was a good teacher, Mr Robbins. It was an asset that kept me sane, and alive, inside. I don’t want money. I just want a clear name. So I can work again.’
Sawyer sat back. ‘We’ll get you justice. But we have to keep it low profile.’
They talked for another half an hour, mostly around Klein’s prison war stories. Sawyer maintained his persona by reworking old case detail into tales from his days as a ‘local crime reporter’.
Sawyer turned his head at the sounds of an altercation from Shaun’s table. The men were arguing amongst themselves, with Shaun’s the loudest voice, sounding a note of protest and apology.
He smiled and stood up, pulled on his jacket. ‘I have to go. I’ll be in touch if my police friend discovers anything.’
Klein stood, shook Sawyer’s hand. ‘I’m going to stay and read my book by the fire for a while. I’m learning about online teaching. Something I can do anonymously. Probably best we don’t leave together, anyway, eh?’
Sawyer grinned. ‘You’re getting the hang of it already.’ He turned and headed for Shaun’s table.
‘Guys! I always pay my fucking share!’ Shaun was on his feet, pleading with the other two. ‘I’ve never had this before. Honest!’
The two seated men caught Sawyer’s approach. Shaun saw their attention shift and pivoted to face him. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Just hoping I can help,’ said Sawyer. ‘Sounds like you’re having trouble paying.’
Shaun pushed his chair out of the way and took a step towards Sawyer. ‘What the fuck has it got to do with you?’
Sawyer slid Shaun’s tatty black wallet from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table. ‘I think you must have dropped this, tough guy.’
Outside, the fields had been smothered by starless night, and an impish wind swooped around the high ground. Sawyer used the light of his phone to navigate down the lane to the lay-by. He started the Mini and cued up a playlist recently shared by Maggie: The Flaming Lips.
As he crunched onto the A road towards Edale, a burgundy BMW pulled out of the Barrel Inn car park and rumbled its way down the lane, keeping a cautious distance.
8
Ronald Bishop poured himself a whisky and limped over to the sofa. He paused and gazed into the glass. The liquid caught the light from a wall lamp and cast a golden shimmer across his crumpled forehead. Maggie Spark stepped in and guided him down onto the sofa. She took the glass from his trembling hand and transferred it to a side table.
Sawyer sat opposite, beside Shepherd on a second sofa. He had suited up, but Shepherd was dishevelled, in an ill-fitting overcoat with jacket and tie underneath. Ronald hadn’t opened his curtains, and the features of the vast, high-ceilinged room were sunken beneath the low wattage gloom. Cloth-covered piano, stone-cut fireplace, black-and-white portrait photos hung in elaborate frames: a young Ronald and Susan with dogs gathered at their feet; Susan in various costumes and guises; Ronald with clients, mostly TV stars of the eighties.
Maggie strode over to the French windows. ‘Quite a nice morning out there, Ronald. Remember what we said yesterday? We should let the day in.’
‘Just a little.’ Ronald knitted his fingers together and writhed them around, as if washing his hands. He kept his gaze straight ahead, avoiding Shepherd and Sawyer. He was approaching seventy, with a dense mane of oyster-grey hair framing a rugged face set in a permanent squint. His tone was military, dampened by grief. ‘Suzie loved Sundays. When we were younger, it was our running day.’ His eyes flashed up to Sawyer and Shepherd. ‘She had to keep fit, you see. She was forever on diets. Then it became our walking day. That’s how it goes. You slow down, scale back. It all catches up with you in the end.’ He sighed and reached for the whisky.
Maggie parted the curtains halfway. Watery sunshine seeped in. The front garden was modest: tightly mowed with multicoloured fringes and a low hedge bordering the lane into Miller’s Dale village.
‘How did you meet Susan, Mr Bishop?’ said Shepherd.
He winced. ‘Ronald, please.’ His gaze drifted. ‘Twenty-five years ago. I was looking after her first husband. Magician. It was the end of the working relationship, and they’d ran their course. I later found out he was… physical with her. He died many years ago. Cancer, I think.’
Maggie walked over and lowered herself into an armchair. She had grown out her rust-red hair a little since Sawyer had last seen her, and pinned it back into a stubby ponytail. She caught him watching her and narrowed her eyes.
Sawyer sat forward. ‘Your agency. Everything amicable there? Any clients or ex-clients who might have issues with you or Susan?’
Ronald shook his head. ‘Not that I can think of. Suzie took on more of the admin. I kept up with the “warm” work. Meetings, casting directors, ego massages, what have you. A lot of the younger performers bypass agencies, these days. Bloody technology lets them manage themselves. We mostly have the old hands on our books.’
‘Can you take us through your activities yesterday evening?’ said Shepherd. Ronald glared at him. ‘We need to account for everyone and everything. You understand.’
He took a sip of whisky. ‘In the afternoon, I was working in the office. Suzie had been home most of the day. Gardening, reading. She made us an early dinner. Salmon. I left just before seven to drive to a friend’s house in Chapel, where we played bridge. I came back around midnight, very tired. Suzie’s door was closed and I assumed she’d gone to bed. I went to my room, didn’t sleep well. I took her some tea early in the morning and was shocked to see she wasn’t there. Her bed hadn’t been slept in, and her purse was still in the drawer. As far as I know, she wasn’t planning to go out anywhere. Is there evidence? Of intruders?’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘Not that we can see. Was your bridge evening a regular event?’
‘Yes. Every Saturday.’
Sawyer looked up and ran his eyes around the patterns of the interlocking oak beams. ‘Mr Bishop, did you and your wife enjoy a transparent relationship?’
Ronald looked at Maggie, then Shepherd, then back to Sawyer. ‘What does that mean?’
Sawyer trained his gaze on Ronald. ‘Romantically. Is there a possibility that your wife was seeing someone else?’
‘Certainly not. I was devoted to Suzie, and the feeling was mutual.’
Sawyer could feel Maggie’s eyes on him. ‘I’m not making any moral judgement. I just have to explore every possibility, palatable or not.’
Ronald tilted his head back. ‘Consider that possibility fully explored, Detective.’
Shepherd pointed at one of the portrait images of Susan Bishop. ‘Can you tell us what happened with your wife’s heart transplant, Ronald?’
‘She developed cardiomyopathy after the birth of our daughter. She was in her forties and it was difficult. Unplanned. She managed the condition for a long time, but, as I say, things catch up with you. It became worse last year and the transplant became necessary. She had the operation at Wythenshawe Hospital in Manchester.’ Ronald took a drink. He screwed his eyes shut, weathering something. When he opened them again, they were filled with tears. ‘Why would someone do this to my Suzie? What… what happened to her?’
Maggie reached forward and squeezed Ronald’s hand. ‘We’re still working that out.’
‘She was stabbed.’ Sawyer brushed down his orange tie and looked at Maggie.
Ronald gasped and reeled back. ‘Stabbed? Why? Did she suffer?’
Maggie glared at Sawyer. He peeled his eyes away and focused on Ronald. ‘I don’t believe so. I would tell you if I thought otherwise.’
Ronald rubbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I’m sure you would.’
Sawyer strode through the Bishops’ back garden, ahead of Shepherd and Maggie. He heard Maggie tell Shepherd to wait by the house for a second.
He stopped and turned, denying her the lecture. ‘Get a contact for his bridge buddies. Look into their agency. Cross-ref for anyone with a record or arrests.�
�� He paused. Shepherd took out his notebook. ‘Find some detail on the transplant. Is someone unhappy that she got higher up the list? Maybe because of her minor celebrity?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Disgruntled patient. Or patient relative?’
‘Or maybe it’s symbolic. A jealous lover stabbing her through the heart. Creative. She broke his heart, and so he’s doing the same to her. Get a victimology cell on Susan Bishop’s showbiz history. Anyone who sticks out. Trace and eliminate. And check out the ex-husband.’
Shepherd looked up. ‘He’s dead, sir.’
‘Do it, anyway. Connections. Grudges.’ He glanced at Maggie; she stared him down. ‘We need to know more about their relationship. Can you find out more?’
Maggie folded her arms. ‘Shall I push him on their sex life? Now you’ve “softened him up”?’
Sawyer sighed, held her stare. ‘Okay. I was a bit heavy-handed. But it’s better that he knows now. Then he can start getting used to it. Rather than living in limbo.’
Maggie stepped forward. ‘It’s better that he’s given time to absorb the blow of his wife’s death before he learns of any—’
‘No sign of a break-in. So, Ronald’s out playing bridge. Someone calls, probably not too long after he left. Not too late, or she might not answer the door. It fits what I said in the briefing. He knocks her out, cuffs her, delivers the stab wound, waits for her to die. He wraps her up, gets her into a vehicle, and cleans the scene. Sanitises the body, cauterises the wound, dumps her up at Fairholmes.’
Shepherd frowned. ‘Why would he risk her husband coming back?’
‘Ronald said the bridge night was a weekly event. The killer must have known he’d have time to do his work in the house, then get her out to the car. As you can see, it’s pretty private round the back here. This was planned. She was targeted. We need to find out why and we need to find out who’s doing the targeting, the stabbing, the sanitising. Because whoever it is, is certainly arrogant enough, fearless enough, to do it again. I want Sally here with a full forensic team as soon as possible.’
