by Andrew Lowe
Shepherd sighed. ‘Moran? Victimology?’
‘I spoke to Ronald Bishop’s bridge buddies. Everything tallies. They were a bit touchy about the questions over Ronald’s relationship with Susan, but they’re adamant that there was nothing going on. Solid as a rock. I also looked into their talent agency. He still does it all by paper. Not too many clients south of sixty. Hardly A-listers. A couple of tax avoidance cases, all wrapped up now. Nothing to suggest any problem with Susan or Ronald. And not a whiff of Yewtree. Surprising, given the demographic.’
‘Local press are all over it,’ said Keating. ‘Stephen is managing the nationals. Let’s keep focused and dead-bat any badgering. Usual reasons. We don’t want the murderer to know what we know.’
‘Hardly worth knowing at the moment, anyway,’ said Moran.
Keating glared at him. ‘I trust that Logan has got his information from the husband and he isn’t enjoying any insider access? Until we decide to actively involve the press, I want all information confidential, on HOLMES, and I do not want to find out that somebody in this room is leaky.’
Walker stood up, taking an attention-drawing trick from Bloom’s book. ‘I’m looking into the heart transplant. Meeting a consultant at the Wythenshawe heart unit later.’
‘Find out what you can about the donor,’ said Sawyer. Keating leaned forward, craning his neck to see where Sawyer was sitting. ‘I’m not seeing much relevance, but it’d be good to get the full picture.’
‘I also called Ronald Bishop.’ Walker awkwardly switched his gaze between Shepherd, Sawyer and Keating. ‘We talked about the organ register and I said I was on it, and that I was in favour of the opt-out system. Seemed to strike a chord. He’s willing to talk to me later.’
Sawyer’s phone buzzed once in his pocket. ‘Nice. You warmed him up. Go easy.’
He looked at the screen. Voicemail.
Sawyer listened to the message as Shepherd wound up the briefing.
‘Detective Sawyer. My name is Dean Logan. I'm the crime correspondent on the Derbyshire Times. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes to talk? I understand you're currently in a meeting, but I'm downstairs at the police station. Happy to wait for five minutes. I think you'll be very interested in what I've got to say, but I would prefer to keep it private.’
Sawyer met Logan in reception and led him into one of the ground floor interview rooms. He was a vast, ogreish man in his late fifties, shovelled into an unflattering grey suit, unimproved by a lopsided statement tie. The handshake, as expected, was damp and flabby, and Sawyer made a mental note to head for the bathroom hand sanitiser once they were done.
Logan sat at the table in the centre of the room and tilted his chin up, fixing the standing Sawyer with a constipated perma-squint. He smiled, for effect.
‘Let’s start with my private number,’ said Sawyer. ‘How did you get it?’
Logan’s eyes found the table top. He shrugged, and held his shoulders high for a few seconds before letting them slump. ‘You know better than that, DI Sawyer. I’m a journalist. I don’t reveal my sources.’
Sawyer sat down. ‘“Journalist” is a lofty term for what you are.’
Logan sighed. ‘And what term would you use?’
‘You’re a hack. You know it, too. Which makes you a pretentious hack.’
‘Now you’re getting high minded. I use journalistic skills to unearth stories that are in the public interest. Just because something is popular, that doesn’t mean it has no worth.’
Sawyer sat back, warming to the debate. ‘I’d say that journalism is a noble calling. Getting to the truth. Sniffing out the bad guys. Exposing them. For the greater good.’
Logan slid a notepad and pen from his inside pocket. ‘For someone who’s spent so much time in the big city, you don’t half sound naive.’
Sawyer smiled. Logan was getting defensive, maybe winding up for a low blow. ‘Do you seriously think you’re reporting the “news”? You’re a muck-spreader. It’s why you fit in so well round here.’
Logan opened his pad. ‘One of my old editors said that “news” is what someone, somewhere doesn’t want you to print. And the rest is just PR. Puff pieces.’ He clicked his pen. ‘I’m a bit more base than that. My philosophy is simple. If it bleeds, it leads.’
‘Or the more literary version. “Happiness writes white.”’
‘Eh?’
‘French writer. De Montherlant. You’d like him. Went blind and shot himself.’ Logan tapped his pen against the table and stared. ‘Why are you here? And it’s not an existential question.’
‘I’ve got a proposal for you.’
Sawyer leaned forward, ready to raise himself off his chair and show Logan out. ‘Talk to Bloom. You won’t get much. He’s already been chewed out for this morning’s front page.’
Logan laughed. ‘You boys really do live in the seventies, don’t you? You probably think Life On Mars was a reality show.’ He shook his head. ‘“Media relations”. An analogue job in a digital age. You still think you can “manage” information? You’re like those fuckers in the dome at the end of The Crystal Maze.’
Sawyer stood up. ‘Do what you need to do. But you won’t get an inside track from me. Now, Mr Logan. I’m busy, trying to deny you another lead.’
Logan looked down at his notepad. ‘It’s not about the Bishop case. Boring. Probably turn out to be a jealous younger lover. She looks like a cougar type to me.’
‘You should retrain. Come and work for us. We could use that kind of insight.’
‘It’s about you.’
Sawyer sat down again. ‘Me?’
Logan nodded, kept his eyes on the pad. ‘I want to do something on you. The Crawley case is a good hook. Tragic past of hero cop. And it’s got a great backstory.’
‘Backstory?’
Logan looked up. ‘Yes. The public loves a bit of the old triumph over adversity. Young boy sees his mother horribly murdered right in front of him. Barely survives the attack himself. His brother suffers a breakdown. But he rises up, becomes a bigshot policeman. Now fights the kind of monsters who robbed him of his mother.’
Sawyer raised his eyebrows, nodded. ‘Plenty of blood, too. An ocean of claret. It would definitely make the front page.’
‘I expect so.’
‘Warm blood. Not the type that runs through your veins.’
Logan sat back in his chair. ‘I would have thought that ad hominem attacks were beneath a man of your reputation.’
‘Why would I even consider this?’
‘Interest. The public’s. But mainly mine. See, I’m wondering why you’ve come back to your old stomping ground around the time of the release of the man convicted for your mother’s death.’
‘Long time ago. Justice has been done.’
Logan studied him. Sawyer’s eyes sparkled, unwavering. ‘He who fights monsters, Detective. I’m sure you know your Nietzsche.’
Sawyer stayed silent, waiting for more.
Logan wrote a number onto the pad. ‘Your father tried to block Marcus Klein’s release. But you didn’t.’ He tore off the paper. ‘You’ve got to admit, that is kind of interesting.’
Sawyer took a deep breath. ‘Like I said, I’m busy and I’m afraid I will have to respectfully decline your request for an interview. Now, unless you have any other information relating to the current case…’
Logan stood up. He pushed the strip of paper with the number across the table towards Sawyer, and tucked his pad and pen back into his pocket. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not making judgements. You’ve given me plenty to write about. The local body count has certainly spiked since you’ve been back.’
Sawyer stood, opened the door.
Logan walked towards it and paused in the frame. He turned to Sawyer and took a step forward. ‘Hacks. Journalists. Whatever you want to call us. We follow our instinct. And my instinct is screaming at me to leave you well alone, DI Sawyer. But I’m the stubborn type. I like trouble. And trouble certainly se
ems to follow you around.’
15
Sam Palmer bundled his kitbag into the boot and looked back at the floodlit training ground. The Astro pitch was pea-green and shimmering under a fine spray of evening rain. A few of the Chesterfield first team had stuck around to work on set pieces, and their coltish shouts filtered through the tall wire fencing.
It had been a good session. The players were sharp and hungry for his insight. His assistant had carried the team through pre-season and managed the first few match days. But he’d struggled (two losses and a draw), and Sam was keen to re-impose his defensive philosophy: sit back, steal the ball in midfield, use width to counter-attack.
Sam drove out of Hasland and aimed for Bamford. His stomach flipped at the thought of the midweek game: his first in charge since his recovery. The team were ready, but was he? Had he come back too quickly? Probably. But it would soon turn around: the football and his health. He was an optimist, and as he told the players, he believed that ‘mistakes are the building blocks of learning’.
He stopped at a temporary light on the Baslow Road. The rain scattered across the windscreen: light but relentless. He set the wipers to a two-second delay and cued up a Roxy Music album. He would call in at the Angler’s Rest for a meal and then head home. He was meant to avoid pubs, or any situation that lent itself to alcohol. But he had a stubborn streak, and felt that if he could cope in trickier settings, then it would make everyday life less of a trial.
The light changed, and he moved off, turning onto a single-lane track at Eastmoor, slotting in between the low stone walls. He entered the National Park to the incongruous strut of ‘Love Is The Drug’.
At the Angler’s Rest, the dining area was busy and noisy, and the waitress seated him at a lousy table on the edge of a central lane of staff, scurrying between the kitchen and bar. But he was hungry and there seemed to be few other options. He took a steadying breath in through his nose and slipped on his glasses to study the menu. It was a challenge. It would all be a challenge from here.
He ordered the beef wellington and called Judy. As he waited for the call to connect, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see a red-faced man in a blue-and-white Chesterfield FC polo shirt.
The man grinned. ‘The real Big Sam!’ He was happy drunk. He leaned down and Sam caught his alcohol breath: sweet and heartbreaking, like an ex’s perfume. ‘Be good to get you back in that dugout. First win of the season on Wednesday, eh?’
Sam smiled. ‘That’s what we’re working for.’
The man backed away, offering an exaggerated palms-up gesture of deferral. ‘Ah. Course you are. It’s a tough job. Up the Spireites! Can I get you a drink?’ He winced. ‘Soft drink, of course.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Ah. No problem. I’ll leave you in peace, mate.’ He bowed his head, too close to Sam’s ear, and patted him on the back. ‘Take care of yourself.’
Sam nodded. ‘I will. Thank you very much. Hope we can give you a reason to celebrate on Wednesday.’ He turned his back slightly. The man hovered.
‘Hello?’ Judy answered. ‘It’s noisy. Where are you?’
Sam pointed at the phone and smiled. The man gave him a clumsy thumbs-up and staggered away. ‘Angler’s Rest.’
Judy sighed.
‘It’s okay. I’m not daft. Getting something to eat.’
‘Glass of Coke, right?’
‘Not even that. Water.’
‘How was training?’
He sipped his drink. ‘Better than I thought it would be. It’ll take time.’
‘You need more time. It’s only football. And don’t give me the Shankly crap. It’s not more important than life and death.’
‘I agree.’
‘You didn’t used to!’
‘Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. I’m feeling good.’
She paused. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Really. Let’s go out.’
‘Fischer’s?’
He laughed. ‘I’ll save that for the proposal.’ She scoffed. ‘Look. This is why I’m calling from here. It’s the new, transparent me. It helps with the recovery. To be more accountable.’
‘You could get a proper sponsor, Sam.’
‘I’m not doing that. I can fix this myself.’
‘Nobody is giving out medals for martyrdom. This is in your blood. You need help.’
‘Honestly, love, I’m good. I really do feel like I’ve been through the worst. I’m looking forward to things. Football. Us.’
She sniffed, warming to him. ‘In that order?’
‘Jude. I’ve been given a second chance, I know that. I’m not going to screw it up.’
Sam passed through the rural suburbs of Bamford and turned into the twisty lane that led to his single-storey semi. The path tapered into a cul de sac as it reached the house, set deep at the back of a neat front garden, behind high hedges, almost fully moulted for the chill to come. He had been born here, forty-one years earlier, and his parents had handed it down when they’d moved to a less isolated place near Onecote. It was perfect for Sam and his dog, Buddy: a small but tenacious Staffordshire Bull Terrier.
He parked at the end of the drive and killed the engine.
Barking.
It was Buddy, inside the house. A local vet friend called in to feed the dog on training and match days, but he would have left a couple of hours ago.
Sam frowned. Buddy wasn’t a noisy dog; he only barked when there was something to bark about. And this was persistent. Full volume. Ripping and roaring. Barely pausing for breath.
He opened the door and walked round to the boot to retrieve his kitbag. The rain had stopped, but a damp mist hung in the air.
A movement down the lane made him turn his head. A small van, dark purple, had parked up on the scrap of pavement. The back doors were ajar, and someone was sitting by one of the back wheels, head in hands.
Sam squinted through the darkness. The figure was short and slight. A child?
He closed the boot. ‘You okay there?’
He moved towards the van.
The figure looked up and rose to its feet. A man. Chunky black hiking jacket. Dark-striped beanie. No more than five-three. Sam had at least forty pounds on him, and he barely reached up to his shoulders.
The man smiled. Worried but friendly eyes. He gestured towards the van. ‘Oh, hi. Are you local? I’ve come up from Nottingham. I’m trying to find a friend’s house but my phone’s just died. Used all the charge on Google Maps.’ He leaned to the side, looking round to Sam’s parked car.
Barking.
‘What’s your phone?’ said Sam.
‘Galaxy. Can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.’
‘I’ve got an iPhone. I don’t think the charger—’
The man stepped towards Sam. ‘Can I just use your phone to have a quick look where I am? Ten seconds and I’m gone. Just need to get my bearings. I’ve got his postcode.’ He fumbled in his pocket. ‘Happy to throw you a few quid. I’m desperate, mate.’
Sam shook his head. ‘No. Don’t worry. No problem at all.’ He dug out his phone. ‘Just tell me the postcode. Where does your mate—’
In the time it took for Sam to glance at his phone screen and find the Google Maps app, the man dashed forward from the van, and stopped within touching distance. The smile had gone. The long, broad blade of a hefty kitchen knife extended beyond his hand by at least an inch at the hilt.
‘I’m sorry, Sam. But I need you to put these on.’ He withdrew the knife to his hip and held out a pair of sturdy handcuffs.
Sam stared at the cuffs, frozen. ‘And why would I do that?’
‘Because if you don’t, within ten seconds, then I’ll stab you with this. And then I’ll drag your body around that wall and you’ll die, Sam.’
The man was still and steady. Waiting. Almost polite. It all felt like some woozy hallucination.
Barking.
‘What happens when I put the handcuffs on?’
&
nbsp; The smile again. ‘That’s a surprise. But there’s your choice. Certain death or possible survival.’
Sam felt a little bloated from the food, but he could take this guy. He had the size advantage; the man had the knife. He looked skinny, though, underneath the jacket. Barely strong enough to lift the knife, let alone do any damage. But the man’s attention was focused. If Sam complied now, he could disarm him later, when he was distracted.
Sam took the cuffs and examined them. ‘I’m not putting on handcuffs and getting into a van with a stranger.’
The man nodded. ‘Ten… nine…’
‘Look. Where are we even going? What do you want?’
‘Eight… seven…’
Barking.
Was he an ex-player with a grudge? Someone who hadn’t made the grade?
‘Six… five…’
There was no menace in the tone of the man’s countdown. He seemed more irritated by the delay.
‘Okay!’ Sam put on the cuffs but kept the strands unfastened.
The man paused. ‘Click them into place. Through the ratchets.’
Sam bluffed it. ‘I’ve put them on, okay? Now what?’
The man regarded him. ‘Four… three…’
Sam carefully clicked the strand through the end ratchet, leaving the cuffs locked but with maybe enough room for manoeuvre.
The man was on him in a flurry. He felt something flat clunk against his forehead. Had he been punched?
His fingertips touched the ground: stony, wet. Then his cheek.
Then.
Barking.
Black.
Sam awoke with a ferocious headache, and opened his eyes, into stinging white light.
He was in the van, his mouth sealed by thick gaffer tape.
The panic reared up and he snorted a breath in through his nose.
He blinked to find focus. He was laid out on the floor, prone on a sheet of plastic. Polythene. He had been stripped to the waist and his cuffed hands had been forced behind his back.
He tried to speak, shout, scream. Nothing came. Just a muffled cry from the back of his throat.
