by Andrew Lowe
Movement from behind. Something heavy pressing on his lower back. It was the man, kneeling, pinning him down.
How much time had passed? Sam twisted his head up and around, straining for clarity, more detail. But the back of the van was windowless.
The cuffs and the weight of the man kept him steady.
‘If you struggle, if you move, it will be worse.’
Behind him, the man shifted around, settling into position, rustling the polythene.
Then he was still, considering something.
Outside, Buddy’s barking staggered the silence. Intermittent now. Running out of hope.
From behind, the man gripped Sam’s neck, holding his head still. He was surprisingly strong.
With the bodily pressure and the hand and the cuffs, Sam was practically immobilised. He stared out at the folds of plastic. Crumpled peaks and valleys. He screwed his eyes shut, rapid breaths rasping in and out of his nostrils.
‘I’m sorry, Sam.’
An impact, somewhere in the middle of his back. Sharp.
A tingling. Electrical?
The tingling receded, replaced by a rising heat.
Burning. Unbearable, unthinkable burning. From the inside.
‘I’m so sorry.’
16
Sawyer opened his office door and leaned against the frame. Keating stood up-front by Shepherd, arms folded. He angled his head, beckoning, and Sawyer moved out to take a spot nearer the action. He had slept badly, barely at all, drifting in and out of baffling dreams. The MIT floor was packed and lively, but there was a distance, a surreal sheen that hung over the room like a mist. Faces leered: hostile and alien, washed out by the mid-morning light.
Shepherd said something to Bloom about press management. Keating confirmed Bloom’s response.
Sally O’Callaghan reported. Something about soil samples being inconclusive. It was all fuzzy and amorphous, drowned out by his inner chatter. The sharpest image from his dreams: his mother, lifting him up, spinning him round. He was laughing at the dizziness, the thrill at the lack of control. She swept him close to the ground and his legs swam in the air, desperate for contact with the ground. She spun him twice, three times, denying his landing, before setting him down. And then his father. Roaring. Growling. Telling him he was going to get him. His mother shouting.
‘Run! Don’t look back.’
‘DI Sawyer asked me to look into Susan’s heart transplant’. Walker stood up near the front and turned to the detectives. The mention of his name jolted Sawyer into focus. ‘I spoke to Ronald Bishop. He said that the heart became available when a forty-six-year-old man died in a gym accident in Bole Hill, Sheffield. They were asked if they wanted to know more but declined. Susan was taken to the heart unit at Wythenshawe where the operation was performed the same day.’
Sawyer pushed off the door frame and walked to the front. ‘Why were they told the donor age?’
Walker faltered. ‘He said it was to make the risk clear. Apparently, there’s a slight concern about heart donors aged thirty-five to fifty, but the benefits in her case outweighed the risk.’
‘What about the religious angle?’ said Shepherd.
Walker nodded. ‘I did some research on that.’
‘Googled it,’ said Sawyer. He glanced at Keating, didn’t get the look.
Walker was unfazed. ‘Actually, I spoke to a friend of my dad’s. A theology teacher. He said that all the main religions either endorse organ donation or see it as a matter for the individual. Apart from Japanese Shinto, where the dead body is considered to be impure and dangerous, and so it’s difficult to get consent from bereaved families for donation or dissection.’ He looked at his notepad. ‘They have this thing called the “itai”, which is like the bond between the dead person and the bereaved. It can’t be broken, and “injuring” the body by removing organs would violate the bond.’
‘Interesting,’ said Sawyer. ‘But it feels like a dead end. We think we know where she was killed and we know the weapon and method. We still don’t know why. Get more on the donor. The gym accident.’
‘There must be more in Susan’s relationship history,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re hardly likely to get a clear picture from her husband. He says they were solid, but she might have been doing a good job hiding something.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Dig deeper. Old flames. Crushes. Illicit encounters. Talk to the other people in her walking group and book club. And get Rhodes working overtime on the CCTV. All routes mapped, all businesses with CCTV investigated. Every second of footage analysed. Finding the vehicle might be our only hope of finding the killer.’
He turned and headed back to his office.
‘How was Dean Logan?’ said Moran.
Sawyer stopped. ‘What?’ He stared at Moran, but he didn’t look up.
‘I saw you’d signed him in yesterday. Is he helping with the enquiry?’ Moran raised his head, looked around the room, avoiding Sawyer.
‘A personal matter,’ said Sawyer. ‘Unrelated to the case. He chanced it, but got nothing.’ He walked over to Moran’s desk. ‘DC Moran, it might be an idea to focus on casework, rather than snooping on your superiors.’
‘Sawyer,’ said Keating.
At last, Moran looked at Sawyer. He took off his wire-frame glasses and pecked something off one of the lenses. ‘Just saw it in passing. I wondered if Logan had some insight you were interested in. And I agree, sir. We all need to keep totally focused on the case.’ He smiled.
Sawyer held eye contact and returned the smile. ‘Get down to the Batcave. With Rhodes. I want you and your totally focused mind to work through that CCTV footage. Every minute. Every second. No natural light until you’ve found me that vehicle.’
17
Sawyer drove out of Buxton and stopped at the High Peak Bookstore, a bookshop and café in a converted warehouse on the edge of Sterndale Moor. He bought a fresh copy of The Gift Of Fear and pushed on down to Alstonefield, playing the third My Bloody Valentine album at a volume loud enough to get the Mini’s windows buzzing.
He stopped at The George, and grazed on a ploughman’s lunch, dipping in and out of the book.
Denial is a save now, pay later scheme.
He gazed out of the window, across the fields, down to Dovedale. The George was propped on a limestone plateau between the Dove and Manifold gorges, and he felt the tug of the valley. Always, the ache for the pristine past. Infinite and uncluttered. He could make it to the cave in an hour on foot. Ten minutes by car.
But he had an appointment.
He had expected something more formal, similar to a dentist’s surgery: a refitted detached house with its own car park. But the address took him to a generic estate of modern semis just outside the neighbouring village of Stanshope.
The front door had no bell, so he rapped on the letterbox, sparking a volley of yapping from inside. As he waited, he noticed the modest brass plaque on the wall by the door.
Goldman Counselling Centre
The door creaked open, and a slight, elderly woman stood in the doorway, clutching a wriggling Jack Russell: black-and-white body, rusty brown face.
Sawyer brightened and petted the dog. ‘I have an appointment. With Alex?’
The woman smiled. She was late sixties, with a blow-dried helmet of battleship-grey hair. Her clothes were bland and colour-matched: fawn blouse shirt over a beige roll-neck; tasselled check shawl around her neck.
She leaned forward and studied Sawyer with her watery eyes. ‘Mr Sawyer, isn’t it? Please come through.’
She turned and led him through a dog-musty hallway. The walls were hidden behind framed academic certificates and undersized art prints: mediocre landscape watercolours, sterile pet portraits. The woman ushered the dog into a kitchen area at the end of the corridor and closed the door behind it. She opened another door and gestured towards what looked like a sitting room.
‘Please go through.’
He led the way. The room was large and clean and unclut
tered: a vast, throne-like mauve armchair in one corner; black chaise longue tucked along the near wall; coffee table with box of tissues, water jug, glasses. A tray sat on a curvy-legged side table by the armchair: steaming teapot, cups, plate of biscuits.
The woman closed the door behind them. ‘Would you like some tea, Mr Sawyer?’
‘Jake is fine. No, thank you. I’ll take a biscuit, though.’
She smiled. ‘Take them all if you like. My husband lays all of this out before sessions. I think he’s trying to fatten me up.’ She took off her scarf and hung it over the back of the armchair.
‘Your husband?’
She sat down. ‘Thirty-five years this December. He’s in antiques. Handles my admin and bookings.’
Sawyer sat on the edge of the chaise longue. ‘You’re Alex?’
She laughed. ‘Ah! I see the confusion. Did Maggie not tell you? Is it a problem?’
‘What?’
‘A female therapist. Some men—’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘That’s good. I find the clients who do struggle with it are the ones who assumed I was male.’ She poured herself some tea. ‘Anyway, this is just an initial chat, to get a sense of what kind of work might be useful. No charge.’
Sawyer looked around. The wall art here was a more tasteful variant of the pieces in the hall: more landscapes and animals, but rendered in idiosyncratic styles. Sheepdog herding sheep. Slow-shutter photo of a waterfall. A city at night: vast, blurry blobs of neon. Aiming for Van Gogh. ‘I’m not really—’
‘Why are you here, Jake? What do you want out of this?’
He sucked in a deep breath, took a few seconds to release it. ‘I’d like to sleep a bit better, for one.’
Alex poured in some milk and stirred. The tinkling teaspoon jarred against the silence. ‘And why don’t you sleep well?’
‘I just… I find it difficult to switch off my brain.’
She nodded. ‘There must be plenty of unpleasant images in there, given your job.’
‘Did Maggie explain my line of work?’ Alex nodded. ‘I suppose so. I take Temazepam.’
‘Is it just general activity? Or is there something broader? A problem? Something you’d like to change?’
‘Yes.’
She blew on the tea, tried a sip, winced. ‘And how are you addressing the problem? Self-medication?’
‘It’s more of a confusion than a problem. I had a difficult case earlier this year, during which I suffered from what I think was a panic attack. But I’ve never felt anything like it before. I’ve never experienced anything close to panic, or anxiety.’
‘Or fear?’ Alex set the cup down on her side table. ‘You have every reason to feel fear, given what happened to you when you were a child.’
A cold rush through his veins. Again, the sheen. The strangeness of it all. The woman, with her smile and her tea. What was this? Why would he be sitting here? ‘It was the first time I can remember feeling it, or at least what I’d always imagined it felt like.’
‘Tell me about what happened when you were a child. I’d like to hear what you think of it.’
He sighed. ‘Already? Childhood stuff?’
Alex nodded. ‘I understand your frustration. It is a bit of a cliché. And most people have pretty dull and trauma-free childhoods. But you’re not most people are you, Jake?’
‘My mother was murdered.’ He was surprised to feel a rush of irritation. ‘The man who did it tried to kill me and my brother. I was six, my brother was eight. He also killed my dog.’
Alex didn’t flinch. ‘What breed?’
‘Jack Russell.’
‘What was the dog’s name?’
‘Henry.’
‘And my Molly reminds you of him?’
‘A bit.’
‘You were quick to reach out, to pet her.’
He shrugged. ‘I like Jack Russells.’
‘So do I. What do you like about them?’
‘They’re crazy.’
She paused. ‘Your mother’s murder. The memory, the pain. It’s returning to you now? Making it difficult to sleep?’
‘Yes.’
Alex tried the tea again, slurped. ‘I have rather a big question. It might seem obvious. Why is this only coming up now? Something that happened thirty years ago.’
‘Isn’t that why I’m here?’
‘I don’t know. You’re telling me.’
‘I’ve been working in London. It used to be difficult, when I worked here. In Buxton. Then I moved away and it seemed to get easier.’
‘And now you’re back, close to where it all happened, it seems to be returning?’ He nodded. ‘What do you mean by “it”, exactly?’
‘The images, sounds, the sense of the day.’
She nodded, enthused. ‘The sense? How about the sensations? The emotions? How you felt?’
‘I don’t really get that. It’s more—’
‘The events?’
‘Yes.’
Alex reached over to a cabinet and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Thank you, Jake. That’s a great start. Before we go any further, I would like you to do a bit of homework. Nothing too scary, just a questionnaire. It’s called the Beck Anxiety Inventory. You might have done it before?’ He took the paper, shook his head. ‘It’s a useful tool to kickstart our work. It will show me how much this disturbance is impacting your life, impairing your functioning. You can fill in the paper version and post it, or do it online and email me. The address is on there.’
‘I’ll do it online.’
Alex smiled. ‘The men always do.’ She stood up. Sawyer mirrored her. ‘I look forward to it. Could you send it over tomorrow and come and see me again on Friday? Could you make it earlier? At 2pm?’
Sawyer realised she was the first person to not express her sorrow for his loss and for what had happened to him. It was a welcome change. ‘Yes. See you again on Friday. Nice to meet you.’
‘You too, Jake. It was an absolute pleasure.’
They shook hands and Sawyer opened the door. Molly scurried to the other side of the kitchen door and scratched at the floor, whimpering. Sawyer turned.
Alex was writing something in a careworn old notebook. ‘I’m sure we can help,’ she said.
‘We?’
She looked up. ‘Yes. A bit of me. But mostly you.’
18
Sawyer drove up to Longnor village and bought cod and chips from the Manifold Fish & Chip Shop. He parked on the cobbled town square and lifted the chips into his mouth, one by one, staring up at the 1903 table of market tolls above the door of the craft shop. Four pence for a horse, a penny for a pig.
Simpler times.
He called Shepherd. ‘I’m not coming in again this afternoon, unless there’s any big development.’
Shepherd paused on the other end. ‘Okay. There has been a bit of movement.’
Sawyer screwed up the fish and chip paper. ‘Go on.’
‘The gym accident was at the Xercise4Less gym in Sheffield last year. Forty-six-year-old male. Timings work with Susan’s transplant. Roy Tyler. He was taken to the Northern General. They induced a coma but he died overnight. Donors have to die in hospital. It ensures the organs are fresh and well preserved. They have to move fast.’
‘So, Susan would have been admitted to Wythenshawe and Tyler’s heart posted up there?’
‘Well, probably not DHL, but yeah.’
Sawyer opened the car window to air out the essence of vinegar. A blast of peaty wind swept in. He tipped his head back. ‘Anything on her romantic history? From the walking group or book club?’
‘Myers checked the walkers. I spoke to a couple of the book club members. Nobody had any suspicions of her being romantically linked to anyone other than her husband. No sense of any friction from any of the walkers or readers. Rhodes and Moran are analysing private CCTV around all the relevant routes. Moran isn’t the brightest soul in the team at the moment. Quite a bromance you’ve got going there.’
‘I would have thought that Drummond could cover his battles by himself.’
‘There’s probably a moral outrage somewhere in there. Maybe his missus left him for someone who looks like me.’ He took a breath, watched an elderly man with a walking stick hobble away from the craft shop. ‘Tell him to look for a small vehicle. Not a big van.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s efficient. Scrupulous. He’ll go for something with no excess. It’ll probably be dark in colour, too. Harder to pin down the model at night, in case it does get caught on camera somewhere. Call me if you need to.’
He hung up and took out Alex’s questionnaire.
The Beck Anxiety Inventory.
The sheet contained a list of anxiety symptoms, which he was instructed to identify over the course of the previous month and grade across a four-point scale: zero (didn’t bother me at all); one (mild, didn’t bother me much); two (moderate, not pleasant at times); three (severe, bothered me a lot).
He looked down the list. Numbness or tingling… Dizzy or lightheaded… Feeling of choking… Hands trembling…
He could be a good boy. Go back to the cottage, do his homework.
Or he could do the other thing.
Sawyer parked a couple of streets away and walked along the Monyash road, away from Bakewell town centre. It took five minutes to reach Eva Gregory’s house: a dirty-white semi, crouched behind a telegraph pole at the near end of a drab estate. It was the most conspicuous home of the bunch: larger, with a bigger front garden.
He lurked for a while, then strolled up to the front door and rang the bell. The door opened before the tone had faded. A wiry man in a black polo shirt stepped onto the porch.
The man hitched up his thin-framed rectangular glasses and squinted at Sawyer, deepening his double frown lines. ‘Detective Inspector Sawyer. What an unexpected delight.’
