by Andrew Lowe
‘And can you run a similar test on the Bishop scene?’
She bowed her head. ‘It’s already been cleaned.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘By CTS?’
‘Yes.’
‘Keep this off HOLMES. One to one for now. Just you and me.’
‘What about Shepherd?’
He shook his head. ‘Can you get me a list of CTS employees without them knowing?’
‘Easy. It’s a small operation. Three or four people. You could get them from the website.’
‘I’ll take a look. See if anything connects.’ He stared ahead as Sally got up and walked to the door. She opened it and he turned to her, nodded. She smiled and left, closing the door behind her.
Sawyer took out his phone and checked the time. He made a call. It connected almost immediately. ‘How’s my timing?’
‘Pretty good,’ said Maggie. ‘Considerate, for you.’
‘I figured you’d be between clients.’
‘You make it sound more exciting than it is.’ A door closed and another opened. She was moving into her home office, for privacy.
He turned away from the main MIT office and faced the window. ‘Have you spoken to Alex?’
‘You’ve seen her? That’s good, Jake.’
He scoffed. ‘Don’t make out that you don’t know.’
‘Why would I? Client-patient confidentiality, remember? So happy to hear. We can’t discuss it, of course. It cuts both ways. But you must be getting something out of it, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘Why can’t you talk in the sitting room?’
She hesitated. ‘Justin. You know the sensitivities. Did you see the thing about Donald Ainsworth?’
‘Nice subject change. What thing? I spoke to him in the week. Just a steer on the case.’
‘I read that he won substantial damages from Beck. He made a personal claim, alongside the University’s suit for reputation damage.’
Sawyer smiled. Two taps on his door. He glanced behind and waved Shepherd in. ‘Sometimes, the nice guys come first.’
‘Beck had to pay costs, too.’
He turned and looked up. The sight of Shepherd’s pale face wiped away his smile. His eyes were staring, and he was clearly struggling to keep his breathing steady. ‘Sorry, Mags. Got to go.’
‘Is that all you can spare, these days? Two minutes?’
Sawyer raised his eyebrows in question; Shepherd shook his head.
‘Breakfast tomorrow?’ she said.
‘Course. See you at nine.’
She hung up. Sawyer kept the phone pressed to his ear for a few more seconds, savouring the bliss of ignorance.
Part II
LOVELESS
33
The man lay face-down, half-buried in the roadside ditch. He was immense: well over six feet, with an endless torso smothered in dense clumps of silvery hair. The flesh had shifted and sagged to one side, clinging to the frame in layered rolls.
Sawyer peeled away the tape and opened out the polythene. He flattened it to the side, forming a makeshift groundsheet. He crouched and traced his gloved fingers through the hairs on the back, shifting and flattening to reveal the skin beneath.
He nodded to Shepherd. They wedged their hands under the man’s body and slowly rolled him onto his back. He slapped onto the polythene and stared sightlessly at the roof of the forensic tent.
‘ID?’ said Sawyer.
Sally held up a smartphone-sized electronic device. ‘New toy. Mobile fingerprint scanner. We got a hit from IDENT1.’
‘He punched someone at a book signing in Birmingham a couple of years ago,’ said Shepherd. ‘Fiery type, evidently. Writer. Simon Brock. Sixty-two. Lived locally. Hollinsclough. Myers is checking him out.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘What kind of writer?’
‘Novels,’ said Sally. ‘Crime thrillers. Apparently, he was friendly with one of the DCs. Chapman. Read his books before they were published. Checks the facts.’
Sawyer held her eye for a second. ‘Two wounds, this time. Both cauterised like before. Upper back. Just below his shoulder blades.’
There was a sudden noise: a descending note, like a constrained trumpet blast.
‘Death fart,’ said Sally. ‘Cellular breakdown. Escaping gases. Nature taking its course.’
Shepherd gagged, and turned away.
Sawyer crouched near the head. He brushed a hand across Simon Brock’s face and closed his eyes. Again, the hands had been arranged to cover the area between the legs. The arms had shifted slightly in turning the body over, but rigor mortis kept them in position.
He turned to Sally. ‘Anything?’
‘Same as the first one. Multiple tyre tracks. Impossible. Same with footprints. I’ll keep my team here all day. Zone, line, spiral searches. Multiple sweeps.’
Sawyer caught her eye again, nodded. He stood up, handed his gloves to an assistant FSI, and ducked out of the tent. He squelched across to the low stone wall, trailed by Shepherd. They stopped and looked out past the cordon edge, across the tumbling hay fields and the village of Flash: the highest in Britain.
‘I’d put TOD at less than twenty-four hours,’ said Sawyer.
‘Farmer found him,’ said Shepherd. ‘Saw the polythene. Nice of him to leave the body a short drive from the station. Why so close to the road, though?’
‘Have you seen the size of him? He must have rolled him out of the van and dragged him over the wall.’
‘No holdall this time.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘He’s getting bolder.’
Sally came out and joined them. ‘You do seem to bring the body count, Sawyer. Before you came back, the sharpest unpleasantness around these parts was a bit of contention between the Bakewell tart and pudding brigades. Now it’s like the fucking Bronx in the 1970s.’
Sawyer turned. ‘Get Simon to Drummond. Let’s go see where he lived, and probably died.’
34
They checked in with the scene manager and walked through the hall. Wood panelling, ornate ceiling, mantlepiece with propped photographs: Simon sprawled on grass, laughing and wrestling with two young girls; Simon at some formal gathering, shaking hands with a frail-looking John Thaw. It smelt of polish and sweet tobacco and dog.
Sawyer twitched his nose. ‘Family?’
‘Wife died a few years ago,’ said Shepherd, leaning in to the photographs. ‘Cancer. Adult son, lives in York. Couple of granddaughters. Brazilian housekeeper says she cleans once every two weeks. He uses the annex as a writing shed. His son, Jonathan, is on his way.’
‘Who spoke to the housekeeper?’
‘Walker. He’s working with the FSIs out back. Sally told me he asked her if he could get involved. Wants to learn.’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘You should keep him on paperwork. He’ll have your job.’
They moved into the sitting room. Two FSIs were wriggling out of their Tyvek suits and packing their gear into holdalls. One spoke to Shepherd. ‘Scene fully documented, sir.’
‘DI Sawyer is the ranking officer.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Found anything?’ said Sawyer.
‘Few fibres. Lump of chewed chewing gum in the back garden. Filing it up for a briefing with Ms O’Callaghan.’
They moved out. Sawyer glanced at Shepherd. ‘Pretty sizeist. Thinking the big guy must be the boss.’
Shepherd ignored him. ‘Simon Brock doesn’t strike me as a chewing gum type.’
‘More of a snuff man.’ Sawyer looked around the room. All was calm, undisturbed. He nodded to the dog beds. ‘Pets?’
‘Two dogs. Still in kennels. Taxi dropped him off early yesterday morning.’
‘Do we know where he was?’
‘Not yet.’
They headed past the fireplace into the small kitchen. Walker sat at the table, typing on a laptop. He stood up as Sawyer and Shepherd entered. Two more FSIs were finishing up by a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out onto a small back garden with wild fields behind
.
‘Looks like he forced the back door,’ said Walker. ‘He’s tried to repair the lock but he couldn’t disguise the splintering in the frame.’
‘I’d say some kind of chisel or screwdriver,’ said one of the FSIs.
‘He made his first mistake,’ said Shepherd.
Sawyer studied the lock. It was a good repair job, but not perfect. ‘Take it off. Get it tested and sourced. With a bit of luck, we might be able to catch him buying it.’ He studied a wall calendar by the cooker. ‘MMF?’
‘Sorry?’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s blocked out the last three days with “MMF”.’
Walker smiled. ‘I checked that. “Murder Most Foul”. A crime writing festival in Copenhagen.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Our man staked out the place, saw the calendar through the window. He subdued Brock, forced him out to the van. We know the rest, more or less.’
‘Why not just wait for him outside?’ said Shepherd. ‘Like he did with Palmer?’
‘He had the dates nice and clear. Probably checked the flights. Might as well get inside and make himself comfortable. Gave himself plenty of time to replace the lock. And like I said, he’s getting bolder. Hopefully, a bit arrogant.’
‘We now officially have a serial killer,’ said Walker.
Shepherd sighed. ‘Serial or spree?’
‘He’s frequent,’ said Sawyer. ‘But there’s a tempo. An agenda. We need to find the motive, the connection between the victims. At least we now have one more to work with.’
35
They gathered back at Buxton: a full house, this time. Even Keating had diverted from his Saturday fly fishing at Ladybower; he stood at the back, managing to look grave and presidential, despite the civilian dress.
Sawyer tacked a photo of Simon Brock to the whiteboard, alongside images of Susan Bishop and Sam Palmer.
He turned to the team. ‘Connections? A novelist, an ex-TV star, a football manager.’
‘Entertainment business?’ said Walker.
Moran waved his pen. ‘First names all begin with “S”?’
Shepherd glanced at him; he wasn’t even joking. ‘Good news is that this time we have a few forensic scraps. Fibres, and a piece of chewed chewing gum in the garden of the Brock house. He also forced the lock and tried to hide it. Replaced it with a new one.’
‘Same method as the other vics,’ said Sawyer. ‘Two stab wounds this time, though. Beneath the shoulder blades. Both cauterised.’
Keating’s voice boomed out. ‘He stabbed a woman in the front, but the men in the back. Might be significant.’
Sawyer nodded, clearly unconvinced. ‘Moran, include the Brock house and deposition scene into your work with the stolen vans. Sightings, CCTV, ANPR.’ His phone buzzed with a text. He checked it. Sally.
CTS employee alibis all check out. :(
Deep cleaners? Specialists?
He sighed and looked up: to expectant faces. ‘Sally’s team are working on findings from the Brock house and conducting searches in the area near Flash. She’s also broadening the search around the Bishop and Palmer locations.’
‘We’re turning in circles,’ said Keating. ‘Stephen, set up another conference for this afternoon. We need sightings of the vehicles, anything around the scenes.’
Bloom nodded, made a few notes. A pulse of silent despair rippled around the room.
Shepherd cut in, too loud. ‘I called Sheffield, about the Palmer liver donor. The nurse we spoke to isn’t on shift today. She’s at home.’
‘Go with DC Walker,’ said Sawyer. ‘If she can give us a name, it’s another ingredient for the mix. Might stir something up. If not, get the court order. I thought the nurse might be hiding something. But maybe Occam’s razor applies, and she’s just being difficult. Obviously, the donor is dead, so their records won’t be so restricted. There might be family objections, though.’
Walker got to his feet. ‘I looked into Tyler. The lorry driver who donated Susan Bishop’s heart. Nothing interesting about the three people who died in the crash. His girlfriend, Rebecca Morton, moved to London a couple of years into his five-year sentence.’
Sawyer sighed. ‘Let’s wait for Drummond’s report on Brock, and see what forensics bring up on the findings and the lock.’
His phone buzzed again. It was a call, this time. Maggie. Shepherd wrapped up, and Sawyer disappeared into his office, feeling Keating’s eyes on him.
He closed the door and answered. ‘Hey. We’ll have to ditch breakfast tomorrow.’
‘I spoke to Jonathan Brock,’ said Maggie. ‘Simon’s son.’ Her voice sounded thin, distant.
Sawyer sat down. ‘How is he?’
‘You always ask that. How do you think he is?’
‘Sorry.’
‘He mentioned something about his father. I thought you’d want to know. He was pretty unwell. Heavy smoker. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. He had an operation last year, but it didn’t work. He was pretty much terminal. Less than a year left.’
‘Operation?’
‘Transplant. Both lungs.’
36
Sawyer wove the Mini through the dawdling Saturday traffic outside Hollow Meadows. Shepherd fiddled with his phone, scowling.
Sawyer looked over. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to connect to the sound system. Bluetooth. It’s not having it.’
An Audi hooted as Sawyer cut into its lane to beat an amber light. ‘What’s wrong with this?’
Shepherd eyed him. ‘It sounds like Grampa Simpson.’
‘To your philistine ears, maybe. This is “The Story Of The Blues” by Wah! A forgotten classic. What are you looking for? You look like a Springsteen type.’
Shepherd gave up and pocketed the phone. He sighed and stared out of his window. The Derbyshire fields yielded to South Yorkshire suburbs.
‘Walker not happy at being left behind,’ said Shepherd.
‘Executive decision. Bit of deskwork is good for him. He’s a star, but he’s burning a bit too brightly.’
Shepherd smiled. ‘You’ve been watching too much Blade Runner.’
They turned off, into an enclave of handsome semis.
‘Brock’s double lung transplant happened on the same day as Susan Bishop’s heart op,’ said Sawyer. ‘Same hospital, too. Wythenshawe. His son said Simon didn’t want to know any details. But I do. All the organs have come from Sheffield within a two-day timeframe.’
They drove into Crosspool. The semis blended to fish bars and charity shops. Functional flat blocks.
‘The nurse could just hide behind procedure again. We might need that court order.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘That’s Walker’s deskwork. Let’s see what wins. Legal procedure or good old-fashioned gentle interrogation.’
Amy Scott settled on the cushioned seat beneath the bay window. The net curtains muted the honeyed light from a low afternoon sun, casting her in fuzzy silhouette. ‘Can we make it quick? I have to pick up Ava in half an hour. Playdate.’
The sitting room was bright and tidy and smelt of paint and lavender. Modest TV, smart speaker, couple of unfilled Billy bookcases. A waist-high easel was propped on a patch of newspaper in the corner, beside a stool, palette board and side table.
‘You an artist?’ said Shepherd, lowering himself onto the sofa.
She laughed. ‘God, no. That’s Ava’s. She’s eight.’
Sawyer nosed through the book spines. Medical non-fiction, Jane Austen, Joe Wicks, a few thrillers and cookbooks. ‘Sorry to bother you at home, Amy. But we have quite an urgent line of enquiry. I think you can help us.’
Amy sighed. ‘I told you at the hospital. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t just share details of medical records. I would lose my job.’ She laughed again, nervous. ‘I… honestly don’t know what you’re doing here.’ She looked from Sawyer to Shepherd and back again.
Sawyer tilted a book spine towards him: Bel Canto. ‘We wouldn’t normally bother you on a Saturday. But we�
�ve got three dead people. Stabbed. They all received transplant organs from your hospital. You’re the Specialist Nurse in charge of organ donation.’ He turned and sat down on the stool by the easel. ‘So, can you see why we made the journey?’
Amy stared ahead.
‘Ava’s dad not around?’ said Shepherd.
She caught herself and blinked. ‘Junior doctor. He wasn’t interested in being a parent. I was.’
‘Look,’ said Sawyer. ‘I know you’re in a rush. But can you answer me one simple question?’
She found a smile. ‘I’ll try. I want to help. Of course…’
‘What are you scared of?’
Her shoulders slumped. ‘What do you mean? Generally?’
‘No. Not generally. You don’t seem like a jobsworth to me, Amy. You know the sort I mean. Grey people. The types who hide behind bureaucracy. They point at signs, quote paragraphs in the rulebook. They think life can be ordered, modulated, kept inside the guidelines. I’m not saying I blame them. Life is pretty messy, right? Some people just need to know who’s in charge.’ He drew the stool forward. ‘I don’t think you’re in charge here, Amy. And I’m not talking about the hospital hierarchy, the rulebook writers, the legislators. I don’t think you do what you do because of a passion for “best practice”. I think you do what you do because you’re a decent human being. You want to help save lives. So, I’m going to ask again. It’s an appeal for honesty. Because every second we sit here, another life is in danger. We can help you. Protect you, if needed. So, one more time. What are you scared of?’
Amy dropped her gaze. She clenched her hands in her lap. Her breathing deepened: juddering inhales, exhales of exasperation. The room went still.
They sat there in silence for almost a minute.
‘He said that Ava would die if I said anything.’
Sawyer looked at Shepherd. ‘Who did, Amy?’
She kept her eyes on her hands. Her fingers knotted and writhed. ‘He did. Whoever. I don’t know. I’ve never met him. It’s just messages. And he sends me things.’
