by Andrew Lowe
Shepherd leaned forward. ‘What things?’
37
Sawyer and Shepherd stood together at the MIT whiteboard. Three long-stem red roses had been laid out, side by side, on a spare desk. They were pruned, pristine. The petals were a deep, sensuous red, almost black.
The team gathered around. Sawyer leaned forward and planted his hands on the desk. ‘These have been sent, one by one, over the past week, to Amy Scott, a Specialist Nurse at Sheffield Hospital. She deals with the processes around organ donation, for the people who die at that hospital.’
‘Two of the roses were left on her car,’ said Shepherd. ‘The other was taped to her front door. Timings correspond to the killings.’
‘Messages? Cards?’ said Moran.
Sawyer nodded. ‘The first rose came with a message, reminding Amy of an “arrangement”. She was contacted at work late last year by a man who wanted the details of all the organ donations in April. Recipients, donors. She was told to put a document into a waterproof tub and hide it under a rock near a kissing gate on a walking route near Stanage Edge. Which she did.’
‘Or else?’ said Myers.
Sawyer looked up at the ceiling. ‘Or else he was going to kill her eight-year-old daughter, Ava. As well as the roses, he called her school a few days ago, around the time of Sam Palmer’s murder. To remind her.’
A female DC, Fleming, spoke up. ‘So what was he after? Control over Amy?’
‘He was being deliberately broad,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was only interested in one donor.’
Sawyer unrolled a blown-up printout of a section of the BBC News website, retrieved from the previous July. He tacked it to the board beneath the images of the three victims. A grainy image of a young male—spotty, bad haircut, glaring into camera—sat beneath the headline.
THE KILLER WHO GAVE THE GIFT OF LIFE
‘It’s in HOLMES,’ said Sawyer. ‘Read it. A companion piece to a radio documentary that was broadcast last July. Meet Roy Tyler. Deceased. Ex-lorry driver. Our man must have heard the documentary or read this piece. It talks about the crash that killed three, and how, twenty-six years later, he died at Sheffield after the gym accident and saved the lives of five people.’
Shepherd moved to the side of the whiteboard. ‘The piece only mentions vague details of the recipients. Sex, age.’ He pointed at the victim images. ‘We now know that Susan Bishop received Roy Tyler’s heart, Sam Palmer got his liver, and Simon Brock received both his lungs.’
Sawyer pinned up two more images: a nervous-looking middle-aged woman with pale skin and long auburn hair, and a younger man in a workout vest, heavily muscled. The man had tilted back his head to look down his nose at the camera. Sawyer pointed at each in turn. ‘Jamie Ingram. Twenty-five. Received one of Roy Tyler’s kidneys at the unit in Sheffield Northern General. Kim Lyons. Forty-eight. Received Roy Tyler’s corneas at Manchester Eye Hospital. We’ve issued an Osman Warning, and Amy and Ava Scott are now under protection. We need to do the same for Jamie and Kim, as soon as possible. The killer is clearly targeting any individual who has received organs or tissue from Roy Tyler. We need to find out why. Is it related to the lorry crash? Let’s look deeper into those three victims. I’ll check out Rebecca Morton, Tyler’s girlfriend.’
‘The hand-job queen,’ said Moran.
Walker stepped closer to the board. ‘What about the other kidney?’
Shepherd glanced at Sawyer. ‘It was donated to a fifty-year-old woman at Sheffield Hospital. She didn’t survive the op. Never left hospital. GVHD. Graft Versus Host Disease. Her body rejected it, basically.’
‘Let’s dig deeper into that lorry crash,’ said Sawyer. ‘Find me the girlfriend. Get me more on Tyler. Surviving relatives, connections. We have the jump on him now. We need to know more about the madness behind his methods. Why does he not want Roy Tyler’s organ recipients to survive? Moran, the flowers are hand-delivered. Ditch the car-chasing and work on CCTV for the relevant dates around Amy’s house. Get timings from DS Shepherd. Also take a look near Amy’s kid’s school last Monday. He didn’t show up in person, but he might have been staking out nearby. Street CCTV, local businesses. Anyone looking out of place, lingering, in vehicles. And see if you can find something on the document drop-off spot. Might get lucky and catch him on camera nearby.’
Moran sighed. ‘Catch him on the world famous extensive CCTV coverage around Stanage Edge?’
Sawyer ignored him. ‘It’s crucial that we keep this line of investigation confidential. We have every reason to believe that Amy and her daughter will be in danger if it gets out that she’s revealed anything to us. Stephen, cancel the press conference. Media blackout.’
38
A titanic mothership hovered into the playfield from off-screen, supported by hundreds of smaller attack craft. It sent out a target crosshair that honed in on Sawyer’s ship, spraying lethal geometries of pulsing yellow points. He dodged the onslaught, and picked off a swarm of reinforcements as they swooped on his position. A female commentator exulted in Japanese, shouting to be heard over the impacts and detonations.
He had killed all the lights in the cottage, and was sitting, topless and cross-legged on the sofa, pulled in close to the TV. A Buddha of Bullet Hell. He counterattacked in strategic bursts, maximising his score. His face and torso flared red and yellow and blue in the game’s lights.
While Sawyer’s instincts and reflexes kept him alive onscreen, his active thoughts were busy elsewhere, illuminated by his hyper-focus on the game.
The case images bobbed on the edge of his vision: the victim photographs, the pallid faces, the texture of the cauterised wounds. He saw the hands: arranged, presented. The dead, covering themselves. Eternally coy.
Nothing personal.
He paused the game and bathed in the light for a while, gazing into the frozen pandemonium.
A car outside, slowing on the road by the cottage.
He called Shepherd. The phone rang for a while and he was close to hanging up and resuming the game when the call connected.
‘Sir.’
Background office buzz.
Sawyer set the phone on speaker and wriggled into a faded black Underworld T-shirt. ‘Sorry to call late.’
‘It’s fine. Still here, anyway. Drummond’s report on Brock. Death from haemorrhagic shock like the first two. Stab wounds. One in each lung.’
Sawyer took in a breath, held it for a couple of seconds, released. ‘There’s anger. Is he attacking the things that are keeping them alive? Could still be about the vics and not Tyler.’
‘Sally’s team are working on the fibres and gum from outside Brock’s house.’
‘They can get DNA from the gum.’
‘I know,’ said Shepherd, excited. ‘They solved a cold case with chewing gum DNA last year. Birmingham somewhere. Oswald. Or maybe Osmond…’
‘Back in the room, Detective. Tyler’s girlfriend?’
‘Myers has got a London address.’
‘I’ll take that tomorrow. I can work old Met contacts.’
Outside, the car turned and crossed the driveway bridge, parking next to the Mini.
Shepherd opened and closed a door. Going into his office. ‘The deceased in Tyler’s lorry crash. Faye and Tony Hansen, Maureen Warren. I’ve got DCs contacting living relatives. No children or siblings. Tony’s brother lives in Zurich. Faye had a sister, Sophie. Lives in Leek. Married, two grown-up daughters. Maureen’s husband, Jim, died ten years ago, two weeks after his second wife went. Emphysema.’
‘Shepherd, you do have that special way of cheering me up sometimes. Moran and the CCTV?’
‘Nothing yet. Keeping him down in the dungeon with Rhodes isn’t doing a lot for his self-esteem, though. Not helping with your interpersonal disconnect, either.’
Outside, the car turned off its engine.
‘I’ll take that under advisement.’
Shepherd snorted. ‘Oh, and Keating is hopping about you cancelling the conference. Says we need t
o engage. Had a rant about how the press always fill the silence with bullshit. He wants to get public eyes on the vehicles while we protect the organ recipients and Amy. He wants you in tomorrow morning.’
‘He’s right. Fair call. Tell Bloom. Happy with the protection detail?’
‘I have DCs overseeing, advising on precautions. Officers at all locations. Possible observation points. We’ve issued jackpot alarms linked to the control room. Jamie Ingram, the kidney guy, he’s not happy with it. Says he can take care of himself. DC showed him the morgue shots, with the wounds. Didn’t bother him. He said, “They’ll have to get close to stab me.” He does some martial art or something. You’d love him.’
‘Let’s check in with them tomorrow. See you in the morning.’
The car door closed. Footsteps, heading for the house.
One person.
They paused on the porch.
Three short, light taps.
The microwave clock read 21:50.
He stood close to the decaying wooden door. It was solid, but ill-fitted, and he caught a hint of Eva’s perfume. Eloquent, subtle. Pheromonic. Not an artificial top layer, but a seamless aspect of her look and poise.
He opened the door. She lurked around the side of the frame, as if ready to pounce. She was long and undulating: an arresting mix of formal and casual. Knee-length skirt; sneakers; designer-looking leather jacket. For a moment, Sawyer thought she was wearing some kind of headscarf, but then his eyes adjusted. She had dyed her ghostly white hair a deep, charcoal black, and pinned it over one shoulder.
He caught himself staring: at the colour, the texture.
She pushed up the bridge of her dark brown Tom Fords with her index finger. The nerdiness of the gesture chafed with her overall elegance; it made her even more appealing. Sawyer thought it seemed a little choreographed, but no less effective.
Eva looked at him. ‘Good time?’
‘As in, “Am I looking for one?”’
‘As in, “Is it a good time?”’
‘It’s late, Eva. I was just about to turn in for the night.’
He smiled. She raised her eyebrows, chiding him, and stepped past into the house.
He closed the door and followed her inside.
She took in the sitting room: paused videogame flickering on the TV; coffee table cluttered with plates and packets; half-empty mugs and glasses dotted around like ornaments. ‘You’re such a boy.’
‘This is me relaxing. You doorstepped me. It’s not meant for external observation. I feel quite violated, actually. Drink?’
She held up a bottle wrapped in brown paper. ‘I bought wine.’
Sawyer turned off the TV. He cleared away the crockery and transferred the rest of the junk into a carrier bag. ‘I’ll find a couple of clean glasses.’
‘Good luck.’
He thrust the carrier bag into the kitchen pedal bin. ‘Sarcasm suits you.’
‘I wish I could say the same about your T-shirt.’
He laughed. ‘Like I said, this is private me. Unobserved. I bet you’ve got a few band T-shirts you bring out on laundry day. I’m going with Simply Red.’
‘Fuck off!’ She smiled, studied his T-shirt. A jumble of white letters: some solid, some faded. The solid ones formed the phrase, INTO THE BLOOD. ‘Actually. It’s acceptable. Could pass as a fashion thing. At least there’s no band picture.’
He produced two long-stem wine glasses and rinsed them under the cold tap. ‘I like the hair.’
Eva smiled. She took off her jacket and hung it over a chair. ‘I’m going to smoke.’ She opened a fresh packet of Marlboro Golds. ‘It’s not like it’ll ruin the ambience.’ She slid a cigarette between her lips and lit it with the short, steady flame from a tiny lighter. ‘How’s the case?’
He shrugged. ‘Grim.’
A sharp, scratching sound from the back door. Eva caught it. ‘What’s that?’
Sawyer smiled and opened the door. The black-and-white cat padded in, imperious. It made straight for Eva and threaded itself around her ankles in a figure of eight, purring.
She crouched and petted it. ‘What a beauty! Is he yours? He? She?’
‘He. I think he sees me as his. He’s called Bruce.’
She gave him a look. ‘I don’t know why people name cats. It’s not like they come when you call.’
‘Yeah, they do. But in their own time, at their own pace. I like that. Cats are like adults. They can look after themselves. You can take them or leave them. Dogs are toddlers. Eating and shitting machines. Constantly needing attention.’
‘You told me you had a dog when you were little.’
Sawyer unwrapped the wine. ‘Yeah. They’re good for kids. And lonely older people.’
Bruce broke away and headed for a dish of tuna on the floor in the far corner of the kitchen. Eva followed, and petted him while he ate. She looked around, peeking through the open door that led to the bedroom, then sat down on the sofa arm and blew out a jet of blue-black smoke. It swirled and dissolved in the lamplight.
Sawyer opened the wine. ‘Whispering Angel? Rosé?’
‘Yeah,’ said Eva. ‘Bit of a social faux pas. Off-season wine. Can you see past it?’
He smiled and poured out two glasses. ‘You shouldn’t have come. But I’m glad you did.’
She took her glass, sipped. ‘I parked my car at a friend’s place a couple of days ago. Took a bus there and drove here.’
‘So you do accept that Dale is dangerous?’
‘Of course I do. But I don’t know as much as you probably suspect.’
‘He sent some friends over.’
‘What? Here?’
He nodded, sipped his wine. ‘Yeah. Just bluster.’
‘Luka said you came to the house. Sensible!’
‘Dale is a bully. You beat bullies by refusing to be a victim.’
She sighed. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about Dale.’
Sawyer ran a palm across the fuzz of hair on the top of his head. ‘I need to shower. Couple of minutes. If it’s a bit boysy in here, you could wait in the bedroom.’
Eva laughed. ‘Is that your best line? I suppose that weird wooden dummy thing is pretty sexy.’ She stood up, set down her glass on the coffee table. She walked over and stood before him, still holding her cigarette. The smoke spiralled upward, coiling around them.
Up close, Sawyer could see the colour of her lipstick: deep, dark red. Almost black. Like Amy’s roses.
He leaned forward. She pulled back, froze for a second, then angled her head, submitting to the kiss.
While Eva slept, Sawyer threw on his bathrobe and crept out to the sitting room. Bruce had curled into a tight ball on the sofa; he pricked an ear as Sawyer entered.
Two discarded wine glasses sat on the coffee table, one with a floating cigarette butt.
He unlocked the front door and walked down to Eva’s silver Mazda, parked behind the orange Mini. It was still dark; a few hours to dawn, with a bite to the air. He looked up and down the lane: clear and silent. A light wind ruffled the trees.
He bent down by the Mazda and felt under the rim of the driver-side wheel arch, probing with his fingers. He did the same for the other three wheels. Nothing. He took out his phone and switched on the torchlight. He crouched and peered underneath the chassis, sweeping the beam from back to front.
The light picked out a small oblong protruding from the metal. He gripped it, jiggled, and pulled it clear. It was about the size of his hand: a solid black box with two round metal discs. A micro-magnetic GPS tracker.
39
Shepherd parked the Range Rover at the side of the road, behind a tank-like Alfa Romeo SUV: new-looking.
Sawyer whistled. ‘Is that his car? What does he do?’
‘Runs some training company. We have officers stationed here and at Kim Lyons and Amy Scott’s places. DC Walker is here, overseeing.’
An officer checked their ID and they stepped through a low gate onto the garden path. Jamie Ingram’s hou
se was part of a patch of contemporary semis just outside the village of Youlgreave. To give the buildings a rustic, stone-built look, they had been constructed with chalky brickwork in varying shades of brown and white. It was how the buildings might look if Las Vegas ever developed a themed Peak District hotel.
‘Do you run?’ A deep but petulant voice from inside.
‘Not regularly, sir. But I’m fit enough to keep up with you.’
Sawyer and Shepherd showed their ID to another officer at the front door and followed the commotion into the sitting room. It was poky, with a low ceiling and functional, show-home furnishing. The walls were covered in framed certificates: ugly and beige with gold trim; bold and red with Japanese characters. Signatures, exultations.
Jamie Ingram stood in the centre of the room, in shorts and T-shirt, clutching a plastic water bottle that had been shaped to fit snug around his fist. He was short but beefy: heavily muscled, with a thin flap of blond hair he had combed forward in an attempt to disguise premature balding. He wore a fitness tracker on his wrist, and his T-shirt was fitted, to emphasise his inflated pecs and biceps.
DC Walker sat at a table near the window, on his laptop. Another officer stood face to face with Ingram. ‘Sir. It’s our job to keep you safe. We would appreciate it if you could delay your run while we wait for some sportswear to arrive. I will then be able to accompany you—’
‘So I’m effectively under fucking house arrest? Look. I run every day, in the woods. Two minutes up the road. It’s beautiful, okay? I know it better than the fucking squirrels. If anyone wanted to attack me, they would have to do some serious reconnaissance work, and they would have to catch me first. And then they would have to fight me. See these?’ He gestured at the walls. ‘Judo. Taekwondo. Karate. This one’s for the Staffordshire Iron Man. One-mile swim, fifty-six-mile cycle, thirteen-mile run.’ He waved a hand at Sawyer and Shepherd. ‘Who’s this? My pace-setters?’
