by Andrew Lowe
He kept up the pressure on the wound. He knew it all depended on the depth of the cut. He could tell by the blood’s relatively calm flow that the killer had missed the carotid artery. But there might still be too much blood loss, oxygen starvation.
Sirens. On the road over the ridge.
Walker was trembling now, going into shock. Sawyer kept eye contact, but Walker’s legs had stopped thrashing.
‘We’ll get you back, Matt. You did a good thing. You tried to help. You tried to stop it. You couldn’t do any more.’
The shirt was heavy with blood now. Sawyer applied more pressure, but Walker was still, his stare frozen.
He had tried to help. He had tried to stop it.
But he could do no more.
53
Sawyer and Shepherd sat opposite each other, heads bowed, in the corridor at Cavendish Hospital. Further down, by the nurse’s station, the lift door opened. Keating burst out, saw them, and hurried along the corridor.
Sawyer and Shepherd stood in unison, and turned to face him. A nurse dashed out from behind the desk and followed Keating.
He anticipated her protest and shouted, without turning. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Ivan Keating!’
Sawyer held up a hand, slowing him. ‘He’s alive. Critical. In theatre now. His throat was cut. Missed the main artery but nicked the windpipe. I got there minutes after it happened, sir. Did what I could.’
Keating’s expression was black with fury. He stared at the floor in silence, waiting for more.
Shepherd looked at Sawyer. ‘The doctor said they’ve stabilised him but it’s impossible to—’
‘Why was Detective Constable Walker alone?’ Keating kept his gaze on the floor.
‘I was with him,’ said Sawyer. ‘But I couldn’t keep up, because of my leg. Ingram gave him the slip and went for a solo run. The killer must have been waiting for the opportunity. Walker probably disturbed him. He had to leave Ingram’s body behind.’
Keating nodded. ‘One of the OPs said that Walker tried to contact both of you, over half an hour before you got to Ingram’s house.’
Shepherd cleared his throat. ‘I was at the safe house with Amy and Ava Scott, sir. Didn’t pick up the call straight away.’
Keating raised his eyes to Sawyer.
‘I was resting,’ said Sawyer. ‘Your orders.’
‘Ingram was pronounced dead at the scene,’ said Shepherd. ‘Stab wound. Lower back. Kidney. Didn’t have time to bleed him out like the others, so he cut his throat, too. Much deeper than Walker. Myers and Moran are there with Sally’s team.’
Sawyer stared past Keating. A group of nurses had gathered at the station, drawn by the commotion. ‘He knew about the running routine. But he could have staked it out. I think he also knew that Ingram was refusing heavy protection, refusing to scale back his runs. He wouldn’t have planned an ambush otherwise.’ He turned to Shepherd. ‘OP guys all check out?’
Shepherd sighed and shook his head. ‘Watertight.’
‘Reassign them to Kim Lyons’ place. Immediately. He’s near the end of his project now. He might be crazy enough to try and wrap it up tonight.’
‘We should take her to a safe house.’
Keating shook his head. ‘She won’t go. Wants to stay in her own home. Double the OPs outside her place. Surveillance detail on a five-mile radius. Firearms officer on shift, on the door. Spot checks. Nobody gets within shouting distance of the place. And if anyone tries, I want to hear about it. DI Sawyer. Get back to your rest.’
Sawyer drove home in a trance, under a midnight blue sky. By the time he reached Edale, the desolate fields were glowing in the approaching sunrise, making him crave an extension of night. Extra time. The space to repair his mood, and gather himself for the terrors to come.
He slipped into the cottage and made himself a cup of tea, staring at his warped reflection in the hissing kettle. He stood still, and watched as it rattled to the boil, smothering his image with steam. He ached for purification, renewal.
He found a packet of paracetamol and limped into the bedroom with his tea. He set down the mug on the bedside table, and allowed himself to fall forward, face down into the mattress.
And then his phone was buzzing, and he was awake. Two hours swept away in an instant.
Sawyer twisted round onto his back and sat up. Weak morning light outside. Headache. Dry mouth.
He took two paracetamol with a gulp of cold tea and checked his phone. Shepherd.
Phone me back
He made the call. Shepherd answered immediately.
Sawyer drew in a breath, held it. ‘Go on.’
‘Survived the op. They’ve put him in an induced coma. Brain swelling. Looks like he was hit with something before having his throat cut. Maggie’s here with his girlfriend.’
Sawyer exhaled. ‘You still at the hospital?’
‘Yeah. Managed to shut my eyes for an hour or so in the brightly lit relatives’ room.’
Sawyer’s leg sent out a pulse of pain. He rummaged in the drawer for ibuprofen. ‘Did you manage to—’
‘Haven’t even seen him yet. He’s gone, though. Intensive Care. I did ask the doctor, but he said there was no telling what might happen next. He might wake and be able to speak. He might be under for a few days, maybe even a couple of weeks.’
‘Will he live? Will he survive it?’
‘Doc said there might be cognitive impairment.’ He went quiet for a few seconds. ‘I’m going back to the office. Sorry about the cliché, but now it’s personal. Let’s get this bastard.’
‘Twenty minutes.’
54
Sawyer stepped out of the lift, not bothering to disguise his limp. It was early, and only a few of the desks were taken. As he crossed the floor, he could feel Moran’s sunken eyes on him, tracking his progress. Myers sat at a spare desk in the far corner, staring ahead, mesmerised by his kaleidoscopic screensaver.
Shepherd followed Sawyer into his office and closed the door. Sawyer wrapped his jacket around the back of his chair and sat down. ‘Four murders. One attempt. What’s new?’
‘Firearms officer with Kim Lyons,’ said Shepherd. ‘Protection doubled. OPs round the front and back. I’m staying in the spare room. One of the other DCs, Murphy, is covering when I’m not there.’
‘Missus not happy?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Missus not happy. Moran went to the Archives at Kew. He found the end of Joseph Dawson’s line in the indexes. April 2008. As you predicted, no document or note to indicate what he changed it to. We have a big list of names that were registered at that time, though. Myers cross-reffed it with local chemistry graduates, but no hits.’
Sawyer took Shepherd’s tactical pen out of the pot and twiddled it around his fingers. ‘He might have studied but not graduated. Let’s get closer to the centre. Dawson himself. This thing about wanting to start again. He was angry at his given parents, rejecting them. Get someone to check the hospital records on the day he was born. Obstetricians on duty. Who might have delivered him? Get some names. Cross-check with the deed poll list.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Forensics from Ingram show he was hit with PAVA. Incapacitant spray.’
‘So much for his certificates. Good, old-fashioned surprise attack.’
‘Sally says the immediate scene is clean, but they’re searching the surrounding woods. If he had to get away in a hurry, he might have left us something.’
Sawyer slotted the pen away. ‘Get back to Kim Lyons. I need you to stay there and supervise.’
‘She’s pretty low maintenance.’
‘She’s also effectively under house arrest until this is over.’
When Shepherd had left, Sawyer closed his blind and dug out a pair of in-ear headphones. He connected them to his phone and cued up the recording of his reliving session with Alex. It was profoundly strange to hear his voice checking off all the details, including the colours, the weather, the sensory information.
‘I am walking d
own the lane… I can hear a plane, high in the sky… I am running back, too fast, tripping over my steps... I can hear my mother’s voice and my dog, barking… The sound makes me feel scared and sick… I can feel the heat of the sun… I can see the green of the grass, the red of the blood…’
He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t help his mother. And he couldn’t help Walker. Both times, he had been too late. Compromised. Powerless.
Of all the questions Alex had posed, one lingered.
‘Does your behaviour put other people in danger?’
He listened some more.
‘I am feeling dizzy… I am crawling on the ground… I can see a man holding a hammer…’
He stopped the recording. He was breathing hard.
He let his brain wander.
His mother asked her killer, “Why?” There was no indication that she had known Owen Casey. So, if he had taken the hammer from Marcus Klein’s house, he was unlikely to be the killer. And the killing was too brutal and calculated for a man with a history of petty burglary. Someone must have asked him, forced him, to take the hammer. They had to be the killer. Or someone connected to the killer. Someone who could plant it as evidence. Or manipulate it later to incriminate Klein. Another informant? An insider?
He called Sally. She barely had time to say hello before he started to speak. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Can you be overheard?’
‘I’m at the processing lab. Private office. Why?’
‘We checked the staff on the crime-scene clean-up company, yes?’
She sighed, irritated. ‘Yes. CTS Decon.’
Sawyer got up and walked to the window. ‘What if the person using the hardcore cleaning chemical isn’t involved in cleaning crime scenes but their work still brings them into contact with similar chemicals?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Jake—’
‘The chemical, the apparent insider knowledge, the change of methods…’
‘You’re not fucking serious?’
He opened the blind. Sunny. Short morning shadows. ‘Remember the conversation we had in the tent at the Palmer scene? I talked about the killer being consistent. I said how it would help us to catch him.’
‘Yes?’
‘The FSIs were there, all around us. After that, we get the chewing gum and fibres at the Brock scene. Breaking in, changing the lock. Changing his methods. Less consistent. Intentionally trying to throw us off. I want a list of everyone you’ve employed as a forensic scene investigator, helper, assistant. Everything. Particularly those who have accompanied you to the scenes in this case.’
Sally took a breath, holding her temper. ‘My team are subject to extensive background checks. They’re regularly screened for psychological—’
‘This is nothing personal on you. Please email me the list straight away. And don’t let anyone on your team know you’ve sent it.’
55
Sawyer drove out of Buxton, climbing away from the tangled outskirts onto the broad A-road artery that connected to the High Peak. He played the album that defined his early teenage years: Everything Must Go by the Manic Street Preachers. Soaring art rock, fuelled by melancholy. It was the first record the band had released since the disappearance of their mercurial guitarist Richey Edwards, and the sense of loss and longing defined his bittersweet escape from a childhood poisoned by his mother’s absence. Today, the breadth of the music meshed with the widescreen fields, spotlit by unseasonal sunshine.
He aimed for the village of Flash, sizing up the potential endgames: extrapolating, projecting options, gaming scenarios. The killer was pathological. He was determined to complete his work: erase all cellular evidence of the man who had denied him the chance to ever know his real parents. But what then? Move on? Wall it all off as an unpleasant duty?
He remembered the words of Dennis Crawley, his quarry in the previous case; a man also driven to murder out of a twisted desire to rebalance the universe. He had said that an eye for an eye was too final, that revenge was a stone in a lake, sending out ripples across future generations. An insatiable legacy.
For the first time, Sawyer was struck by a terrible thought. What if he was to discover his mother’s killer? To confront the man who had demolished her delicate face with a hammer? Would an eye for an eye be enough for him? Would her killer’s death be enough to break the spell that held his brother mute, that had turned his wise and funny father into a religious recluse? Would it unlock his own state of suspension? Unfreeze him?
The gate at the entrance to Kim Lyons’ house was guarded by an authorised firearms officer in bullet-proof body armour, carrying a semi-automatic carbine rifle. Sawyer showed his warrant card. The man called through on his walkie-talkie. A plain clothes protection officer opened the front door and the AFO nodded Sawyer through.
Kim Lyons sat at the kitchen table, talking to a standing female firearms officer. She wore a chunky, rainbow-striped jumper and bright blue jeans. Was she favouring louder colours to compensate for her fading eyesight?
‘Detective.’ Kim pulled herself upright and walked over. She shook Sawyer’s hand: her grip was limp, more like a pinch. ‘A great deal of fuss for one person.’ Her voice seemed even weaker. Watery.
‘Ms Lyons. We have an ongoing situation and we have to prioritise your safety.’
She gave a sad little nod. ‘Are you close to catching this person?’
‘My boss would like you. I think so. I have some ideas. We hope you won’t have to suffer this inconvenience for much longer.’
She ran her fingers around the table and navigated to the far corner of the kitchen. The firearms officer stepped aside to let her through. ‘Would you like some cake?’ Kim took a plastic tub out of the fridge. She opened it, revealing a square sponge cake, coated in bright pink icing and cut into small slices.
‘My kind of breakfast,’ said Sawyer, picking out a slice. ‘Thank you.’
Kim handed him a side plate and a sheet of kitchen roll. ‘Your colleague is through there, in the sitting room. I can’t get him to eat anything.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Doesn’t do sugar. His body is a temple. Well, a parish church, maybe. Strict regime. How are you doing?’
She groped her way to the chair and sat down. ‘Not terribly well, I’m afraid. Everything seems a little darker now. I keep squinting, blinking. Rubbing my eyes. Hoping it will get better. But it never does.’ Kim looked up at him, her eyes darting, hungry for light. ‘My ophthalmologist is very sweet. He tells me that people live perfectly good lives without sight. But I’m not sure I’m ready to accept that. There’s so much beauty in the world. Too much to live on without it.’
The mongrel dog padded in; Sawyer petted it. ‘Life can surprise you. It might feel you’ve reached the end of the road, but then you find a little path, and it leads you somewhere unexpected. You should always be open to the unexpected. Emily Dickinson, the poet, said a beautiful thing. “I dwell in possibility”.’
Kim smiled. ‘That is beautiful. But I think I’ve stopped fearing death, as the end, with nothing but void beyond. In one sense, fear of death is the fear of missing out, on all the things the living can enjoy. But I value my sight too much. The compromise would be impossible to bear. Have you heard of David Eagleman?’
‘The neuroscientist?’
Kim seemed pleased. ‘Yes! He wrote that we all have three deaths. The first, when the body ceases to function. The second, when the body is buried or otherwise discarded. And the third is the moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time. When you’re forgotten by the living. I have no children, Detective. There’s nobody to speak my name, to carry my genes, hold me in memory. I’m ready to be forgotten.’
‘Your moment will come,’ said Sawyer. ‘As it will for all of us. But for now, I’m afraid it’s my job to extend it into the future, to make sure you have the time to do unforgettable things.’
She gazed up at him. ‘You sound more like a
priest than a policeman. I lost my faith years ago. Catholic. I always enjoyed confession, though. So cleansing. I hope you have someone you can confess to.’
Sawyer smiled and turned away. He walked through, past the plain clothes officer. Shepherd sat at a wooden dining table, busy on his laptop.
‘Minecraft?’ said Sawyer.
Shepherd looked up, startled by his presence. ‘Something happened?’
Sawyer dismissed the officer and closed the door. ‘You online?’
‘Yeah. Looking at the list of doctors from Myers. The ones working at Cavendish on the day of Joseph Dawson’s birth. Two obstetricians. Edward Shaw and William Riley.’
Sawyer joined him at the laptop. ‘Bring up the names from Moran. The deed poll name changes registered at the end of the Joseph Dawson timeline.’ Shepherd opened a PDF from his desktop: a smudgy photocopy, with a long list of names in alphabetical order of first name. Five Edwards. Three Williams. No Shaws or Rileys. He took out his phone and checked his email. Another list, from Sally. Sawyer scanned the names and set the phone down on the table, for Shepherd to see.
He took a bite of the cake, waited. Shepherd read through the list, cross-checked with his laptop screen. He looked up and raised his eyebrows.
Sawyer nodded. ‘Remember the bookshelf?’
‘Bring him in?’
‘Get Myers to trace the name. Full story. There’ll be an address, but he won’t be there now. Not after Walker.’
‘Public appeal?’
‘I’ve got a better idea.’
56
They stood before Keating like a line of naughty children in the headmaster’s office: Sawyer, Shepherd, Moran and Sally. Keating leaned forward on his desk, scrubbing a palm across his stubbled chin.
