by Andrew Lowe
‘We have to keep this tight,’ said Sawyer. ‘Just the key players. Nothing on HOLMES. I think he has inside information somehow. Maybe hacked HOLMES access. Maybe just what he’s picked up from the scenes or second-hand from briefings.’
Sally stared down at the desk, at her file photograph of Edward Ballard: a photobooth shot, bright and bland. Ballard was perched in front of a corrugated, watery blue background. He peered into the lens, head tilted up slightly. He had frizzy brown hair, cropped short all over. Wide, pensive mouth with thin lips pressed together; round, dark-framed glasses which perfectly matched the radius of his eye sockets. His expression was curious, and there was a softness to his eyes. A sympathy. He seemed slight and scaled down, diminished in the centre of the image.
‘He looks like an accountant,’ said Moran. ‘Or a fucking mortgage advisor.'
‘It’s just so difficult to believe. He’s one of my best investigators. So sharp. And kind, too. Diligent.’
‘This stuff doesn’t always show on the outside,’ said Sawyer.
‘He’s ditched the glasses,’ said Sally, dreamy and distant.
Myers knocked on the door; Sawyer waved him in.
‘There’s nobody at the Hayfield flat block,’ said Myers. ‘His flat is on the ground floor. Looks empty, through the window. The landlord is around tomorrow morning.’
Keating shook his head. ‘He’s not obliged to let us in.’
‘Harbouring?’ said Shepherd.
Moran nodded. ‘Perverting the course, at least.’
‘He won’t go back there,’ said Sawyer. ‘Not after what happened with Ingram and Walker.’
‘It’s crazy,’ said Sally.
Sawyer looked at her. ‘It’s safe. For the target.’
‘But not for you.’
‘She’ll only agree to it this way,’ said Keating. He nodded to Myers. ‘What else?’
‘Edward Ballard. Twenty-seven. Studied Forensic Science at Wolverhampton Uni. First three years undergrad, fourth year Masters. Looks like he didn’t complete the Masters. Worked clean-up at a Birmingham firm, Scene Clean. Then…’ He looked at Sally; she kept her gaze fixed on Keating’s desk. ‘Started to work on Sally’s team three years ago.’
‘Did he attend the Ingram and Walker scene?’ said Keating.
Sally shook her head. ‘Called in sick the day before.’
‘Busy staking out,’ said Sawyer. ‘Probably living in a new stolen van.’ He unwrapped a black-and-white boiled sweet. ‘The timeline adds up. I bet he saw the BBC article about Tyler last summer and it set him in motion. He contacted Amy Scott, forced her to reveal details of Tyler’s organ recipients. He spent some time observing the targets, establishing routines. A few weeks ago, he travelled to London and murdered Rebecca Morton. Then he visited Susan Bishop, the first of the five who are keeping Tyler “alive”, in his mind. He’s meticulous, unwavering. Andrew and Sophie mentioned his obsessive nature. We’ve seen it in his presentation, the way he’s tried to direct his attention to the offending organs. Leave no trace.’ He squeezed the sweet into his mouth.
Keating stared up at him. ‘One more time, Sally.’
She sighed. ‘I email my team, explaining how Kim has requested that the heavy protection be removed, with one protection officer at the front of the house and one unarmed protection officer inside, while we prepare for transfer to a safe house tomorrow morning. I say the house is to be swept after Kim has left, for evidence of intruders or listening devices.’
‘And we’re confident that Ballard will see this email?’ said Keating.
Sawyer shrugged. ‘Belt and braces. Even if he doesn’t, he will be watching as we remove the protection. There’s only one route through to Kim’s first-floor bedroom, which will be covered by the protection inside. Me. She’s asked for me specifically.’
Keating nodded. ‘You mean you pitched it to her, sold yourself.’
‘Not like you to make friends, DI Sawyer,’ said Moran.
Keating pointed at Myers. ‘I want you as the officer out front. Sawyer, stay in touch. Regular check-ins with Myers. If something feels wrong, if Ballard shows, you call it in. You get help. Immediately. Clear?’
Sawyer stepped forward, towards Keating. ‘This is our best chance of getting him. Kim Lyons is more than a loose end. Her continuing survival is unbearable for him. He needs to finish his work.’
57
Kim Lyons paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘There’s tea and cake in the kitchen. Please help yourself.’
Sawyer had pulled an armchair through to the hall. He sat in a pool of shadow in the corner, facing the door that led through to the porch and back garden. ‘Thank you. I’ve got everything I need. We appreciate your co-operation. If our friend makes an appearance, I can have back-up here in seconds. But please keep your bedroom door locked. I have your number, so I’ll inform you if there’s any development.’
Kim smiled. ‘You’re very brave, Detective.’
‘I’m fine. Leo’s got my back.’ He reached down and scratched the head of Kim’s mongrel dog, curled up tight at the side of the armchair. His tail swished against Sawyer’s ankles.
‘He’s not much of a guard dog, I’m afraid. He’s getting on a bit now.’
Sawyer patted Leo’s flabby torso. ‘Let me know if you need anything. I realise this must be stressful, Ms Lyons. But it’s under control. We have a watcher out front, and I have the back covered here. If nothing happens tonight, then we’ll have to move you and take another approach.’
She forced a smile and slowly made her way up the stairs. Sawyer followed the footsteps as she moved into her bedroom, directly above. He looked down to the dog. ‘Just you and me tonight, big man.’ Leo lifted an ear.
He reached over to the table at the side of the chair, and opened his book. ‘Let’s see if we can finally get through this.’
An hour passed. Sawyer knew from his experience with stakeouts that he had to hold his mind in stasis. It was a mistake to try and keep it alert with hectic videogames or lively music; that would just tire it out. But he also couldn’t afford to let it settle, sink too close to the edge of sleep.
He read, listened to low-volume music through one earpiece, played a few mildly taxing phone games.
The house was silent and still, apart from the metronomic tick, tick, tick of the kitchen wall clock. Its rhythm synced with Leo’s wheezy breathing and Sawyer found himself tuning out, drifting.
He got up and walked into the kitchen, navigating only by low-brightness phone light. Leo followed him, curious.
The kitchen clock read 2:40.
He made a cup of black instant coffee and helped himself to a slice of the sponge cake. Leo looked up as he sliced, hopeful. Sawyer smiled and handed down a chunk. The dog inhaled it and immediately agitated for more. He found some ham in the fridge and tore off a few strips, laying them on the floor for Leo to snaffle in seconds.
Sawyer ate the cake standing up and swallowed two ibuprofen with a slug of water. He took the coffee back to his chair, riding a spike of pain whenever he applied pressure to his right leg.
A noise upstairs.
Kim’s footsteps, moving across the ceiling towards the bathroom. After a few minutes, the toilet flushed, and she shuffled back.
Sawyer sent a message to Myers, out front, parked in an adjacent road.
All good?
After a few seconds, the reply came back.
Yes. Quiet.
Sawyer sat in the chair, staring into the darkness. He felt a sudden sense of panic, as if the idea to lure Ballard was flawed in a way that was just outside his perception.
He got up and crept to the end of the hallway, just in sight of the small conservatory with reading chair and bookshelf. The room looked out through French windows onto a decked porch and a large, well-tended garden beyond.
He looked back to the dark corner and his chair.
Tick, tick, tick.
Moonlight leaked in through the sitting room door
, casting a pallid half-light over Leo, who snuffled in his sleep. Sawyer walked back and sat down, pondering his unfinished business.
He had Shaun’s insurance card, but he would need to connect him to Dale, and prove his involvement in the assault. Dale was moving away, but clearly had no intention of letting Eva go. He thought of Alex’s words, about unwanted attention. Was he already inside that realm? Forcing the issue, when the smarter choice would be to hang back?
He would pick things up with Ryan Casey once this was all over, one way or another. He imagined the laughter at the Magpie Mine goose chase, but felt more disappointment than humiliation. It was clear that the Caseys knew more about Owen than they were prepared to reveal right now.
His therapy with Alex had become more than just a favour to Maggie. But it disturbed him, how he was more concerned with using her to gain more detail about the attack on his mother than with improving his own mental health: finding something tangible that would open up a new angle, away from his journalist masquerade, and the hunt for the man who had helped the killer frame Klein.
Tick, tick, tick.
He breathed steadily, listening to his thoughts, monitoring his physical aches: the throbbing in his hand, the sharp pain in his leg, a tender spot on his forehead where he had butted Shaun.
He reached for the book again, checked the time.
3:35.
His eyes stung with fatigue. More coffee. Soon.
Sawyer allowed his body to recline slightly, submitting to the pull of sleep. He closed his eyes, sank a little deeper, forced himself back from the brink.
Upstairs, Kim shuffled across the floor again.
Bathroom door: opening, closing.
Leo growled at his feet: a low, continuous drilling. He whimpered a little in his sleep. Chasing imaginary cats.
His tail stirred, started to swish. He growled again.
Sawyer leaned forward. The moonlight from the sitting room reflected in the dog’s open eyes. Not asleep any more.
A thought struck him, flipped his stomach. He stood and walked out to the conservatory, making himself visible to the French windows. He crouched, looking out to the porch and the single-storey extension where Kim kept the washing machine.
Sawyer walked back to the chair and nudged Leo to his feet. He bundled the dog into the sitting room and closed the door.
He listened. Some movement upstairs. No toilet flush.
Kim’s footsteps, moving from bathroom to bedroom. Quicker than before. More purpose.
Sawyer scaled the two bottom steps and leaned around the corner of the staircase, staying silent. He edged his way up, stair by stair, conscious of potential creaks.
As he neared the top, he thought he heard more movement from Kim’s bedroom. A brief shuffling. Then silence. The door was ajar, throwing a dim strip of lamplight over the landing.
Sawyer stepped forward and dabbed a finger at the door. It swung open, revealing the bed pushed against the far wall. Pink-and-white two-tone duvet, pulled to one side. No Kim.
He looked across the landing, to the bathroom. The door was closed. Solid light inside, bright around the edges. He had heard Kim go back to her bedroom. So why was the bathroom light still on, with the door closed? Had he dropped off to sleep? Missed her journey back again? And why no toilet flush?
Another room sat in the centre of the landing corridor. Spare? Office? He pressed his ear against it, listening. Nothing. He turned the handle slowly and pushed it open.
It was a spare bedroom. Unmade single bed, dresser with mirror. He inched his way to the window which overlooked the back garden. The net curtain flapped against the glass. One of the panes had been opened, admitting an outside chill. The lock had been forced. He looked out and down to the garden; the single-storey extension sat directly beneath the window. A bundle of rakish branches from a neighbouring tree obscured the roof, making the access difficult to see from the ground. From up here, it was clear that an intruder could climb up onto the extension and pull themselves up to the window.
A thud from the bathroom next door. He turned, on full alert, and edged back out onto the landing. He reached for the bathroom door handle, expecting it to be locked. But it turned, and he opened the door.
Kim Lyons lay on her back, in the bathtub, wearing only a thin blue nightdress. She was handcuffed, with her hands behind her back, and her mouth had been covered by a strip of gaffer tape. He caught the panic in her eyes as she nodded for the door, towards the space behind him.
He turned back, facing the bedroom door. Edward Ballard stood in the frame: head down, eyes glaring up at Sawyer. He was even shorter than Sawyer had imagined. Maybe no more than five-two. He wore a dark jumper, black jeans, black boots, and a blue-and-black striped beanie hat. His left hand—gloved—was in view, but his right was obscured behind the door.
His expression softened, and Sawyer recognised the kind eyes of the FSI who had handed him the latex gloves, back at the Susan Bishop crime scene.
Ballard angled his head and smiled, curling up one corner of his mouth. He had a shining black bruise around his left eye socket. Ingram must have winged him. Or Walker.
‘Bright and fierce and fickle is the South,’ said Ballard. His voice was calm, colourless. ‘And dark and true and tender is the North.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Tennyson.’
‘I read about you. “Hero cop”. Quite a life. You’ve done well, considering. It’s been a pleasure to work with you.’
‘I can’t say the feeling’s mutual.’
Ballard smiled. ‘We’ve both suffered. I saw you in the woods, limping.’
‘Wear and tear. Anyway…’ Sawyer clapped his hands together. ‘Can’t stand around talking all day.’
Ballard shook his head. ‘We’re just getting started.’ He moved out from Kim’s bedroom and walked towards Sawyer, keeping his right hand down, out of sight. He lunged forward, lifting the red-and-black can of incapacitant spray towards Sawyer’s face.
Sawyer’s first thought was to deflect Ballard’s arm with an inside block, and hopefully get him to drop the can. But he couldn’t risk Ballard catching him in the face before he could make the distance. He dropped his head and charged forward, keeping sight of Ballard’s legs to maintain his bearing.
He heard the hiss of the spray, and felt the liquid settle on the back of his head, stinging his scalp. He rammed his dropped head into Ballard’s body, pushing him into Kim’s bedroom door, which snapped open with a loud crack. The can flew into the wall and clattered down the stairs.
Leo downstairs, barking.
They fell to the floor, grappling. Ballard was small, but he had immense core strength, and Sawyer struggled to get him under control.
Ballard jerked out of his grip and rolled away.
The light from Kim’s bedside lamp was weak, and Ballard’s all-black clothing camouflaged him in the darkness. Sawyer couldn’t immediately see where he had rolled to.
A blur of movement to his right.
Ballard swung his arm around and drove a short-bladed knife into Sawyer’s right thigh, inches from his bullet wound. Sawyer bellowed in agony and groped for Ballard’s hand, hoping to hold and overpower him. But he jerked his arm away, pulling the knife free. He scurried out of the room, across the landing.
Sawyer writhed and clutched at the stab wound. The carpeted floor beneath his leg was already warm and wet. He planted his left foot down and forced himself upright.
Ballard crossed the landing and slipped into the bathroom.
Sawyer followed, shouldering into the door before Ballard could lock it, shoving him back into the room. He glanced down at his leg: too much blood.
He pushed into the bathroom.
Ballard was crouched by the bathtub. He had grabbed a fistful of Kim’s hair in one hand, holding her head back. He held the bloodied knife in the other hand, poised at her throat. Kim had screwed her eyes shut; her body convulsing with fear.
Ballard smiled at Sawyer. He had barely broken
a sweat, despite the tussle. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Femoral artery. I wouldn’t worry. Complete transection is rare.’ He looked down at Sawyer’s leg, and the pooling blood. ‘Although you can still bleed to death.’
Sawyer snatched a towel off the rail. He tied it tight around the top of his thigh, keeping his eyes on Ballard.
Ballard smiled and nodded his head. ‘The article said you were present at your mother’s murder. A child. Truly terrible.’ His eyes narrowed, hardened. ‘But then you still had your father. Most orphans are made. I was born an orphan. Denied the love of both my mother and father. Then, I was lied to. The love was tricked out of me.’
Sawyer steadied his breathing. Downstairs, Leo barked in bursts of two and three, paused for a few seconds, repeated. ‘This is such a mess, Edward.’ He waved a hand across the bloodied floor, gestured to Kim. ‘And you’ve been so tidy. So precise.’
Ballard darkened; the anger poking through his poise. He pinched his lips together, drew in a deep breath through his nose. ‘That fucking nurse.’ He composed himself, turned a curious gaze on Sawyer. ‘How is your colleague? That was wrong. But I had to…’ He trailed off. It struck Sawyer that his enquiry wasn’t sarcastic; he seemed genuinely concerned for Walker.
Sawyer slid to the floor, back against the wall, keeping the bathroom door open. ‘You know, Ed. In a way, you might say that Roy Tyler was your real father.’ Ballard let his gaze sink to the floor. ‘The crash resulted in the death of your parents. But it also induced your premature birth. You came into being as the result of his choices that night.’
Ballard jerked his head up. There was rage in his eyes now. ‘Edward Shaw gave me life. He delivered me.’
‘From evil? Do you see him as your father, or Our Father?’
‘He’s a surgeon. Not a god.’
‘And how about you, Ed? Are you a god or a monster? What gives you the power over life and death?’
