by Andrew Lowe
‘All hearsay.’
‘All credible.’ Harold raised his voice. ‘More credible than this conspiracy theory you’re peddling. A senior officer working together with a petty criminal. Casey has clocked you as a buyer of information. He’s telling you what he thinks you want to hear, in exchange for a bit of money. And now he’s holding out to get the price up. The crime has been committed. The killer has been convicted. This is all a game, Jake. Don’t play it. Don’t be played like this.’
Sawyer moved away from the piano, heading for the door. ‘I have a key card in my hand. I will get this name. This is me, persevering. Being patient.’
‘It’s a dead case, Jake!’
‘It’s a cold case!’ Sawyer was shouting now. ‘And I’m about to warm it up again. Whatever you choose to remember.’
Harold stood at the edge of the French windows and watched, as his son reversed around the Volvo and drove away, throwing up dirt from the track. When the final fragments of dust had settled, he turned and walked out to the back of the cottage, to his studio.
He browsed through his colour-coded shelving, and slid a small paint pot from the neat row on the yellow shelf. The pot rattled as he prised off the lid. He took out the key and unlocked the side room, which connected to a sturdy old outbuilding, around twenty feet square, with a stone floor and steps leading down to an old wine cellar. The building’s central space was empty, but the walls were lined with stacked metal shelving, packed with supplies: neatly marked boxes containing groceries, medical materials, small electricals.
An old dresser had been pushed into the corner, perfectly fitted in the remaining space left by one of the shelving units. He took a notepad and pen from the top drawer and worked through the supply boxes, noting the month’s depletions, marking items for order.
He closed the book and stood there for a while, letting his eyes drift to the heavy steel door which led down to the cellar. He had installed it himself, ten years ago, after torrential rain and floods had savaged the building and weakened the old door beyond repair. It had taken him most of one week: two days for acquisition and the marking of parts, five days for the installation: drilling into the brickwork, securing the frame, fitting the security cylinder. In one sense, it was an act of divinity, of omnipotence. So fitting, that he would toil for six days and rest on the seventh.
Harold locked the main door to the outbuilding and walked back into his studio. He replaced the key in the pot and set it alongside the others, twisting its position so that all the colour swatches formed a neat horizontal line, ascending in intensity from inky black to brilliant white.
Cain and Rufus sat outside the studio, looking up at him hopefully.
Harold smiled and ruffled their heads. ‘Let’s get you some lunch, boys.’
He headed outside, to a small garage with another hefty shelving unit which held various brands of dog food, biscuits and supplements: all items perfectly aligned in alphabetical order.
He pulled away a couple of tins and ducked out of the garage, under the folding metal door. He set down the tins on the floor, reached up with both hands, and pulled the door down, concealing the vehicle inside: a 2008 BMW X5. Burgundy.
62
Sawyer spent the weekend at home, recharging and recuperating. His leg wounds healed well, and he found a curious solace in the regular ritual of checking, cleaning, rebandaging. On Maggie’s recommendation, he downloaded a recipe app and bought in a supply of quality ingredients from the local farm shop. For the first time since he’d left London, he planned his meals, prepared the ingredients, followed the recipes. The results were mixed, but Alex had suggested he focus on physical self-care for now, which would help build the mental strength for another try at her reliving therapy. Holism. Body and mind as one project.
On the Saturday evening, he set his Spotify ‘Favourite Songs’ playlist on shuffle and spent two hours cleaning the cottage, wearing a battered old Bruce Lee T-shirt, headphones and rubber gloves. He scoured beneath the toilet rim to Richard Hawley’s ‘Tonight The Streets Are Ours’. He dusted and polished to The KLF; hoovered to Robyn and Bat For Lashes. Later, he flopped down with a bowl of lemon and tomato salmon pasta, and called Klein.
No answer. He hung up without leaving a message. He was about to send a text when a waiting call cut through. Eva.
She half-whispered. ‘Listen. Got to be quick. Can you meet somewhere on Tuesday? Near you is fine.’
‘Rambler’s Inn? Not far from here.’
‘I’ll find it.’ She paused. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Wow. That quick? Why are we meeting out? You should come back here. I’ve cleaned the place. You’ll be impressed.’
Eva sighed. ‘Is that a serious question? I want to see you.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And that name you mentioned, Shaun Brooks. He works for Dale.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Dale had a going away party here the other day. I took lots of photos. He had a private meeting with Shaun and another guy. Looked serious. I’ve got to go. Five on Tuesday?’
‘Keen! Bit early for me.’
An indulgent pause. He could see her smile; the coquettish eyes. Doubtful but indulgent. ‘In the evening. Bye-bye.’
She hung up.
That night, Sawyer dreamt about his mother. The scene was different, the colours muted. And Alex was there, standing by the side of the field in her long coat and beret, making notes. He crawled towards his mother, through the blizzard of barking and screaming. He turned back, looking for encouragement from Alex. She nodded, urging him on. But then he was overhead, above it all; a drone’s eye view. And he could control his movement: hovering and diving at will. He zoomed down on Henry, on Michael. But he couldn’t get close to his mother and the man in the balaclava. There was an invisible shield around them, preventing entry. He willed and willed, flying into it, bouncing back like an insect.
He turned to Alex. She nodded, insistent. He tried again. This time, his descent slowed, as if the air had turned viscous, fluid. But he was through, closing in on the man, as he smashed and smashed the hammer into his mother’s face.
His mother had pulled away the balaclava.
‘Why?’
And Sawyer caught a glimpse. The man’s face, spattered with blood. Dark, heavy eyebrows. And the moustache. Black with an edging of grey. Deep-set eyes with brown irises, almost black. And there was nothing in them. He wasn’t frantic or angry or aroused. He looked more irritated; annoyed that his work had been interrupted by the removal of his mask.
Sawyer was suddenly awake, but with no distress. He reached to his bedside table drawer and dug out a pencil and envelope. He sketched the man’s face, filling in as much detail as he could remember. The result was impressionistic, and it may have been nothing more than a creation of his imagination. But it felt good to have something tangible in reality: a positive link, extracted from his night terrors.
On Sunday, he drove out to the Penny Pot Café near Barber Booth. He read his book, drank coffee, ate too much lemon drizzle cake. Outside, he turned away from the station and crossing barrier, and walked down, past the Rambler’s Inn, into the chocolate-box hamlet of Edale. Tiny primary school, one pub, one general store, one flickering bar of 3G coverage. The weather was crisp and sunny, and he fell in with the flow of ramblers aiming for the base of Kinder Scout.
He climbed the south side, taking it slow, resting his leg. At the rocky slope near the summit, he forced himself into a scramble, pleased with his general fitness. At the top, he shivered in the stinging air and gazed back down into the folds of the valley, across the scarred moorland, cobbled by gritstone. A low bank of raincloud seethed overhead, and Sawyer pressed on along the edge of the ridge and found Jacob’s Ladder, a set of precipitous stone steps which delivered him back to earth, just as the rain swooped down in anger.
He stopped for tea at a small café in Edale and called Klein again. Still no answer. Was he screening him now?
In the evening, as twilight settled
outside, Sawyer sat around playing videogames and browsing through articles on his phone, struggling to settle. He fed Bruce and went out for a late run, following a circular route of farm trails around the back of the cottage, keeping his pace slow. He hopped over a break in a dry-stone wall and followed the edge of a field, tracked by a crowd of curious sheep. As the ground inclined away from the roadside trees, the sky opened out, and a spare firework popped above, its neon shards flaring in the gloom.
As he reached the cottage, he could see the headlights of a car approaching from Hayfield, along the Kinder Road. He let himself in, freshened up, and poured a large glass of milk. He sipped it, listening.
The car slowed on the road outside, and pulled in, across the driveway bridge. It idled for a while, then fell silent.
Sawyer hung back in the kitchen and finished the milk. Surely Dale wouldn’t send his men again, so soon?
The car door opened and closed. One set of footsteps approached the house. Five urgent raps. He braced and opened the door.
It was Keating, in uniform, holding his cap under one arm. ‘DI Sawyer.’ His expression was grim, but he forced a smile.
‘Sir. Sunday night. I’m going for business over pleasure.’
‘Perceptive, as ever. Can I come in?’
Sawyer stood aside and closed the door behind Keating. He took a chair at the kitchen table, obliging Sawyer to do likewise.
Sawyer eyed him. ‘Drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Is it Walker?’
He shook his head. ‘They tell me he’s rallied. Recovering well.’
‘So…’
‘It’s you.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Dale Strickland?’
‘He’s filed an official complaint about harassment. But that’s the least of your worries.’ Keating laid his hat on the table. ‘I asked Maggie to look out for you. A friendly check on your state of mind, based on a few of your professional decisions. But I’ve also been suspicious of your motives for coming back here. I asked Moran to keep an eye on you. We know you were tracking Klein, Jake. Getting close to him. Studying his rhythms.’
Sawyer squinted at him. ‘Does Moran drive a burgundy BMW?’
‘Not as far as I know. Seems a bit above his level.’
‘He’s hardly a partial observer. You know our history. Drummond’s wife.’
Keating nodded. ‘I do. For me, that was a good thing. I figured he wouldn’t give you the benefit of the doubt. I know you visited Klein in prison a few months ago, under an assumed name. Lloyd Robbins. That would be enough to have you on a disciplinary charge by itself. You’ve also met him a number of times since. I assume he didn’t know who you were? Where did you get the name from?’
‘Apollo Robbins. My favourite pickpocket.’ Sawyer ran a palm across his forehead. ‘Look. Sir. Klein didn’t kill my mother. You know how I feel about that. I’ve been trying to find out who did. I had to hide my identity because he was hardly likely to cooperate with the son of the woman he was convicted of murdering.’
‘And did you take him with you on the trip to the Irish traveller camp?’
Sawyer flinched. ‘Someone sent you a picture. I took him once. But not the time I got in the ring. Look. Sir. I had to get their trust. They’re close-knit. They have information. I can take you through it.’
Keating stood up. ‘You should never have come back. We should have been smarter with your application. Seen the angle.’ He walked to the front door and opened it. ‘When did you last see Klein, Jake?’
‘Couple of days ago. I was following a lead. Pub in Matlock.’
Car doors closing.
‘And what did he do after that?’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘No idea. Went back to his flat, I suppose. I’ve never been there. He told me he lives at his brother’s place in Castleton.’
Footsteps outside. Several people.
Keating dropped his head. ‘We found an item of yours at his place.’
Sawyer frowned and got to his feet. ‘It must be something he took from my car, or—’
‘He was found dead early this morning. At his flat. His brother found him.’
The room swayed. Sawyer reached a steadying hand to the table.
Bodies in the doorway. Shepherd and Moran.
Sawyer looked at them. Moran: glaring, with the hint of a smile. Shepherd: eyes on the floor.
Keating took a step towards Sawyer. ‘After your meeting, Klein went back to his flat. He didn’t report in to his scheduled parole interview the following morning.’
Sawyer felt the muscles in his legs go limp. He sank to his haunches, covered his face with his hands.
‘He’d been tied up,’ said Moran. ‘And beaten.’
The words left Sawyer’s mouth before he could stop them. ‘With a hammer.’
Keating nodded. ‘With a hammer.’
Sawyer rose up. ‘Do it.’
Keating had the arrogance to put on his cap. ‘Jake Sawyer, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Marcus Klein.’ Sawyer looked to Shepherd and Moran. Both were fixated on Keating now. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Shepherd produced a pair of handcuffs and stepped forward. ‘Is there any point putting these on, sir?’
Sawyer smiled and held out his hands. Shepherd clicked the cuffs into place.
Moran stepped around them and stood next to Keating.
Shepherd turned and led the way.
Sawyer followed. Out of the door. Into the dark.
Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!
William Golding, Lord of the Flies
Prologue
The girl swished through a patch of long grass and dropped to her knees in the shadow of a tall perimeter hedge. She was nine, maybe ten, with long brown hair gathered in the fur-lined hood of a pear-green winter parka.
She dug into the cold earth with chewed-down fingernails and raised a few chunks of soil, petrified by the morning frost. She had been promised snow, but had woken only to a brief swirl of hail as it scattered over the bedroom window.
She looked back at the building: a vast three-storey farmhouse set at the end of a broad driveway. The front lawn was open to the elements, with a high fence and road entrance sealed by a pair of wrought iron gates. But here in the sheltered back garden, the plants craned for their morning flare of filtered sunshine, and sulked in the shade for the rest of the day.
The girl swept the soil from her hands and peeked through the gap in the hedge. She had been working on it for five days now: unpicking the branches, blunting the hawthorn, folding the leaves back into place to retain an illusion of density. She squinted at the empty meadows, crusted white by frozen dew. The ground dipped away to the horizon, swallowed by a grove of evergreens, swaying in the half-light.
The side door opened and shut, and the girl scrabbled backwards, away from the gap. A short, sunken woman appeared at the edge of the garden and pulled on a black woollen hat and a pair of yellow gloves. She smiled and hobbled down a stone staircase, her face misted behind vapours of laboured breath.
‘Come on, love. It’s a cold one today. Best be inside.’
The girl cast her wide blue eyes up at the woman. ‘Can I please stay out for a bit? I don’t feel very well. Fresh air is nice.’
The woman tilted her head. She was in her mid-sixties; a little hefty but well preserved, with the hint of a sparkle in her narrowed eyes. ‘Okay. But stay close, remember?’ She turned and hauled herself back up to the house, glancing behind as she re-entered through the side door.
The girl shuffled back to the gap. She reached down her leg and rolled back the fabric of her jeans. The metal collar was locked tight around her ankle, with only the slightest gap for circulation. She brushed her fingertips over the rough metal and gazed out at the field beyond.
&nbs
p; How long to the trees? A few minutes of sprinting?
But what was beyond them? If she could make it, maybe she could stay hidden in the forest, find her way to a road.
Cars, people.
Her breath came in short bursts now. Panting. Her heart beating hard and fast.
A quick look back at the house.
All quiet.
She reached forward and prised open the gap, shouldering her way through the hedge and into the weeds at the fringe of the field.
She stumbled, rose up and ran, out across the open grass. A lateral blast of wind staggered her, but she leaned into it and kept her aim, charging for the trees.
A jolt of pain, surging up from her feet, ripping through her core, flashing outwards to her fingertips. A vibration, rattling her teeth and bones. A buzzing sound in her ears.
Her whole body stiffened, and her view of the treeline switched to the dirty white sky, as her head was yanked back by some unseen force.
The buzzing and vibration stopped and she tilted, no longer in control of her legs. The ground was cold and brittle, and she dragged her arms forward, trying to push herself back onto her feet.
Another jolt. More vibration. All ambient sound shut out by the buzzing. Her limbs tensed again: joints frozen, suspended. She willed herself on, but her body wouldn’t comply.
The sound cut out, and her body relaxed. But she was exhausted now. Face down, flat out.
A shout. The woman, somewhere back near the house.
A male voice in response.
Crunching behind.
The girl twisted her head round and saw the man approach. He adjusted something on a handheld device and slipped it into the inside pocket of a dark-brown leather jacket. He loomed over her: tall and slender, struggling to stay upright in the wind.
He dipped his head and studied her. There was hurt in his eyes. Disappointment.
He scooped up the girl and turned back towards the house.
