by Andrew Lowe
‘I don’t get why he’s going there personally, though. Surely it’s easier to stay with you. Leave the club to his lackeys?’
Eva took a slug of coffee. ‘He doesn’t want to actually divorce. He’s looking for a “break”. Says the distance might bring us closer together.’
Sawyer sat back, frowned at her. ‘You said you took some photos?’
She pulled out her phone and held it screen side up, swiping through a series of images. Burly men in hired-looking suits. Defendant chic. Drinking, laughing, leering. Shaun was there, leaning in, talking to Dale.
Sawyer reached out a hand and stopped Eva’s swiping. ‘Let me see that one.’
He peered in close to the screen and pointed to a short man in the background, propped against a door frame. ‘This guy is Marco. Another one of my visitors.’
Eva shuddered. ‘He’s very touchy.’
‘As in easily angered?’
‘As in feely.’
He slurped at his coffee. ‘Thank you for this. It’s a big help. Can you keep an eye out for me? Comings and goings. I can’t do much about it at the moment, but maybe soon.’ He flicked his gaze to the table, then back up to Eva. She had raised her eyebrows again, catching his deflection. ‘Lots going on.’
‘Those missing children?’
‘I’m interested in that, yes.’
She squinted. ‘Interested in it?’
‘I’m dealing with another case.’
‘Must be something big.’
He drew in a deep breath. ‘Do you know how many children go missing every year in the UK? Around a hundred and forty thousand. One in every two hundred.’
Eva gasped. ‘How do you find them?’
‘Search the home or last known address. Start close and work out. Try their phone if they have one. Check computers. House to house. Hospitals. CCTV. Land and air search. Use the media. Public appeals. Most of them are found quickly, with nothing suspicious. Have you heard of the golden hour?’
‘Yes. In photography. The time before sunset, when the sun is low and the light is redder and softer.’
He nodded. ‘We use the term to describe the first hour of an investigation. The critical time when you snap into action and gather evidence, secure scenes, find witnesses, track suspects. It’s particularly important in missing person cases, because the earlier you move in—’
‘The more restricted the catchment area.’
‘And the more likely you are to find the person. It’s like you’re on a clock. The light fading, dying away. The possibility of a happy outcome vanishing, moment by moment.’
‘So, what about these two children? One’s been missing for months.’
‘Yes. Joshua Maitland. The second, Holly Chilton, has only been gone for a week, but it might as well be a lifetime on the golden hour principle.’
Eva rolled her wedding ring around her finger, then clasped her hands together and rested them on the table. ‘And when you say you’re “interested” in the case…’
‘I mean, I think at least one is still alive. Joshua didn’t come home from school, so that’s more open-ended. But Holly told her mum she was going out to meet a friend. In my experience, those are the cases that end well. Not always. But there’s usually something the parents aren’t saying or don’t want to say. Some breakdown or estrangement. Maybe an extended family connection. If you probe the right areas, you can shake it out. There’s usually someone known to the person. When Luka was taken by Dennis Crawley, our first thought was with Dale and friends. In the end, it turned out to be more colourful than that. Although there was a link with the past.’
Eva sighed. She pushed her hands beneath the table and leaned forward. ‘I want to get away from Dale’s past, make better choices.’
Sawyer muted the moment with another gulp of coffee. ‘So if you’re working on this other case, how are you going to help find these children?’
Sawyer grinned at her. ‘Creativity.’
5
Dale Strickland swivelled his desk chair and stared out of the floor-to-ceiling window, down at rain-smeared Deansgate. A yellow-and-white Metrolink tram slowed on its approach to the station, brakes squealing. He winced. ‘Is there anyone we can call?’
Two men stood before the desk: one short, in dark suit and yellow tie, with a tidy crop of blond hair. The other: a hulk, with a clean-shaven cannonball head pushed through the collar of a polo-neck sweater.
The short man glanced at the hulk. ‘Call?’
Dale didn’t turn. ‘About this fucking weather.’
The hulk shrugged. ‘Manchester.’
‘Get me God on the phone.’ Dale stood up, and perched on the edge of the desk, facing the two. ‘I bet you’ve got his number, Marco.’
‘I’m beyond salvation.’ A Scottish lilt.
Dale managed a small smile. He squinted at the pair from behind thin-framed glasses. He was slight but agile; well fitted into a cobalt blue dress shirt. Late forties, with a thatch of greying hair and salt-and-pepper stubble. He massaged the deep double frown lines above his nose and dropped his gaze to the mock Persian rug that covered the space before his desk; he often joked about the potential for a concealed piranha pit below. ‘Shaun.’
The hulk raised his head. ‘Boss.’
Dale sighed. ‘Don’t call me “boss”.’ He skewered Shaun with a clock-stopping stare. ‘Makes you sound like a slave.’
‘We’re all set.’ Shaun kept his focus on Dale. ‘Down near Buxton.’
Dale raised an eyebrow. ‘Set and forget?’
‘Couple of things to finalise. But, yeah.’
Dale hopped off his desk and walked over to Shaun. He stood close, just off the edge of the carpet, and stared up, showing no discomfort with the height difference. ‘But, no. You’re hands on. Momentum is important at the start of a business. Pick up enough speed and you can base here as franchise manager. But you’re not here yet. You need to find us a home. There. Storage.’
‘We still going with bath salts?’ Shaun sniffed and rubbed at his nostrils. Dale caught Marco’s eye.
Marco grinned. ‘It’s the substance du jour. Don’t see why Stoke should get all the fun. Plenty to go round.’
Dale ambled back to his desk. ‘Recruitment going well?’
‘Even easier than we thought,’ said Shaun. ‘Round here and down there. Even better down there.’
Dale dropped back into his chair, keeping his eyes on Marco. ‘Limited opportunities for cavern guides and village Balti house dishwashers.’ He slapped both palms down on the desk. ‘Item Two on the agenda.’
Marco’s shoulders rose and sank. ‘We’re still doing this?’
‘We’re still doing this.’
‘He might come for us first.’
‘He’s got nothing. Connections. Associations. All circumstantial.’
Marco took a step forward. ‘I mean, unofficially.’
Dale nodded. ‘I get it. You were humiliated.’ He raised his voice a notch, just enough to drop the temperature. ‘Maybe you’re scared of him. You can’t go into jobs like that with fear.’
Marco shook his head. ‘He’s clever. Hard to read. And he can look after himself.’
Dale sat back in his seat. ‘Marco. Look at what you’ve done here. It’s a money-printing machine, in so many ways. Are we getting a taste from the Firehouse?’
Shaun winced. ‘It’s pizza. Low margins.’
Dale beamed and pointed at Shaun. ‘He’ll have your job, Marco.’
‘I was thinking of putting him on the door. Not on weekends, though.’
‘Fuck off.’ Shaun glanced at Dale for support, didn’t get it.
Marco ignored him. He leaned forward on the desk. ‘It’s a bad idea. Let it settle. Let him relax first.’
‘You’re right. He will come for us. Which is why we can’t afford to have him sniffing round.’ Dale narrowed his eyes at Shaun. ‘Not while we’re setting up. Basic economics. I pitched the work too low. We need to go up a grade
. Call in a professional.’
‘Dale.’ Marco stood upright, away from the desk. ‘Fletcher’s not a professional. He’s a psychopath. Psychopaths don’t care about business models or long-term planning.’
‘I have a problem. I asked you to solve it. You weren’t able to do that.’ Dale rubbed at his frown lines again. ‘We need a more permanent solution. Fletcher is a handful, but I can handle him. And I don’t think Mr Sawyer will have seen anything like him before.’
6
Sawyer hurried along the spotless, spotlit corridor on the fifth floor of Sheffield’s Northern General Teaching Hospital. His shoes squeaked against the gleaming linoleum, corrupting the silence at the end of the graveyard shift. The conflicting scents of floor polish and fried food tainted the air. He paused to shake off a flutter of nausea and dredged up a smile as he approached the nurse at the station desk.
She was young, harried, dabbing at the keyboard of an ageing PC. ‘Can I help?’
‘Morning. I’m here to see Matthew Walker.’
‘So sorry, but visiting hours—’
‘Police officer. I’m a colleague of Matthew’s.’
It was technically true; he was suspended, not active, but still occupied his position. He couldn’t just stroll onto a crime scene, but he should be able to fudge it here.
The nurse looked up, nodded. ‘Do you have any ID?’
‘I do, but not with me.’ A note of alarm on the nurse’s face. Sawyer leaned forward, lowered his voice. ‘I’m not officially meant to be here. Undercover. It’s why I can’t keep normal visiting hours. I’m sure you’re aware that DC Walker was recently involved in a serious violent assault. And you will have been dealing with extra security around his room, right?’
The nurse nodded, working him out. ‘Have you got any other ID?’
‘Yes. But it’s fake. In case I get searched.’
She frowned, her eyes glancing to the corridor behind, looking for support. ‘I can’t let you through without—’
‘Do you want my number?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Warrant number. It’s unique. Easy to check with my station. Buxton.’
‘Sir?’
Sawyer and the nurse looked up. A short, twentysomething man in a hospital gown stood in the corridor, by the door of a private room. He was pale, crumpled, struggling to keep his shoulders back.
Sawyer raised a hand. ‘DC Walker. Good to see you moving around.’
Walker nodded. ‘Heard your voice.’
The nurse sprang up and dashed over to him. ‘Mr Walker. You must wait for the doctor.’ She urged him back into the room.
Walker spoke to Sawyer over his shoulder. ‘They’re letting me out today, sir.’
‘I hope you’re getting changed first.’
Walker shuffled back inside and sat down on the edge of his bed. The nurse turned and glared at Sawyer.
He smiled. ‘Ten minutes.’
Sawyer filled a plastic cup with tepid water and sat down by Walker’s bed. ‘I’m not here, by the way.’
‘Thought so.’ Walker sat up as Sawyer handed him the cup. ‘How was Manchester? Shepherd briefed me yesterday.’
‘Warned you not to talk to me?’
Walker sipped at his cup. ‘Course.’
Sawyer looked up at the ceiling. His eyes were sore and heavy, after another night of fractious sleep. ‘I didn’t do it.’
‘Will they charge?’
Sawyer screwed his eyes shut, opened them again. ‘Too bright in here. You’d think hospitals would go in for ambient lighting. More soothing.’
‘Maybe a few scented candles, too?’
Sawyer looked at him. ‘I’m not sure they have enough to charge.’
‘You got help?’
‘Not yet. Don’t want to talk to lawyers until it’s really necessary.’
Walker finished his drink. He waggled the cup; Sawyer shook his head. ‘I’d love to see how they interrogate a fellow officer.’
‘One of the Manchester DCIs did it. Couple of DIs sat in. I don’t need a lawyer to tell me to say, “No comment”. If they were fishing or seeding, they were hiding it well.’ He nodded to a sign next to the door: loud white text on a red background.
STOP! HAVE YOU CLEANSED YOUR HANDS?
Walker followed his gaze. ‘Sounds like good advice. For cops and criminals.’
‘I think it’s more about purification. Body first. Soul can wait. How come they moved you from Cavendish?’
‘Something about specialist care. Red tape.’
Sawyer scoffed. ‘Keating shifting the result of a botched operation away from his domain. He’s never been the transparent type.’
‘Apparently, there’s a news blackout on your arrest.’
Sawyer sniffed. ‘The Streisand effect. The blackout will be news in itself. It’ll certainly get the vultures circling.’
‘Streisand?’
‘Google it.’
Walker rolled his head around, cracking his neck muscles, revealing the angry red wound across the base of his Adam’s apple. ‘Speaking of Keating, have you seen him?’
‘He’ll be taking fire for bringing me back. He’ll point to the Crawley and Ballard cases. They’ll paint me as rogue, unstable.’ Sawyer laughed. ‘I’m not Jason Bourne. I’m just trying to find out who murdered someone I loved.’ Walker kept quiet, fiddled with his phone. ‘When are you back in work?’
‘Tomorrow. They want me to rest. I’m okay, though. I need to get busy with something.’
Sawyer stared down at the smooth floor. ‘You’re young. You repair quickly. But don’t jump straight back in just to show how strong you are. Your denial doesn’t count for much. The body keeps score. You keep seeing it happen, yes? The sounds, the sensations.’
Walker bristled. ‘I’ve spoken to the psych, sir. It wasn’t personal. It happened fast. I didn’t really see that much.’
‘You had your throat slit. Ballard missed the carotid by a millimetre. Nicked your windpipe. He successfully stalked and murdered four people. If he could attack you again, in the same way, a hundred times, he would only miss the carotid once.’
‘I was lucky, sir. Luck is part of life. You got to me in good time. You’re first aid trained. The paramedics were skilled. He didn’t kill me, so—’
‘Don’t go all Nietzschean on me.’ Sawyer glared at him. ‘The physical wound is healing, but that’s the easy bit.’
Walker sat up. ‘I wasn’t going to say it made me stronger. I was going to say I just have to move on. Keep going. Do my job. Focus harder on stopping the “parasites”, as DC Moran calls them.’
Sawyer got up and walked to the window. He tugged at the cord for the blinds. A morning mist hovered over the hills towards Lightwood and the Corbar Cross viewing point. ‘If it were up to me, I’d put you on victimology. Keep you off the streets for a while.’ He closed the blinds again, turned to Walker. ‘There are two missing children to find. Your instincts are good. I’d have you working out where they are, get the others to tackle whoever’s taken them.’
‘I’ll pass on your recommendation, sir.’
Sawyer raised his eyebrows.
‘Sorry,’ said Walker. ‘That sounded sarcastic. I just… I can’t talk to you. You know that. You’re not here, remember?’
Sawyer flashed him a smile. ‘Take it easy, Matt. I’m glad you didn’t die. And don’t worry. I won’t dine out on it too hard once I get back. If you’re lucky, they’ll charge me and you can play down my involvement in saving your life.’ He headed for the door, paused. ‘The children. We’d have found one by now, if it wasn’t going to end well. Don’t look for bodies. Look for somewhere they could be kept alive without arousing suspicion.’
7
The hospital lift opened at the ground floor and shed its load: mostly homebound nurses out of uniform. Sawyer jabbed a thumb into the button marked BASEMENT: PATHOLOGY and leaned into the corner as the car sank away from the land of the living.
The doo
rs jerked a little before they opened again, as if reluctant to reveal the warren of peeling, off-white walls: joyless, unadorned. Sawyer strode down the corridor, past the chemical storeroom and into a lobby with a suite of refurbished admin offices. He slowed as he approached a large corner office connected to the mortuary and autopsy room. The door—marked F. DRUMMOND—was ajar. He touched it open. Empty. The office was austere: desk with one chair, stacked wire document tray, no pictures apart from a few family photos in a corkboard propped against the wall by the desk. The window in the connecting door reflected the blazing white light of the overhead lamps, trained on a central gurney: soon to be occupied. Sawyer’s nose twitched at an edging of alcohol; was it chemical, drifting under the door, or evidence of an unseen private supply?
‘Are you looking for Mr Drummond?’ A lively young woman in sharp business dress trotted through from a small side room, clutching a stack of papers. She set them down on a well-organised desk and stood there, smiling, angling her head. ‘I’m Gina.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Detective Inspector Sawyer.’
Gina looked shocked. ‘Goodness! I’ve read about you. In the paper. You’re the “hero cop”.’
‘That’s the tabloid version. And it’s only one side. You might hear about another soon.’
Gina beamed. ‘You teaser.’ She slipped the papers into a folder, keeping her wide eyes on him. ‘Mr Drummond is in the break room.’ She waved. ‘Second on the right.’
Sawyer walked through to the pale green door and stepped into a poky converted storage room with a cheap beechwood coffee table in the centre and a couple of mangy chairs pushed against the far wall. A man sat cross-legged in one of the chairs, with a paper cup in one hand and a book—Unnatural Causes—in the other. He was too big for the chair; almost too big for the room. Short-sleeved brown shirt, semi-rimless glasses; shiny-bald on top, thick grey beard underneath. As Sawyer entered, the man’s head dipped as he disengaged from the book. He took a few seconds to compose himself, then shifted the glasses up over his pale blue eyes, regarding his new companion.
