by Andrew Lowe
‘Frazer.’ Sawyer dragged the second chair over and sat down. ‘You’ve never shown me your boudoir before. I was wondering where you retreated to recharge your ebullience.’
Drummond grimaced, and styled it into a smile. ‘They used to let you smoke in here.’ He nodded upwards at the ceiling, acknowledging scorched patches of grimy yellow. ‘But of course, that avenue of pleasure has been closed off. Now it feels like a dirty secret just to sneak five minutes with a shit cup of coffee.’ Drummond’s Scotch baritone bounced off the walls; the echo held for a few seconds. He set down the book and cup on the table and folded his arms. ‘Now. Are you sure you’re allowed to be alone in a room with someone?’
Sawyer stretched his legs out, feet together, until he was almost horizontal on the chair. ‘Just passing through.’
‘Popping in on Walker? A tidy deposit in the redemption bank, Sawyer. You saved a decent copper there. That’s your good deed for the decade.’
‘Gina seems nice. Looks like an Apprentice candidate. Didn’t think you were the PA type.’
Drummond waved a hand, picked up his coffee. ‘I’m not. But I was told I had to be. We’re trying to go paperless.’
‘You’re a minimalist, though. Could be a useful contrast. The vivacious yin to your—’
‘Lugubrious yang?’ Drummond slurped at the cup. ‘Do me a favour, Sawyer. Get yourself off this suspension. I don’t know what we’ll do down here, without your bodies.’
‘Looks like you’re prepping for a PM. Anyone interesting?’
Drummond laughed into the cup. ‘Nobody you can know about.’
Sawyer nodded at the book. ‘Good?’
‘Bit of pathology porn. Non-fiction. The writer was assigned to Hungerford. Looks like it gave him PTSD. He says something that my old mentor once told me. The worst thing you can be in this job is partial, invested. You just have to get good at turning that off. You have to see the bodies as bodies, not as people. They were people once, of course, fuelled by food and water, driven by electrical impulses. But then, for whatever reason, the power got turned off. The lights went out. They were transformed into meat.’ He sat up, leaned forward, rubbed the back of one hand with the knotty fingers of the other. ‘People think that makes me a cold bastard. But it’s what keeps me sane. Lets me do my job.’
‘Don’t you feel a responsibility for the bodies? For their history? Loved ones?’
Drummond pondered for a moment. ‘I feel responsible, yes. To solve their puzzles, wrap up their stories. Unlike the living, the dead don’t lie or exaggerate. I see my work as giving them a voice, a final say. But to do that effectively, you have to learn to stifle the sentiment. The bodies in my drawers used to have possibilities. Options. Hopes and fears for the future. Now, all of that exists in the past. So you have to fade it all down. Stay in the moment. If you get stuck in the past, Sawyer, you might as well be in one of the drawers yourself.’
‘You should do some voluntary work. For the Samaritans.’
Drummond closed his book and got to his feet. He was colossal; just shy of seven feet. Sawyer felt a twinge of sadness for him: a beast so formidable, caged underground. ‘You picked a bad time to go off grid.’
Sawyer stayed in his chair. ‘Oh?’
‘I was being disingenuous. It’s not just your involvement that brings the bodies. Like my new guest. Drawer C34.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘Came in early this morning. Late forties. Commuters spotted him in edgeland by Grindleford Station. Nasty.’
Now Sawyer stood. ‘Cause of death?’
Drummond smiled. ‘Preliminaries for now. Pretty obvious, though. But you’ll have to get that from the newspapers, like all the other civilians.’
8
A large round target sat on an easel before a wall-mounted backstop net. The target was divided into concentric sections: blue, white, black, with a central zone in yellow and a bullseye in red. A picture lamp had been mounted high on the wall, casting the target area in vivid light, raising the colours.
A man sprawled on a two-seater sofa at the unlit end of a long hall. He propped up his feet on a chair in front and reached for the crossbow: a Nexgen Pony 335. White axle, black bow. He had selected the Pony, and the colour, for its neutrality; the others had clearly been designed to appeal to the hunter fantasy, with their customised camo skins and thrusting names (Bronco, Stallion). The bow was light in his slender hands—no more effort than lifting a small watermelon—and the stock sat naturally against his bony shoulder.
He stood up, pointed the bow down, and rested it vertically on the floor. He slipped his foot into the stirrup, and attached the cocking device to the hooks on the cable. He used both hands to draw back the cable, priming the bow, and flicked on the dry fire safety mechanism.
He took a long, thin bolt out of the box on the sofa, and studied the symbol etched into the collar around the centre: a crude sketch of two curved lines, forming the shape of a human eye. An imperfect circle hovered in the centre: an iris, surrounded by seven short rays, like a child’s drawing of the sun.
He slid the bolt into the flight groove. The Pony could deliver it at four hundred feet per second, penetrating up to six inches from a hundred feet away. A guaranteed headshot kill. The target would feel a millisecond jolt of impact, and then nothing.
He flicked off the safety, opened the lens cover and looked down the sight. He settled the magnified image of the bullseye in the centre of the scope.
Two slow and steady breaths. Halfway through the exhale on the second, he squeezed the trigger, continuing to exhale as the bow fired.
9
Sawyer drove into Sheffield city centre and bought a PAYG phone from Phone-Geekz. He withdrew some money from the Lloyds across Devonshire Green and ate rubbery scrambled eggs in a Kiwi café near the car park. He headed back into the Peak District to the sound of one of his favourite teenage albums: Maxinquaye by Tricky, named after the singer’s mother, who had died when he was four years old. As the six-year-old observer of his own mother’s murder, Sawyer had tried on all the colours of grief: contempt for those, like Tricky, who had been too young to have known their parents; jealousy at his friends’ ordered, two-parent home lives; resentment at those who lost parents through disease, with time to reconcile; anger at the children who reduced their creators to providers, and at the parents who used money as balm for abandonment or indifference.
For Sawyer, the cliché applied with an added sting. Not only had he been forced to fast-track his childhood, he was lucky to be alive himself. His mother’s killer had wanted to send him and his brother Michael the same way. And now, thirty years later, it seemed he had gone to the trouble of trying to remove one of them from the picture again.
He drove into Thornhill village, and parked the Mini by a farm gate near a cul de sac of stone-built semis. He settled in, listening to music and working through a bag of iced buns, while washing down the chewy bread with sips from a carton of milk. After a couple of hours, when he had resorted to reading the manual that came with his new phone, a boxy, mustard-yellow Range Rover turned into the cul de sac and pulled up outside the house at the far end. Sawyer opened his passenger door a few inches.
A hefty man in a hooded fleece climbed out of the Range Rover driver’s seat and lingered, as a woman let herself into the house, followed by a small boy. When they were both inside, the man locked the car and turned to face the Mini. He seemed to ponder for a few seconds, and then began a slow, top-heavy walk in Sawyer’s direction. The car dipped as he lowered himself onto the passenger seat and closed the door.
Sawyer kept his eyes ahead, but he could feel Detective Sergeant Ed Shepherd’s gaze burning into his left cheek. He took out a notepad and a titanium tactical pen, wrote on the top sheet and held the pad open across his knee.
WIRED?
Shepherd smiled. ‘A bit frazzled from the day, but otherwise fine. You ribbed me for using one of those pens.’
Sawyer glanced at him.
‘I’ve seen the light. Anyway, this one’s yours.’
‘Not any more. I donated it to you, remember? Got a better one.’ He looked back towards the house. It was close to dusk, and the street was empty. ‘Sir, if just one person sees this, we could both—’
‘There’s nothing specific in my bail conditions.’
‘That’s because they assume you know better.’
Sawyer offered him the paper bag. ‘Do you want the last bun?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Sticking to my regime. How many have you had?’
‘That’s diet shaming.’
Shepherd rubbed at his cheeks. He still took up plenty of space, but had slimmed down recently, and his clever eyes glinted as a late flare of sunshine crept over the car.
‘How’s work?’ said Sawyer.
‘If I told you that, I wouldn’t have any work to go back to.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Day off today. You booked it a couple of weeks ago. I was worried you’d gone home to Liverpool or something. Do anything nice?’
‘Heights of Abraham. Not really the weather for it.’
‘Bleak can be beautiful.’
Shepherd toyed with the zip on his fleece. ‘Can be. Nice to avoid the hordes. Theo liked the cable cars. We try to do something together whenever we can. The odd day here and there. It’ll be over before I know it, so I’m making the most. While he still sees me as cool.’
Sawyer grinned at him. ‘I hate to break it to you, Shepherd. But you’re not cool.’
‘I am to him. In a dad way.’
‘Any plans for Christmas?’
‘In-laws. Booked the meal out. Wife and her mother always take over the kitchen.’
‘Nice of you to give them a rest.’
Shepherd snorted. ‘I just can’t face the washing up this year.’
‘How’s the head?’ Sawyer watched Shepherd’s eyes; he didn’t react.
‘Keeping it above water. I had a moment in the Trafford Centre last weekend.’
‘Christmas shopping will do that to you.’
Shepherd gave a weak smile. ‘Calmed myself down. Deep breathing.’
‘I’ve taught you all you know.’
‘And I’m grateful for your support. But there’s also Google.’
Sawyer closed up the paper bag and shoved it into the glove compartment. ‘You know I didn’t do this.’
‘Of course I do. And you know that I know. I looked into your case, remember? When Keating first paired us up. Due diligence.’
‘And you’ve buffed up your knowledge with Logan’s “hero cop” story?’
Shepherd turned in his seat, facing Sawyer. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, sir. Stop me if I slip into the Logan version. Your mother, Jessica, was murdered in front of you when you were six years old. Thirty-one years ago.’
‘Thirty.’
‘The guy wore a mask. A balaclava. He also killed your dog, and almost killed you and your brother. They found the weapon, a hammer, nearby. It belonged to a young man named Marcus Klein, a supply teacher who had been seen out with your mother. You don’t think he did it.’
Sawyer nodded, sarcastic. ‘Good spot!’
‘You approached him, Klein, earlier this year when he was due to be released, and you claimed to be a journalist who wanted to write a book about the case, to clear his name. There’s a bit where you did some bare-knuckle boxing or something. I’m fuzzy about that.’
‘So is Keating. He got sent a picture. I wasn’t fighting for fun. It was to follow a lead. To get sweet with the relatives of a burglar from the time just before my mother’s murder. He was tasked with stealing the hammer that framed Klein.’
‘Right. And you think that the person who tasked him was an officer involved in the case.’
‘Yes. An officer who might have killed my mother himself, or passed on the hammer to whoever did.’
Shepherd closed one eye in confusion. ‘And not this burglar?’
‘No. I met him. He didn’t do it.’
‘And now, Klein has been found dead. Killed in the same way.’
‘With a hammer. All done. You’re up to date.’
Shepherd sighed. ‘So what’s the point of this? Are you after validation from me? Reassurance? I’ve just told you, I’m positive you didn’t do it. That doesn’t count for much outside this car, though.’
‘Keating said an item of mine was found at Klein’s flat. I’ve never even been there.’
Shepherd frowned at him. ‘I think you’re mistaking me for your lawyer.’
Sawyer dropped his head back, exasperated. ‘This is the point. I’m asking for your help, for your support.’
‘And how can I do that without putting my own job at risk?’
‘You’re not part of the investigation team. Keating wouldn’t assign you.’
‘No, but—’
‘What was the item?’ Sawyer leaned forward, held eye contact. ‘What did they find that belonged to me? At Klein’s flat?’
‘DNA. Yours.’
‘Could have been transferred.’
Shepherd cast his eyes out to the fields. ‘It was on a piece of cellophane. A sweet wrapper.’
Sawyer dropped his chin to his chest and laughed. ‘He could have taken that from my car.’
‘It’s a connection to you. Potentially puts you at the scene.’ He raised his head and squinted towards the house. Movement at the window. ‘I’ve got to go. You know how it works. They’re building a case, tracking all the moments you were seen with Klein. The DNA isn’t much, but along with everything else…’ He fixed Sawyer with a flinty stare. ‘You need a lawyer. They might interview you again.’
‘I can handle that.’
‘You told me that it’s not a good idea to try and do everything yourself.’ Shepherd’s phone blipped with a message alert and he sighed. ‘Not the best time for you to be out of commission.’
‘That’s what Drummond said.’ Shepherd put his hand on the door handle. ‘You must be on the missing children case. Or has Keating got you on the guy they found at Grindleford Station?’ He studied Shepherd, didn’t get much. ‘You’re not on my case. That’s for Moran, and maybe Myers. Probably coordinating with an MIT unit from Manchester or Sheffield. Special jurisdiction, high-level media management due to internal sensitivities.’
‘You’ve spoken to Drummond?’
‘Just visiting a friend at his workplace.’
Shepherd shrugged, opened the door. ‘You don’t do friends.’
Sawyer raised a hand in farewell. ‘That’s one thing about getting arrested for murder. You find out who your enemies are.’
10
The immigration clerk held up a hand and beckoned the next traveller forward. He kept his eyes on his screen, as he imported a file of statistics into an overdue report. A shadow loomed at the window to his booth, and he reached up to take the open passport from the shelf.
He cast an expert eye over the photo ID page and entry visa. Netherlands passport. Dates in range. Valid visa. The photo showed a stern, blond-haired man in his mid-forties. His hair had been scraped back into a stubby ponytail: just visible around the back of his muscular neck, which was almost the same width as his skull. He had tilted his head forward slightly, scolding the lens with implacable pinhole eyes set deep beneath an overhanging brow.
‘Travelling from Amsterdam, Mr Fletcher?’ The clerk looked up. The man at his screen was identical to his passport photo: the poise, the ponytail, the cadaverous eyes. He was well over six feet tall, in a zipped-up black bomber jacket, fitted blue jeans, designer boots. He held a soft, mud-grey briefcase at his side.
‘Rhetorical?’ said the man. His voice was gruff, weathered, empty; as if he had left his emotions at home, as unnecessary baggage.
The clerk—young, curious—sat up. ‘Sorry?’
‘Your question.’ The man let the silence hang, showing no discomfort.
The clerk considered a few options: was the man drowsy? Depressed? Doped up? Had he been
too focused on his admin and failed to tune into a mordant sense of humour? ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling. ‘I know that from your flight number. Just making conversation.’
The man offered a barely detectable nod; it would have challenged an auctioneer.
‘What brings you to Manchester, Mr Fletcher?’
The eyes shifted. ‘Taxi. Aeroplane.’
The clerk tried on a quizzical smile. ‘What is the purpose of your trip? Business or pleasure?’
‘Both.’
Outside, Fletcher climbed into a waiting taxi and set down his briefcase on the seat beside him.
The driver looked up from a puzzle book and checked his shoulder. ‘Evening, mate. Where you goin’?’
Fletcher sat back and glowered out at the terminal lights. ‘Manchester.’
The driver chuckled. ‘We’re already in Manchester. Anywhere in particular?’
Fletcher glanced at the driver’s eyes in the mirror. He unzipped a side pocket in the briefcase and took out a flask of water and a bottle of pills, marked with a green logo: three overlaid C-symbols, inverted and concentric.
He unscrewed the lid and tipped a pill into the centre of his hand.
He lifted the pill into his mouth and washed it down with a slug of water.
He did the same with a second pill.
He slotted the flask and bottle back into the side pocket and fastened the zip.
At last, he turned his head and looked out of the window again. His eyes flicked to the mirror. ‘Deansgate.’
11
Sawyer waited in the Mini, outside the Barley Mow pub in Matlock, listening to a random playlist of drifting ambient music: Eno, Biosphere, Northcape. His previous meeting with the Caseys had ended badly, and he needed time to regroup. He had to take this one steady: don’t force it, don’t get pushy. He had the private number of Ryan, the family patriarch, and he was still fully stocked on goodwill following his takedown of a Casey rival in the fight at the travellers’ farm. But there was no telling which way the murder charge would fall, and he had to walk away today with more than a headful of banter and a skinful of Jameson.
