by Andrew Lowe
He crossed the road, hitching his collar up against the frigid wind, and headed through into the main bar. The pub was busy for a Wednesday, and the Caseys were already installed in their usual spot: around a far table near the bar, next to a side door leading out to a private car park. It was a poky room, with a low ceiling and walls smothered with knick-knacks and posters: Christmas dinner specials; recruitment for a snow and ice clearance ‘hit squad’; a photo montage from the annual Hen Racing event.
Sawyer approached the group. More subterfuge. At the hospital, he had been officially invisible; here, he was known to the Caseys as investigative journalist Lloyd Robbins, named after his favourite pickpocket, Apollo Robbins.
Ryan occupied most of the back bench, with his two beefy sons, Wesley and Ronan, either side. He was showing his seventy-odd years—wispy white scalp hair, flattened nose—but he was sharp and steely, with bright, vigilant eyes. His nephew, Owen, sat beside Ronan, shielded by one of the larger associates who had escorted a seething Sawyer from the same room barely a week ago. Owen was a scrawny man in his late forties, with a grey moustache at the centre of a ratty face disfigured by acne scars.
The group quietened down and watched as Sawyer settled into a chair, a few feet back from the table.
Ryan drained his glass and clunked it back down. ‘Mr Robbins. Now, let’s keep things friendly this time, eh?’
Owen peered at Sawyer. ‘Brought anything more interesting, friend?’ He smiled, cracking a ripple of wrinkles around his sunken eyes. ‘Have yiz come equipped?’
Sawyer kept his eyes on Ryan Casey as he spoke to Owen. ‘As we established last time, you were arrested for a burglary in the Buxton area, thirty years ago. June 1988. You said that an older man offered you a deal in return for your freedom. Steal an item, a hammer, from a house near Tideswell. The house of the man who was with me last time: Marcus Klein.’
Wesley Casey sat forward. ‘Mr Klein busy today, then?’
‘Washing his hair,’ said Sawyer. He turned to look at Owen for the first time. ‘This man who offered you the deal. Older than the officer who made the arrest.’ Sawyer caught himself; he had to be careful not to slip into police speak. ‘You said he wore a suit. No uniform. Scruffy brown hair, bushy moustache, a big watch.’
Owen nodded, impatient. ‘I got in, found the hammer, met him in a pub car park later. And like I said, he turned pretty nasty. Warned me that if I ever told anyone, then he’d make my life a living hell. The usual shite.’
Ronan Casey wheezed out a laugh. ‘Look at him. He’s Mr Big Bollocks now. I bet you were shitting it at the time.’
Owen jerked his head at Ronan. ‘I fuckin’ was not! He gave us a nice chunk of money.’ He shrugged. ‘I was just honouring a deal. It was a long time ago, though. I’d be more than happy to take another chunk.’
Ronan shook his head, amused. ‘To dishonour the deal.’
‘To negotiate a new one. He told me his name, yeah. And a rank. Can’t remember that, but I do remember the name. The surname.’ Owen took a slow, relaxed sip from his bottle of beer. ‘And like I said, Mr Robbins, you’re operating in a seller’s market here.’
‘Five hundred,’ said Sawyer. ‘Here and now.’
Owen grimaced. ‘You’re pissing way shy of the bowl there, Mr Robbins. You’re barely in the fuckin’ bathroom.’
Sawyer took out the sketch he’d made on the day before his arrest, after a dream in which he’d momentarily recalled—or imagined—the face of his mother’s killer when she had managed to tear off his mask. Heavy eyebrows, black moustache with flecks of grey. ‘Did he look anything like this?’
Owen squinted at the sketch and shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’ He passed the paper back to Sawyer and fixed him with what was clearly his idea of a tough stare.
‘A thousand,’ said Sawyer. ‘That’s a nice day’s work for one word.’
Owen smiled. ‘Mr Robbins. Call it two, and you’ve got yourself a name.’
Sawyer took an envelope out of his inside pocket. ‘There’s fifteen hundred in here.’
‘Better get yourself down to the Sainsbury’s in Matlock,’ said Owen. ‘There’s a fuckin’ cashpoint there.’
Sawyer pushed the envelope across the table. ‘Mr Casey. I have another couple of new angles that can get me this man’s name. But I also have a book deadline, and it’ll take time. You can help me speed things up. Once I walk out of here today, we won’t be seeing each other again. I won’t be popping down to the “fuckin’ cashpoint”. Now, I can walk out with or without this envelope. Your decision. You’re the boss.’
Owen picked up the envelope and examined the contents. He looked at Ryan, then Wesley. No help from either. He folded the envelope in two and slid it into the pocket of his PVC jacket.
Sawyer smiled. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t say, “pleasure doing business with you”.’
Wesley barked a laugh. ‘Give the man his name, Owen. He’s suffered enough.’
Owen Casey folded his arms and rested them on the table. ‘Caldwell.’
12
Back at the cottage, Sawyer fed Bruce and sat at the kitchen table with his laptop and a mug of tea. He retrieved the other two envelopes from the inside pocket of his jacket and set them down on the table. One contained two thousand pounds, the other three thousand. He hadn’t expected Casey to go for the initial offer of five hundred, but he was surprised that he hadn’t played harder for the name. Did that mean it wasn’t authentic? Wesley’s instruction to Owen implied that the family had discussed the matter and advised honesty. He would soon find out.
He navigated to a website, Spytech, and ordered a GSM4000u micro listening device, making the payment through a private PayPal account. It was a tiny, featureless block of brushed grey metal—around two inches by one inch—with a small aerial cable. It could be planted anywhere, with unlimited range, and dialled into, for instant transmission of surrounding audio: up to a ten-metre radius. It would give him up to eight hours of listening time before he would have to retrieve and recharge it. The website also promised, ‘can be used as a tracking device (UK only)’.
Sawyer took out his PAYG phone and tapped in the number of Max Reeves, an old Met colleague. Reeves was a close friend, and their trust was brotherly, but it was safer to keep all official contact off the grid from now on. He switched the phone to speaker. While he waited for the call to connect, he took a bar of Galaxy chocolate from a cupboard and snapped off a couple of segments.
‘Reeves.’
‘Max. It’s Jake.’
A pause. ‘Mr Sawyer. I’ve been expecting you. A burner? This can’t be good.’
‘I’m on bail. Don’t like to sneak around, but it can’t be helped.’
‘I heard. Are they really pursuing this? Did you do it?’
Sawyer laughed. ‘Of course I did it. I thought I’d openly spend time with the man convicted of murdering my mother, and then kill him. The perfect crime.’
‘You shouldn’t be talking to me. I shouldn’t be talking to you.’
Sawyer bit into the chocolate. ‘I’m getting that a lot lately. Two things, Max, and I’m gone.’
Reeves paused. Pub noise in the background. The chatter dropped out, as he moved somewhere quieter. A Zippo clunked. ‘Right, then. Here I am, round the back of the Horse & Anchor, by the bins. Living the dream. Go.’
‘I need detail on a name. Someone who worked at Buxton station around the time of my mum’s murder. Possibly a senior officer or official, so keep it off the books. Caldwell.’
‘This is the guy who let Owen Casey walk, right? Where did you get the name?’
Sawyer took a breath. ‘Owen Casey.’
Reeves drew on his cigarette, exhaled. ‘Tidy. I bet he’s a delightful soul, these days. I hope you didn’t pay too much for that name. It’s probably an old parole officer, or someone who once robbed him.’
‘That’s what I need to know, Max. Is the name authentic? Is he
connected to the station at the time? And a photo would be nice.’
‘What’s the other thing?’
Sawyer sipped his tea, zoning out to a vision of the man in his sketch. ‘I saw a car, at a place called Magpie Mine. I went there last Wednesday, with Marcus. The man convicted of the murder.’
‘The dead man.’
‘Yes. It was around three to four PM. BMW. Burgundy. Check ANPR in the area, in case it’s already of interest. If not, CCTV. It’s a pretty chunky thing. Hard to miss.’
Reeves took another drag, spluttered. ‘This Caldwell’s motor?’
‘Could be.’
‘So, this geezer. You think he was involved in murdering your mum, thirty years ago. He follows you and Marcus Klein. He murders Klein, and, I assume, did a bit of work towards fitting you up for it. And he’s driving round in a big, conspicuous car? This fucker must be getting on a bit by now. Brass balls on him, though.’
13
Sawyer parked in his usual spot at Buxton station and stepped out of the Mini, casting around for familiar faces. He bowed his head beneath his collar. It was a bitter morning, and he broke into a trot across the car park, carried to the main doors by flurries of frosty wind.
He strode down the long entrance corridor: a bland gauntlet of evenly placed lime green doors with yellow frosted windows. The glass colour and texture always reminded Sawyer of the cellophane around the bottles of Lucozade fed to him by his mother during childhood illness.
The reception was lively for early morning: suits and uniforms mingling, scattered cliques, murmured apprehension. Sawyer paused at the custody and charge desk, and propped both elbows up on the curved Perspex, resting his chin on his hands.
A rugged man in a short-sleeved uniform shirt emerged from the side office. He spotted Sawyer and handed the main desk over to a younger colleague. ‘Sir.’
‘I don’t think you’re obliged to call me that, Gerry. Not while I’m suspended.’
Sergeant Gerry Sherman smiled. ‘Hedging my bets, sir.’ He gestured to a separate shelf and privacy barrier at the side of the desk. ‘Signing in?’
Sawyer nodded. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Press conference. About the…’ He caught himself.
‘Missing children?’
Sherman handed Sawyer the bail document. ‘Yes. You didn’t hear it from me, though.’
Sawyer signed himself in and handed back the document, which Gerry countersigned. Two men exited the lift at the far end of reception and crossed past the main desk, heading for the locked door that led to the media room. The man at the front was shorter but large in stature: close to sixty, neat white hair and angular, actorly features. He was stern and swift, in full uniform, with a police cap under one arm. His companion was gangly, with a Nordic air; immaculately dressed in powder blue suit and yellow tie. He hurried to keep up, but slowed when he noticed Sawyer, ensuring the uniformed man would encounter him first.
Sawyer raised himself from the desk. ‘Sir.’
DCI Ivan Keating fitted and straightened his cap, as if prompted by Sawyer’s presence. He swiped his ID card against the panel by the door. ‘Lots going on, DI Sawyer, as I’m sure you can see. Stay close, though. We might need you again soon.’
‘Feels like you need me again now, sir.’
A flicker of a smile. ‘We’ll manage.’
Keating pushed through the door into the corridor beyond, closely trailed by the gangly man: Stephen Bloom, the media relations officer for the MIT unit.
As Sawyer headed back outside, he was interrupted by a shout from behind.
‘Mr Sawyer! Not going in, then?’
He turned. A heavyset fiftysomething man in an unflattering suit waddled down the entrance corridor, holding up a hand. Dean Logan was the crime correspondent of the Derbyshire Times; an old-school Wapping hack who had scuttled off the sinking Murdoch ship in the build-up to the Leveson Report a few years earlier.
‘No, Mr Logan. Not going in. Can you text me the main points?’
Logan reached Sawyer. He was red-faced, his broad forehead shiny. ‘One of the station’s most illustrious detectives not invited to a key press conference about two missing children? Did you shit in Keating’s scrambled eggs?’
Sawyer turned to face Logan, and balked at a waft of body odour: yesterday’s sweat, last week’s shirt. ‘Shall I email you my timesheet?’
Logan smiled. ‘That would be wonderful. Look. I’ve got to go through now. Ten minutes. You don’t have to like me or approve of my methods, but I think you’ll care about what I have to say. The Source coffee shop. Just round the corner. I’ll be straight there once the conference is done.’ He leaned in; Sawyer angled his head to the side. ‘Nice flapjacks.’
14
Sawyer settled at an isolated table near the toilets, directly below a boxy old wall-mounted TV. The Source was an unremarkable breakfast and lunch joint, with the standard glass display of cakes and sandwich fillings. He was the only customer, and the middle-aged waiter delivered his tea and toast almost immediately.
He spooned a heap of sugar into his mug and pointed up at the TV.
The man smiled. ‘Picture’s a bit curvy, sorry.’ He took a remote from behind the counter and pointed it up at the set. A red BBC News tickertape faded up beneath an image of the police media room: backdrop banner with the Derbyshire Constabulary logo, numbers, web address; a beechwood table of micro recorders and omni mics; Keating at the centre, flanked by DS Ed Shepherd and Stephen Bloom.
Sawyer shifted his chair forward and turned towards the screen. ‘Perfect. Thanks.’ The man handed over the remote and Sawyer edged up the volume.
‘—lines of enquiry.’ Keating cleared his throat. A few cameras whirred. ‘Holly was last seen nine days ago. We urge anyone who might have seen Holly, in or around the Blackwell area, to please contact us in absolute confidentiality. She told her parents that she was going out to meet someone. Was this you? Do you know someone who told you they were meeting someone on that day, or who was inexplicably absent or late around this time? Holly’s parents are understandably desperate to have their daughter back, and we are keen to account for Holly’s whereabouts.’
Groaning at the fussy language, Sawyer got to his feet and studied Keating. The DCI always tarted up his diction in public, and dialled back his Welsh twang.
‘I would also like to speak to Holly herself,’ Keating continued, looking into the camera, which obliged with a slow zoom in. ‘Holly. Please get in touch with your mum and dad if you can. You’re not in any trouble. They just need to know you’re safe. And to the person who might be responsible for Holly’s disappearance, I say this. We are aggressively pursuing several lines of enquiry, and I am confident that we will determine what has happened to Holly very soon.’
Sawyer glanced at the waiter, who was also watching. ‘They’ve got nothing.’
On screen, Bloom spoke up. ‘We’ll take a few questions.’
The camera pulled back. A female voice rose from the audience. ‘Is this disappearance related to the case of the other child, Joshua Maitland?’
Keating looked towards the voice. ‘In what sense?’
Sawyer shook his head; Keating was being obtuse. He really didn’t have anything.
The voice answered, barely audible. Keating responded. ‘Joshua Maitland has been missing for over four months now. We’re obviously concerned for both children. But at this time, I can’t comment on connections between the two cases.’
‘DCI Keating.’ Dean Logan’s voice. ‘What progress has been made on Joshua Maitland’s disappearance? I’m sure Holly Chilton’s parents are desperate to find out what has happened to her, but so are Joshua’s.’
Shepherd stepped in. ‘We’re co-ordinating with local police in Youlgreave, near Joshua’s home. As DCI Keating says, there’s no evidence that the two disappearances are linked at this time. But we are examining all angles.’
‘DCI Keating.’ Logan again. ‘Could you enlighten us as to why
Detective Inspector Jake Sawyer isn’t involved in this enquiry? Given that he has a strong track record of success in difficult and complex—’
‘Dean.’ Keating bristled. ‘Given your… writings, I’m well aware that you’re a fan of DI Sawyer’s. But I’m not prepared to comment on resource or individual staffing issues. We have highly skilled officers working extremely hard on this case, and I have every confidence in their work.’ He stood, nodded and walked out of the door at the back of the media room, followed by Bloom and Shepherd.
Logan swaggered into The Source and crashed down into the seat opposite Sawyer. He caught the waiter’s eye. ‘Black coffee, chief.’
Sawyer eyed him. ‘Thanks for the support. I don’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed.’
Logan shrugged. ‘Column A, column B.’
‘I suppose Keating’s reaction gives you an angle.’
‘Certainly does. Touched a fucking nerve there. Does he really think you might have done it?’
Sawyer scratched at his beard. ‘I thought you’d be up to date. How do you know, anyway? Isn’t there a blackout?’
Logan laughed, too loud. ‘There is. Technically. I know about your arrest, but I can’t write anything.’ The waiter set down his coffee and retreated to a back room. ‘My editor won’t touch it. I can’t even sell it as a pseudonym job. Keating must have a pretty strong old boys’ network. Probably freemasons. Bored middle-aged white men. Rural.’ He blew on the cup and took a slurp. ‘I suppose it keeps ’em going. Silly rituals, special handshakes.’
