by Andrew Lowe
The woman smiled. ‘Not really the future, is it? More like now.’
He chuckled, bitter. ‘We used to think of the future as this glorious place of progress. Domed houses. Pills for food. All the corners planed off. All the mess tidied up. An ultimate refinement, driven by science and technology. Living longer, living better. Now, though, that dream is dead. The future’s not what it used to be.’
The woman took a deep, steady breath. Her lined face crumpled. ‘I have to go out, love.’
The man’s head wilted. ‘And I was reading Brautigan again. His “pure water touching clear sky”. One of the original dreamers.’ He sighed, shook his head. ‘You have freedom here.’
She moved closer. ‘I feel wrong. I need real air. Clear sky.’ She smiled.
The man whipped his head round to face her. The light from the window kept his face in shadow. ‘Don’t try to mirror me. You’ll stay here in the grounds. This needs a woman’s touch.’ He lifted himself upright and stood over her. ‘A mother’s touch.’ He closed his spindly fingers around her shoulders and wrung out a smile. Chipped teeth, yellow around the gums. She flinched as his faecal breath wafted down. He was somewhere in his early thirties, with wide, curious eyes floating behind the dense lenses of his outmoded silver-rimmed glasses. His mousey-brown hair was unstyled and receding, with feathery tufts hanging over his ears. He reached up a hand and cupped his chin, massaging the stubble. ‘This is how we change the world, remember? This is how we remodel this future that’s been built by phonies. Greatness is achieved when we plant trees, even though we know we’ll never sit in their shade.’
The woman trembled, as he turned towards the door. ‘I brought them together, like you asked. She thinks she’s going to be punished. Or something.’
He walked out into the long hall. ‘Let’s make sure they know the rules.’
The girl and boy sat, side by side, on a long, wall-mounted bench at the far end of the room. She wore a pear-green winter parka; her long brown hair scattered over the fur-lined hood. The boy was a year or two older: pale, unblemished skin; thick black hair, with several curved strands flopped down over his pained, droopy eyes, as if to obscure the view. They were both well fed and dressed in clean clothes, layered for the cold weather. The boy kept his head down, but the girl stared ahead: angry, confused.
The walls were bare, but the room was decorated in cheerful primary colours, and brightly lit from a skylight and a side window that looked out onto the fields at the back of the house. A grid of gym lockers sat behind the bench where the children were seated, with rows of uniform tables and chairs in the centre.
The older woman entered, followed by the tall man. She waited by the door while he walked over to the children and crouched before them. The boy kept his gaze on the floor, but the girl stared him out with bloodshot eyes.
The man spoke in his whisper. ‘Joshua.’ He laid his long fingers on the boy’s hair, giving it an awkward ruffle. ‘Have you explained to Holly how the tags work?’ Joshua flicked up his eyes, shook his head. The man stood up. He pulled out one of the chairs, flipped it to face the children and sat down. The chairs were child sized, and his knees jutted up high. He smiled and lifted the sleeve of his hoodie to reveal a black bracelet with a steady green LED light. ‘It’s really easy. The tags on your ankle collars are connected to this sensor on my wrist. I’ve written some computer code that monitors the distance of the tags to the centre of the house. It’s called geofencing. If one of the tags is detected to have moved outside of the distance, then I get a vibration on my bracelet. I wear it at all times, even in bed. And it’s waterproof. I can then use my remote to send a mild electric shock to the appropriate tag. It’s not too strong. Just enough to cause a muscular spasm and stop your movement.’ Holly looked up at the woman, who greeted her with a smile: unreturned. ‘I hope you’re being kind to Holly, Joshua. It’s good to have a companion, isn’t it?’ Joshua raised his eyes, nodded, dropped them again. ‘We might have someone else coming soon. Would you like that?’
Another nod from Joshua. Holly dropped her chin to her chest and started to snuffle and weep.
‘Don’t cry, love.’ The woman stepped forward, but the man held up a hand.
He edged forward off the chair and ran his fingers through Holly’s hair, smoothing and tidying the loose ends. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Holly. I’m going to help you.’ He waved at the window. ‘The hurt is out there. It’s all around. In the air. But not in here.’
Holly lifted her face and glared at the man, her cheeks shining with tears. ‘I want… to go… home.’
He stood up, glanced back at the woman. ‘Your parents will see you again. But not yet.’ He took out a key and headed for a door at the front of the room. ‘Now. It’s time for the day’s lesson.’
18
Sawyer left the Mini in a lane near an outdoor centre at Thornbridge Hall and joined an off-road walking route towards Hassop Station and the Monsal Trail. Keating would have closed the station and blocked all the roads in and out of the area. Depending on where the new victim’s body had been found, he would have also closed the public access points to the trail and Sally’s team would soon be conducting line and spiral searches.
Like many cycling routes in the area, the Monsal Trail ran along an old railway line. It told a familiar story: obsolete or unsustainable industry remodelled to serve the tourist trade.
Sawyer hurried along the dirt track, across a ridge which looked down on the section of the trail near Monsal Dale and the Instagram hotspot of the Headstone Viaduct. He knew the route from summer picnics with his father and brother, in the desolate years following his mother’s death: cheese and beetroot sandwiches on white bread; hard-boiled eggs in Tupperware; crisps and Fanta and ignored tomatoes. They had slouched on an old Tartan rug—four become three—and tracked the walkers and cyclists with envious eyes: the sibling horseplay; the grinning couples; the unfractured families. His father—normally so sturdy and erudite—had been a black-eyed shell for the first year: wincing through every heartbeat, carried from place to place by a chariot of grief. And then, Sawyer had watched with a mixture of horror and relief, as the arch pragmatist was drawn into the dusty old country churches around Tideswell, in search of something more than just life followed by emptiness. Whatever he found there, it helped him weather the days. As Sawyer approached his teens, there was a sudden shift, as his father seemed to find a new focus. It was more than just religious reawakening. It was as if, after a long time frozen, he had found a way to thaw himself.
After half an hour of walking, Sawyer reached the outer cordon, around the back of the station car park. It was mid-afternoon, but the sky was already greying, yielding to dusk. He stumbled down a slope of frozen mud and caught sight of the yellow-and-white forensic tent, pitched just off to the side of the trail. It was normally a busy spot with lots of two-way walking and cycling traffic; too risky for the killer to engage his victim in the daytime. Although the station wasn’t active, it was a busy cycle hire centre and café, so he wouldn’t have risked being seen there during business hours. But it was a waypoint; a clear meeting spot. This wasn’t an opportunistic killing. He had planned it, probably arranged to meet. So, why would you kill your victim near the station and dump their body further along the trail?
Sawyer headed across the lower part of the ridge and moved beyond the crime scene marker tape, out to the station’s natural point of foot entry: a side lane that connected to the main building from the larger Monyash Road. A low wall marked the station boundary, with a short footpath leading to the concourse. He stood against the wall, hidden by a canopy of unruly branches. Through the gaps, he could see the Scientific Services Unit van, and his colleagues—transport police, suited detectives, uniforms in high-viz tunics, FSIs in white Tyvek suits—as they co-ordinated the response, working to ensure the high profile area could be re-opened to the public soon. He shouldn’t have been able to get this close; he should at least have been clocked by
observers on the outer cordon. Sawyer felt a twinge of professional outrage at the lack of diligence.
He looked around. Plenty of secluded patches—undergrowth, bushes, copses—with a reasonable eyeline on the footpath area. A bright blue station sign was mounted on a pole at the end of the path; an obvious marker. A meeting point. A spot which could easily be scoped and observed by someone off the side of the lane. He took out his phone and turned on the light, keeping it low, aimed towards the ground. He advanced towards the sign, sweeping the light across the width of the path, lingering at the scrubby edges. He was close enough to hear the officers’ voices.
He would move in as close as he dared; up to the sign. If he was spotted, he would be challenged and his presence logged. He was on public ground, outside the police cordon, but it would hardly help his case: a suspended officer snooping around an active deposition scene.
A few feet from the sign, his phone light picked up a glint in a thicket of grass at the path edge. At first, it looked like a long piece of coloured paper, maybe a chocolate bar wrapper. Or a pen? Pencil? Sawyer stooped and moved his light closer.
It was a black crossbow bolt: thin and long—fifteen to twenty inches—with a pointed tip and feathered flight. Sawyer switched his phone to camera mode and took several pictures from the side and above.
Louder voices. If any officers walked out of the station and onto the path, they would be at the opening by the sign in seconds, and would spot him. He backed away and moved off, back along the ridge to rejoin the walking route. At the section that overlooked the dale and viaduct, he took out his phone and studied the photo. The bolt looked new, unblemished. No sign of anything on the tip. There was a raised collar in the centre, with an etched symbol: a reproduction of a sketch. A human eye shape, with an iris-like circle in the centre surrounded by seven rays.
He took out his burner phone and called Walker’s number.
‘Hello?’ Walker sounded suspicious, nervous.
‘Are you on scene?’
Walker paused, lowered his voice. ‘Sir? You mean—’
‘The body. Hassop Station. Monsal Trail.’ Walker was silent. Chatter in the background. Female voice: loud and confident. ‘It’s a PAYG phone. No trail to me. Or you.’
‘Yes. I’m—’
‘I can hear Sally. You’re at the tent.’ Sawyer drew in a breath through his nose. The air was crisp and thin. ‘He missed.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The crossbow killer. He arranged to meet the victim out front. He took his shot, missed. Victim spooks, runs down the ridge onto the trail. Killer follows him, finishes him off.’
A pause, as Walker moved out of the tent. ‘How do you know it was the same killer?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. What are the victims’ names?’ Silence from Walker. ‘Come on, Matt. They’ll come out soon, anyway.’
‘Grindleford vic is Lee Cunningham, forty-seven. Monsal guy is Adrian Little, forty-five.’
Sawyer took out the tactical pen and noted the names in his pad. ‘Go to the front entrance, just off the road at the station concourse. There’s a footpath. Low wall. Search the edges of the path. For extra brownie points, wander out there yourself before Sally’s team get to it. You need to check on any other crossbow killings recently. Be generous. Give it a year. Probably up north, but don’t restrict yourself. Cross ref for connections between victims. Focus on motive. I don’t think you’ll find DNA. But get the why and it’ll give you the who.’
19
Sawyer studied the menu; Eva studied Sawyer. ‘Not hungry?’
‘Not a lot I can eat here, really.’
She slumped over the table. ‘Seriously? A mainstream Italian joint and there’s not a lot you can eat?’
He glanced up. ‘Intolerance.’
Eva took off her Tom Fords and polished the lenses with a napkin. ‘Lactose? Peanut?’
‘Weird food.’
She shook her head. ‘Can you cope with pasta?’
He gave her a little boy grimace. ‘Not too spicy, though.’
‘This is like going out for dinner with my ten-year-old son.’
Sawyer sipped at his Coke. ‘That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.’
The restaurant—Antonio’s, in Buxton town centre—was rustic and cramped, the walls cluttered with Italian memorabilia of dubious origin. Eva ordered the ‘green burger’; Sawyer asked for lasagne. Despite his protests, she took the executive decision of a shared dish of steamed greens.
They looked at each other, caught in the limbo between the waiter’s arrival and departure. Sawyer had overreached with his dress: blue suit jacket, white shirt, orange tie. Eva, as ever, was elegant in a black cocktail dress and grey shrug, perfectly pitched to shine against the scenery.
Sawyer raised his eyebrows at the silence. ‘How are things at home?’
Eva rested her hands on the table. Sawyer glanced down and darted his eyes back up. She smiled. ‘Yes. Still wearing the wedding ring.’
‘Why?’
‘I like it. As jewellery.’
‘And you don’t think of it as a mark of ownership?’
Eva poured herself a glass of wine. ‘Are you virtue signalling or making a passive aggressive comment against Dale?’
‘My feminist credentials are without question, surely? Has Dale been around?’
She took a drink. ‘He came to the house with a few others. Marco wasn’t there.’
‘Shaun?’
She nodded. ‘Couple of new faces, too. Kids, really. I have some information for you. Don’t know how useful it is, though.’
Sawyer took out his pen and pad. ‘That’s what witnesses say when they know they’ve got something good.’
She balked. ‘Witnesses? You’re off duty, remember?’
‘No such thing. It’s a myth.’
‘Even under suspension?’
‘It’s a grey area. Tell me the thing. You know you want to.’
Eva took another long sip of wine, holding the moment. ‘Dale has a room at the house where he meets friends and associates. I think he thinks it’s private, but you can hear bits and pieces from the bathroom on that floor, depending on who’s speaking. I overheard a few things. There’s another club, as well as the one in Manchester. Closer.’
‘In the Peak District?’
‘Somewhere near here. Fairfield. Just outside Buxton. They’re calling it “Players”.’
Sawyer frowned and drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Did he stay over?’
‘No. It had the feeling of him dropping in for a quick visit, to approve something. Normally, people come to visit him. But he’d been out and they all arrived together. They were only at the house for an hour or so.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘He didn’t even see Luka.’
‘How is he?’
She looked at him. ‘He asked after you again.’
‘I’ll come to see him tomorrow.’
‘Let me know first. In case Dale is there.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes. It matters.’
The food arrived. Sawyer leaned in to Eva’s plate. ‘That looks healthy.’
‘It’s made from quinoa, kale and beans. I assume you haven’t eaten any of those things.’
He took a small block of grey metal out of his pocket and nudged it across the table. ‘This is a micro listening device. There’s a magnetic strip at the side. Is there anywhere in Dale’s special room you could hide it?’
Eva unwrapped her knife and fork, unfazed. ‘Loads of places. But why would I do that?’
‘Dale wouldn’t move out of town if he was opening some social club franchise. And he tried to spook me into backing off. There’s something deeper going on here. It’s why he wants the distance. I need to know more, though.’
She shook her head. ‘He sweeps the place with a little handheld detector thing. Paranoid. I don’t want him finding it and accusing me—’
‘Take him a drink
or something. Slip in the device when he’s halfway through a meeting. Remove it straight after.’
Eva laughed. ‘Jake, we’re not living in a spy movie. You might not like Dale, but don’t dismiss him as stupid. I wouldn’t normally do that. Bring him a drink, slip out again. He’ll notice, and he’ll assume I’m up to something. You’ll have to find another use for your special bug. Was it expensive?’
Sawyer toyed with his lasagne, sulking. ‘Very.’
‘So, you’re Batman now? An outlaw, with your gadgets?’
He laughed and pocketed the device. ‘Chapel-en-le-Frith is hardly Gotham City.’
‘Luka is big on Batman at the moment. The Nolan films.’ She took a small bite of her burger. ‘Bit too young for it, I think. But it’s so hard to gauge, these days.’
Sawyer dug into his lasagne. ‘They grow up so fast, right?’
She eyed him. ‘It’s true. Faster than ever. They have to. There’s so much flying at them, from the internet, peers. So much to keep up with. Luka is even getting fashion conscious now. He’s ten! Do you remember worrying about your clothes at that age?’
‘I wasn’t a particularly happy ten-year-old.’
‘In contrast to your bright and sunny adult self, you mean?’
He snorted, forked in some pasta.
Eva smiled at him, caught his eye. ‘I realise it’s a bit early to talk about stepfather duties, but Luka could certainly use a good male influence.’
‘Let me know when you find someone who isn’t suspended from their job, accused of murder.’
‘You’re a master deflector, you know. Seriously. He’s always talking about how you picked the lock, got him out of that cave.’
Sawyer sighed. ‘It feels big to him, but it was just me at work.’
