by Andrew Lowe
‘Right. Outwitting a killer and kidnapper. Just another day at the office.’
He darkened. ‘I’m not a superhero. Luka shouldn’t build me up in his mind. I’ll let him down.’
‘You don’t have to be an ideal father figure or role model. Luka might want to show everyone how sharp and sophisticated he is, but he’s ten years old. He thinks in black and white. To him, you’re… somebody who does good. Somebody who does the right thing.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Like I said, I’ll let him down.’
Back at the cottage, Sawyer looked online and found a basic one-page website for the Players club in Manchester, with a Coming Soon splash for the branch in Fairfield. It was as Eva had described: two floors, one with snooker and pool for adults only, and another for all ages, with retro and contemporary arcade cabinets and LAN computer gaming. It was plausible, but not Dale’s style, and the numbers didn’t add up for such aggressive franchising.
He searched for the crossbow victims: Lee Cunningham, Adrian Little. Cunningham’s murder was showing up in local news, but Little’s hadn’t filtered through yet. No related stories. He took out his phone, navigated to the photo of the crossbow bolt, and cropped the image to the sketch on the collar. He sent it to his laptop and tried a reverse image search. The algorithm delivered plenty of close-ups of eyes and eyeballs, but nothing that resembled the hand-drawn look, with the seven rays surrounding the central iris.
Movement in the corner of his vision. He turned.
Bruce had hopped off his usual spot by the sofa and was creeping towards the front door, staying low, in stalking mode. A mouse, bold enough to venture inside for shelter from the cold?
The cat stopped at the front door and sat there, staring up at nothing. Sawyer walked to the door and opened it, flinching at the frosty air. Bruce gave him a curious look, and stayed where he was.
Sawyer gazed out into the blackness, listening.
Swishing trees, an occasional distant car.
20
Sheila Caldwell led Sawyer through a narrow entrance hall into the bungalow’s musty sitting room. She was stooped and slow, barely mobile. Late seventies, maybe early eighties. She opened the door and shuffled through, keeping her head down, as if in shame.
The room was overrun with outmoded chintz—doilies, a barometer, Toby jugs—and baked in the heat from two wall-length radiators. Sawyer touched a finger to one and had to withdraw it immediately. ‘Nice and cosy in here.’
Sheila raised her head and searched the room, eventually fixing her rheumy eyes on him. ‘No sense in being cold. Plenty of time for that when you’re dead.’
Sawyer laughed; Sheila faked a smile and gestured towards an olive-green velour armchair opposite the matching sofa. The fireplace had been tiled over, and the shelf above was jammed with knick-knacks and sterile Royal Doulton figures. He leaned in and studied the one photograph: a framed black-and-white shot of a younger Sheila on a beach in a chaste bikini, squinting into the camera. A man—shorter, older—stood beside her in T-shirt and shorts, folding his arms, grinning. No moustache or watch. Sawyer took out his phone and compared the image of the man with the bland file photo sent by Reeves; the expressions were different, but it was the same individual in both shots.
Sawyer dropped down into the armchair, sending up a puff of dust. Sheila took the sofa, staying oddly in the centre, between the two cushions. The years had lined her face in all the expected places, but her short, dyed black hair bought her a decade.
She licked her thin lips and gazed ahead for a few seconds, then caught herself and looked up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘I’m fine, Mrs Caldwell. Thank you for seeing me. As I said on the phone, I’m a Detective Inspector and I work at Buxton station. My boss used to work under your husband.’
She gave a wheezy laugh. ‘I’m sure he did.’
‘My dad was there, too. When he was a young copper.’ Sheila’s head drooped again. Narcolepsy? ‘He’s an artist now.’
Sheila startled. ‘Very good.’ She shook her head, suddenly angry. ‘What is all this about?’ She kept her eyes fixed on the worn tartan rug in front of the fireplace.
Sawyer leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘Just a few questions about your husband.’
She raised her eyes to him. ‘Ex-husband.’
‘Did you marry again? After his disappearance?’
She started to laugh but lapsed into a coughing fit. ‘No, no. I mean he was declared legally deceased.’
‘After seven years. You would have been in your fifties, though? I thought you might have—’
Sheila waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes. I saw people. What do you want? A fucking life history?’ She spat out the expletive with enough venom to jolt Sawyer back in the chair.
‘Do you remember much about the night of William’s disappearance?’
Sheila sucked in a breath. ‘Of course. It still feels like it was last week. He went out, on business. Didn’t tell me what it was about. He never did. Why would he? That was his job. And he didn’t come back.’ She sank forward, deflating. ‘William never saw the job as something he picked up and put down. He was so deeply involved in his cases. And he brought them home. Never spared me any detail. I was always worried that he would go out and not come back. And then one day, that’s just what happened. Nobody has seen him since.’
‘Did he mention someone called Owen Casey?’
Sheila thought for a second. ‘Not that I remember. He was distracted that evening, though. More than usual. It was as if something was eating at him. Boring into him. He seemed… angry.’ At last, she raised her head fully and blinked her eyes, focusing on him. ‘I know you.’
He nodded, patient. ‘From the newspaper?’
‘From what happened. To your mother. To you.’
Sawyer staggered to his feet. The room swayed.
She looked down again. ‘I was a teacher, too. A lecturer.’
Too hot in here. He glanced at the door; it seemed smaller, miniaturised.
‘My goodness, Mr Sawyer. We both lost so much. So long ago.’
Sawyer steadied himself on the fireplace and stared into the photograph of Sheila and William, caught in the centre of a sun-bleached half-world: a frozen eternity, drained of colour, cast in monochrome.
‘I used to read poetry to William. I don’t think he ever clicked with it, but he was tolerant. There’s a poem I love, by an American writer. Delmore Schwartz. He has a great line: “Time is the fire in which we burn.” Isn’t that wonderful?’
Sawyer drove, too fast, away from the Caldwell house in the wild countryside of Padley, down to soothing, touristy Hartington. It was a lousy day—gloomy, flecked with sleet—and he pitched the Mini around blind corners, half expecting a tractor or lumber truck to pick him off at any moment.
He called a number on his burner phone, set it on speaker, and mounted it in the dashboard dock. It rang twice before pick-up.
‘Frazer Drummond.’
‘Civilian Sawyer speaking.’
Drummond paused. ‘You’re using a secret phone. That’s so cute.’
‘For the greater good. I’ve got an idea. A theory.’
A pause as Drummond sat down. He was in his office, probably alone. ‘Go for it. I’m too busy for more bodies at the moment.’
‘Adrian Little. The guy they found off the Monsal Trail.’
‘You are keeping your hand in.’
‘Battered to death. What with?’
Another pause from Drummond. ‘Looks like something flat, metal. Spade, probably.’
Sawyer braked as he turned into a narrow lane, and crawled past an oncoming SUV. ‘The crossbow. It’s not about efficiency.’
‘You think it’s the same killer?’
‘Yes. He missed with the second vic. The spade was back-up.’
‘Why not use a knife? Easier to conceal.’
‘It’s about proximity. The spade still keeps him at arm’s length. He
can’t stand to be close to them.’
Drummond clicked his tongue. ‘A revulsion.’
‘Yes. He isn’t using a distance weapon for security. It’s because he can’t touch them, can’t look them in the eye.’
‘Hold on. How do you know he tried the crossbow again and missed?’
‘Like you say, keeping my hand in. They might even bother to tell you officially soon.’
Drummond chuckled. ‘So, how does this help?’
‘There’s something longstanding here. Something enormous that embedded itself a long time ago. Revulsion, yes. Maybe even anger. And yet he’s denying himself the pleasure of being close to their pain, the sadism of seeing their awareness of their final moments. Why so squeamish? If we can answer that, we might be able to ease your workload.’
21
Maggie had taken a central table at the Nut Tree, a compact café on the main road through Hartington. She was pouring from a teapot, filling two large mugs as Sawyer entered.
He crashed down into the seat opposite and shovelled a heaped spoonful of sugar into his mug. ‘Nice timing.’
She added the milk, glanced up at him. ‘I’ve worked you out, after all these years. You used to be late for everything, but now you’re early.’
‘Is that a marker for anything? Sociopathy?’
Maggie smiled. ‘My charitable assessment would be borderline personality disorder.’
‘Alex isn’t so coy. She’s stuck on PTSD.’
She balked. ‘Jake. Confidentiality.’ She nodded to the tray on the table. ‘I got you a rock cake. It’s technically confectionery, but the raisins mean you’re getting one of your five a day.’
‘Thanks, but I heard it’s seven now. You not eating?’
‘Had breakfast with Mia and Freddy before I dropped them off.’
Sawyer caught Maggie’s gaze. Her red hair was uncombed; dark circles underscored her eyes. ‘Not sleeping? You on FLO work for Keating?’
She sighed. ‘We’ve done this. Conflict of interest. I need the work.’
‘So, yes. Is Justin being difficult?’
Maggie bought some time with a sip of coffee. ‘It’s all difficult. Freddy is oblivious, but Mia has worked it out. She’s moody, in her room all the time. More like a teenager than a ten-year-old. I just wish they were more in sync. She bosses him around, he bites back, I break it up. It’d be nice if they’d just be kids and enjoy… kid things.’
Sawyer picked a raisin-free edge off the rock cake. ‘Kid things?’
‘Yeah. Justin’s taking them swimming on Sunday. He always seems to do the fun stuff, while I’m the one who gets them to school, nags them about phones and whatever.’
‘Try and focus on the good bits. At least you know they’re safe.’
Maggie eyed him. ‘I saw Holly Chilton’s parents yesterday. The poor mother, Jake. Jesus Christ. She just paces and paces. She reminds me of one of my clients. He can never sit still, never settle. It’s like he’s worried that if he stays in one place for too long, he’ll get taken out by a sniper or something.’
Sawyer gave a dark laugh. ‘What about Joshua Maitland’s parents?’
She stared into the mug. ‘They’re in a different place. More resigned, expecting the worst. The Chiltons are full of that awful hope. Alert to every noise, expecting every call or contact to bring some news. They’re still clinging to the possibility that their daughter might come back one day. But the Maitland parents have lost that sense of bracing.’
‘The acceptance stage of grief. Sounds like the Chiltons are still in denial.’
‘It’s a crude model, but it often works that way.’ She took a drink. ‘Now. Please tell me you’ve hired a lawyer. I could talk to Justin—’
‘I think they’re alive.’
‘Who?’
‘The children. Holly and Joshua.’
She slumped. ‘Based on what?’
‘Experience. The time between the disappearances. Couple of other details. I spoke to Shepherd. I know he’s on it. Wouldn’t give me much else. Don’t tell him I told you I’d spoken to him, though.’
She raised her eyebrows, sarcastic. ‘Of course not. That would be unethical.’
Sawyer munched on the cake, spoke with his mouth full. ‘Holly told her parents she was meeting a friend.’ He swallowed, took a swig of tea. ‘Joshua left school alone and didn’t return. Couple of months ago. But Shepherd said Joshua’s parents think he might have been meeting someone, too. Right?’
Maggie took a slow sip of tea, watching him. ‘Shepherd wouldn’t give you that much, Jake. He’s Mr By-The-Book. Not long a DS.’
Sawyer fussed with the cake, avoiding eye contact. ‘He didn’t tell me directly, no.’
‘Tell me you haven’t spoken to Walker.’ Now she was playing him, gauging his position. She could have heard about his hospital visit from Drummond, or maybe Walker himself.
‘Not about this case, no.’
‘But about a different case?’ She smiled. ‘The two station murders, right?’
‘Mags. I’m trying—’
‘To help?’ Maggie bristled and leaned forward. ‘Help yourself. You’re under investigation. Leave this to Keating and Shepherd. This is your condition, steering you. Jake, you’re not the centre of the universe. Things can get fixed without you. Let other people do this work and focus on getting professional advice to make your accusation go away. Then you can help to find these children. Officially.’
Sawyer sifted through the pile of raisins on his plate. ‘I’m on it.’
The sleet had solidified into a squall of hail that rattled down onto the windscreen. Sawyer sped over Sterndale Moor, hemmed in by the leafless hedges, and joined a rickety A-road down to the outskirts of Buxton. As the weather calmed and a low winter sun cracked through the clouds, he played Mezzanine by Massive Attack; another favourite from his nineties teenage wilderness years. The car trembled with the pummelling drums and pulsing bass. It was a blissful fusion of private audio and natural visual. One of those soundtrack moments; the feeling that he was the dark star in a film of his own life.
Logan met him at The Source; same table. He looked soggy and ragged and didn’t bother to shake Sawyer’s hand as he sat down. ‘Fucking weather!’
‘It’s winter. You not used to it by now?’
Logan swiped at his head, spraying water. ‘No, I’ll never get used to it. I miss London.’
‘Rains there, too.’
‘Yeah, but… It’s proper rain here. No buildings to soak it up. Anyway, I got your message. I was worried it was a hoax. New number?’
‘That’s the one I’m using for this. Think of it as our own little hotline.’
Logan waved to the man behind the counter. ‘Two teas, mate.’
Sawyer hitched up his jacket collar against the cold of the café. ‘Let’s not get too cosy. Business over pleasure.’
Logan grinned. ‘Go on then, boss. What have you got for me?’
‘I need you to get your snout in the trough, if you’ll pardon the imagery.’
‘And implication.’
‘I’ve got a name. William Caldwell. He was the DCI of Buxton station in the 1980s. Hands-on type, according to his wife. I think he was involved in my mother’s murder, and he might have had something to do with Klein’s death, too.’
Logan spluttered. ‘He’ll be cracking on.’
‘Yeah. Seventies, at least.’ Sawyer went quiet as the man brought their tea over. ‘Thing is, he walked out of his house one fine day in 1997. Never came back. No sign since. Declared legally dead in 2004.’
‘So why would you do a runner, nearly ten years after you’ve got away with murder?’
Sawyer ran a teaspoon across the film on top of his tea. ‘That’s what I need to find out. I want you to dig into prison visitor records, for HMP Sudbury. That’s where Marcus Klein did most of his time before being moved to a Cat D when he got his parole. Did he get a visit from Caldwell? Also, check for “Owen Casey”.’
<
br /> Logan winced. ‘That’s a lot of work, Sawyer. Few favours to call in, too.’
‘Don’t get too excited. This is not the beginning of a beautiful friendship. But it could work out for both of us. If you can help me find the person who really killed Klein, I’ll give you the exclusive. I can see the headlines in your eyes already. You could make it all about your favourite subject: yourself. “How I helped clear hero cop’s name.” Cast me as the incidental beneficiary. Pulitzer might be a stretch, but you’d be up for the Paul Foot Award, at least.’
Logan slurped at his tea, nodded. ‘It’s a good angle. You might have evolved into a decent hack yourself, you know.’
Sawyer leaned in. ‘There’s one thing I’d like to clear up first. Someone took a picture of me at the travellers’ camp fight. The picture somehow found its way to Keating. Anything to do with you?’
Logan smiled, sheepish. ‘As I said, Sawyer, it’s all spread so thinly, these days. You have to duck and dive. A contact sent me the shot, yeah. I thought it would help me get something out of Keating, since you weren’t helping. The fucker is sewn up tight, though. And then you were arrested for murder and the leverage became irrelevant. Events overtook us.’
‘Have you heard anything about the investigation into Klein’s death?’
Logan looked out of the window. ‘Not a sniff. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but in my considerable experience, a watertight operation suggests they really do think they’re onto something with you.’ He sat back. ‘The media blackout on your arrest can’t last forever, you know. Whatever you want to call me, Sawyer, I’m a journalist. I’m paid to break big stories. And at the moment, you’re the biggest unbroken story in town.’
22
Luka Strickland hopped up onto a chair, opposite Sawyer at the kitchen table. Eva’s family home was the largest semi in a quiet estate on the edge of Bakewell. She kept it clean and uncluttered, with little evidence of the domestic turmoil beneath the surface. Sawyer’s eyes drifted up to the wall portrait: an enlarged studio shot of Eva with toddler Luka. She had since dyed her white hair black, but Luka had barely changed; he was still small and skinny, with scruffy blond hair. The ten-year-old version before Sawyer at the table wore a pair of glasses with cherry-red frames.
