by Andrew Lowe
After Sawyer had left, Harold headed back into the studio and took a paint pot from the yellow shelf. He shook out a small key and unlocked the side door, which led to a rugged outbuilding with a stone floor and metal wall shelving, crammed with labelled boxes containing various supplies: groceries, medical items, accessories.
In the corner, a heavy steel door had been installed at the top of the staircase that led down to the old wine cellar. Harold pulled out a short stepladder and climbed up to reach the ledge of a high, frosted glass window set into the building’s slanted roof. He slid a protective wallet from a groove in the brickwork and climbed down.
As Harold snapped the stepladder shut with a clang, Rufus and Cain bundled into the studio door, scrabbling and whining.
‘Exercise time, boys.’ Harold took the swipe card from the wallet and held it against the reader on the steel door. A red light on the panel to the door’s left turned to green, and the locking mechanism clunked open.
27
Shaun swaggered up the path, away from Robbie’s flat block. Ash shouldered out of the main doors and caught him up, panting.
‘Those two gonna be okay in there?’
Shaun fiddled with his phone, nodding. ‘They’ll be fine. Think of it as their apprenticeship. Looking after a junkie mong. If they can manage that, I’ll promote ’em to watching the door at the club or something. I want to get the fuck out of here as soon as I can. Stick to the plan.’
Ash frowned. ‘I am not fucking with Dale, bruv.’
Shaun glowered at him. ‘We’re not “fucking” with anyone. I’m managing the business here. That Marco cunt is covering Manchester. Dale knows him from prison or whatever. We’ll get this done. But we’ll do it my way.’
They walked into town, across a large park bisected by the River Wye, close to its source. Most of the snow had melted, and the grass was squashed and sodden.
‘Are they ducks?’ Ash waved a hand at a group of white-feathered, red-faced birds loitering by the edge of the river.
Shaun squinted at them. ‘Geese? I dunno. What am I? Bill fuckin’ Oddie?’
‘Who?’
Shaun slapped Ash on the chest, bracing him. ‘Here we go.’ He nodded to a group of teenagers playing football on a patch of open grass between two sets of jacket goalposts. ‘You okay there, lads?’
The biggest of the group stood by the nearest goal. He turned and glowered at Shaun and Ash. ‘We’re fine to play here, mate.’
Another one spoke up. ‘We asked yer man at the gatehouse. All good.’
Shaun smiled. ‘Nah, nah. I’m not police or anything.’ He strode out into the middle of the pitch, forcing the boys to stop playing. ‘I’m just wondering if you’d be up for a bit of work, lads. Nothing dodgy, yeah? New club just out of town. Pool, LAN gaming, some arcade games. Bit of money in it.’ The teenagers gathered, and Shaun handed round a few business cards: thick cardboard, professional design; icons of a number eight pool ball and a console joypad beneath the word PLAYERS; address and mobile number on the back.
The goalkeeper studied his card, looked from Ash to Shaun. ‘Is it cash?’
‘Course. Totally legit, mind.’ He winked. ‘Just trying to cover set-up costs. The taxman will get his nibble further down the line, yeah?’
Ash smiled. ‘Victimless crime, you get me?’
Shaun flashed him a withering look, and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. ‘Listen. Come down later; we’ll sort something out. Tell your mates. Fuck all to do round here, yeah? Somewhere to go when the weather is shite. Might be a few perks in it, too.’
Shaun’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the screen. It was Clem, one of the tech guys at the Buxton branch of Players. He turned away from the group and took the call. ‘What’s the story?’
Music in the background. Clunking pool balls. ‘You need to get down here.’
Shaun sighed. ‘This is your gig. Buy a bigger signal booster. I told you the Wi-Fi would be shit.’
‘It’s not that. There’s a weird guy. Been sitting here for a while, saying nothing. Freaking me out, man.’
Shaun parked his white Mercedes on the main road alongside the Fairfield golf course. He dived out of the car and hurried through the side streets, pursued by Ash.
The Buxton branch of Players was housed in a refitted pub building on the corner of a residential street. There was no obvious shop front, but a portable sign stand had been propped by the door, displaying the business card logo and name. The ground floor walls were lined with contemporary and retro arcade cabinets and a couple of pinball machines. At the back of the room in a low-lit, roped-off area, gamers in headphones huddled around a connected hub of laptops. In the far corner, a few casual tables had been arranged near a serving hatch in the wall. The place was busy with a young, mostly male crowd. All of the machines were occupied and a few stragglers with plastic coffee cups hung around the tables by the hatch.
Clem stood behind a raised desk near the entrance. He was thirty-odd, tall and solid and well groomed, with a heavily gelled quiff. He nodded as Shaun approached and leaned in to his ear, shouting over the cacophony of twittering games and stomping techno. ‘He’s at the back. Been on the same cup of coffee for a good half-hour now.’
Shaun craned his head around a group of gamers at the front. Sawyer sat at one of the tables by the hatch: head back, eyes closed, jacket collar folded up. ‘And he’s asked for me?’
Clem nodded.
Shaun turned to Ash. ‘Keep watch.’
‘Mate of yours?’
‘Shut your fucking mouth and keep your eyes open.’
Shaun sauntered over. As he approached the table, Sawyer opened an eye. ‘How’s the nose, tough guy?’
Shaun plonked himself down in the seat opposite. He smiled. ‘We know where you live.’
Sawyer closed the eye again. ‘I know you know where I live.’ He opened his eyes and sucked in a breath. ‘But now I know where you work. And who pays your wages.’ He squeezed the coffee cup, denting it. ‘You haven’t hung around, I’ll give you that. The website says this place is “coming soon”. Gold star for hitting your schedule. But is this really all Dale trusts you with? A glorified community centre. You must feel a tiny bit patronised by that? How’s Marco? And Hector?’
Shaun leaned in. ‘Try something like you pulled back at your house here, Sawyer. Go for it. I’ve seen your moves now. So you took a few karate lessons. You’re not fuckin’ Bruce Lee.’
Sawyer grinned. ‘You’re mixing your martial arts there, Shaun. But I take your point.’ He looked past Shaun, to the front door. ‘Who’s the dude with the dreadlocks? He needs to lose weight if he wants to be the Laurel to your Hardy.’
‘Hey. This is a business, alright? Snooker and pool upstairs. No license yet. Bit of mark-up on the coffee and tea. Tenner to get in, with all the play you want.’
‘Hence the name. I’m not saying I don’t think this is a good idea. Personally, I’m a purist. I could live without the rhythm games and the pay to continues. But I suppose I’m not the target customer, right?’ Sawyer waved an arm. ‘I’m just not sure this is Dale’s style. Nurturing the disaffected youth.’ He leaned further forward and lowered his voice, close to a whisper. ‘And I don’t think you’d take a job like this without significant benefits. Maybe a few benefits you’ve awarded yourself.’
Shaun shrugged. ‘Is there a point to this? Are you here to make an arrest? If not, might I politely suggest that you fuck off?’
Sawyer stood up, smiled. ‘Shaun. That’s robust, but fair. No arrests. I’ve got bigger issues on the go at the moment. Just suggest to your boss that he introduces a loyalty card scheme. I think I’ll be spending quite a lot of time here.’
28
Austin Fletcher stayed low and silent as he crept through the galley kitchen towards the sitting room. He wore latex gloves, and plastic shoe protectors covered his boots. He paused at the fridge, dipped his head, and scanned the kitchen and sitting room.
S
awyer’s car wasn’t out front, and Fletcher was certain he wasn’t home. But he would stick to his key principle: assume the worst. He had watched Sawyer drive away, but there could be someone else, asleep in the bedroom. Or Sawyer might have spotted, or heard, Fletcher’s approach and driven away as a decoy, then doubled back and seen him enter the house.
When he was on unfamiliar territory, Fletcher always remained on high alert until he had scoped out every millimetre, assessed every threat, identified all the entry and exit points. Side door: lock easily picked, now ajar. Front door: unknown, probably locked from the outside. At the end of the kitchen, he could see the open door to Sawyer’s bedroom, and another door ajar to the bathroom beyond. The place was a mess, with half-empty glasses and unwashed dishes, but there was no way to tell how long they had been there.
As ever, his supplements had dried his mouth, and he opened the fridge door in search of water. Cellophane-wrapped pizza, a few mouldering tubs and condiments. He reached his huge gloved hand to the back of the middle shelf and pulled out a bright yellow plastic pot. Cadbury’s Flake Chocolate Dessert. He wrinkled his nose, and replaced it. He lifted a half-full litre bottle of Diet Coke from the door compartment and unscrewed the top. He tilted back his ponytailed head, opened his mouth wide, and tipped in some of the liquid, taking care not to touch the lip of the bottle with his mouth. He replaced the bottle, and froze.
A noise, off in the bedroom.
Fletcher dropped into a squat, using the kitchen table as cover.
A black-and-white cat padded in and dug its nose into a food bowl by the side door. Fletcher moved towards it, but it darted away and slipped outside.
He crept through into the bedroom and studied Sawyer’s wooden man dummy, recognising it from a teenage fling with classical martial arts. He sifted through a few items on the bedside table and poked around the bathroom. No revealing medications, no clues on secrets or weaknesses.
As he stepped back into the sitting room, his phone vibrated in the inside pocket of his bomber jacket. He took it out, checked the ID, and connected the call. ‘Yes?’
‘We need to move things forward. This weekend, if you can.’
‘No.’
A moment’s silence from Dale. ‘This isn’t a negotiation, Fletcher. He’s sniffing around, getting too curious.’
Fletcher’s gaze drifted to the cat’s food bowl. ‘Not smart to phone.’
‘How about you let me decide what’s smart?’
Fletcher gave a strange little grunt, somewhere between contempt and despair. ‘Haven’t finished the preliminaries.’
‘Improvise.’ Dale hung up.
Fletcher stood there in silence for a few seconds, gazing at the floorboards. As expected, his fury surged up through his core: scorching, volcanic. He closed his eyes and kicked into his breathing exercise: deep and slow, deep and slow, spacing out the inhales and exhales.
He opened his eyes and walked back to the fridge.
29
Sawyer strode through the main doors of the High Peak Bookstore, a bookshop and café at the edge of a gusty tract of moorland outside Buxton. The converted warehouse was dank and cold from the melting snow, but it was a busy weekend spot, with two large, well-stocked rooms of new and used books.
Dean Logan lurked at a corner table by a glass door fridge, rendering its contents temporarily unpopular. He grinned at Sawyer as he approached. The small table was overloaded with Logan’s tea, a tall mug of milky coffee and two plates with hefty slices of cake.
Sawyer took his seat. ‘Nice spread. Bit disturbing, though. A selfless gesture from a journalist.’ He sipped at the tepid coffee. ‘Is this part of a religious conversion or something?’
‘I’m not a spiritual man, Sawyer. Unless—’
‘Unless we’re talking about the other kind of spirits? Yeah, yeah. So what have you snuffled out?’
Logan cut into his cake with a miniature fork; it looked comically dainty in his bloated fingers. ‘You don’t have to keep this up, Sawyer. The pass-agg comments about my profession. This is mutual now, remember? We’re working together.’ He mashed the cake into his mouth and carried on talking. ‘The outlaw and the truth seeker. Each no better than the other.’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘I see our relationship as more symbiotic. Transactional. “Mutual” makes it sound too warm and fuzzy.’ He sliced into his cake. ‘Come on. What have you got?’
Logan slurped at his tea. ‘Couple of interesting things. I checked Marcus Klein’s visitor records for HMP Sudbury. Just to clarify, Sawyer, that wasn’t easy. The eighties and nineties records were archived, on paper. I had to get creative.’
‘You mean, lie?’
‘Lose the moral revulsion. I got what you asked for.’
Sawyer ate more cake, watched Logan. ‘So, did Caldwell visit him, or try to visit him? How about Owen Casey?’
Logan smiled. ‘Neither. But there was one name that popped out. Your dear old dad, Harold. He showed up in October 1997. Tried to visit. Klein refused. His name doesn’t come up again.’
Sawyer scowled. ‘Why would he want to see Klein? Presumably, the governor would have screened him as family of the inmate’s victim.’
‘He was a copper at the time, though.’ Logan leaned back. ‘I’m no detective, Sawyer, but it looks like your old man might have been a few steps ahead of you, if he had reason to question Klein almost ten years after his conviction.’
Sawyer stared at the froth patterns on the inside of his coffee cup. ‘And a few weeks after Caldwell’s disappearance. What’s the other thing?’
Logan scooped in another forkful of cake. ‘Not so good. They’ve found another body. Crime scene up at Hollinsclough. Open field, not too far from the primary school. Can’t get near the place.’
‘Another forties male?’
Logan shook his head, wiped his mouth. ‘Young girl. They think it’s Holly Chilton.’
Sawyer took the short, straight drive across the moor to the village of Earl Sterndale. He parked outside The Quiet Woman Pub: a stained grey building with a sign featuring a macabre illustration of a headless woman and the legend, Soft words turneth away wrath.
He took a pair of binoculars from the glovebox, changed into walking boots and slipped down the side of the pub onto a farm track. He bore down through a dry valley to the foot of Chrome Hill: a steep, limestone spike that Sawyer remembered Keating once claiming as ‘the only proper peak in the Peak District’. He joined the concessionary path and heaved himself forward. It was crusty underfoot, and he stumbled in places where the snow lingered. After half an hour of vertiginous hiking, he merged with the main ridge path and reached the summit.
Sawyer crouched down and gathered his breath, stung by the churning winds. He rose up, tipped back his head, and held out his arms to full span: palms out. Far below, the chequered fields, speckled in white, swung across the Dove Valley, to Hollins Hill and Staffordshire, and he found himself submerged in a late afternoon lightshow: a yolk-orange winter sun, flaring through the clouds.
He raised the binoculars and aimed them down, towards a patch of activity by the school just outside Hollinsclough village. Police vehicles, Scientific Services Unit van, officers, detectives, TyVek suits. The yellow-and-white forensic tent had been erected at the edge of a field, close to a treeline.
He called Shepherd. It rang for a while before connecting.
‘Detective Sergeant Shepherd.’ He sounded flat, defeated.
‘I want to help.’
Shepherd sighed. ‘Where are you?’
Sawyer turned away from the wind. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not hiding under the forensic van.’
‘Sir. You can’t help.’
‘I can.’
Shepherd hung up.
30
Sawyer marched along the entrance corridor, head down, past the lime-green doors and yellow-frosted windows. It was quiet: a few uniforms, no detectives. Sergeant Gerry Sherman sat at the custody and charge desk; he clocked Sawyer’s ap
proach and shuffled over to the privacy barrier.
‘Afternoon, Gerry.’
‘Sir.’ Sherman had the bail document ready by the time Sawyer reached the desk.
Sawyer glanced up at him as he signed. His eyes were dull and distant. ‘How’s the grind?’
Sherman forced himself alert. ‘Usual. Grim. But we didn’t get into this work for the jollies, did we?’
Sawyer handed the document back, and Gerry countersigned. ‘Not much happening.’
‘Lot of ’em are on a call.’
‘Anything I shouldn’t know about?’
Gerry gave a weak smile. ‘See you again soon, sir.’
Sawyer walked back down the corridor, towards the lift. He slowed and lingered before he reached the doors. The ground floor alert pinged and three uniforms got out and pushed their way past him. Sawyer slipped inside. Essence of BO and mid-price cologne.
‘Sir!’ Gerry called from the desk.
Sawyer waved and pressed the button for the MIT floor. ‘I’m just picking up something from my office. Keating is aware.’
The doors closed and the lift carried him up to the Murder Investigation Team unit, which occupied the whole of the first floor. It was an open plan set-up, with private side offices for senior staff. The place was normally brash and bustling, with detectives scurrying along the corridors between the desks, hopping between jobs. Today, the atmosphere was muted, with only a few DCs present, slouched at their desks.
Sawyer strode around the edge of the room, heading for his office. A few heads turned. He held up a hand. ‘Won’t be a second. Need to get something.’
