by Andrew Lowe
Shouts went up from outside; the lantern parade had begun. Groups of children filed past, waving their school’s signature lanterns. Many of the groups included drummers and trumpet players. Sawyer edged outside and moved in the opposite direction, tracking the procession back through the narrow streets, cramped with cheering onlookers. Not all of the children were taking part in the parade; siblings and friends milled around the fringes, watching and shouting.
Sawyer tracked the parade back to the broad main road that passed through the centre and scanned the end of the adjoining streets, searching for single adults who seemed out of place. There could be a false sense of security in busy, vibrant gatherings; the sense that the mood was infectious, and anything malevolent would be noticed and naturally warned off or policed. But the opposite was true. The shifting chaos allowed predators to hide in the open, to easily attract, redirect attention, take advantage of momentary lapses.
He was drawn to a man, sitting alone, in shadow, on a low wall outside a detached house. The garden at his back had been laden with flashing lights and animated models, and the cycling colours passed over his hunched form, picking out little detail in the dark. He seemed to be slumped: head forward, elbows on knees. But as a flare of bright green light washed over him, Sawyer could see that his eyes were up and fixed on the parade.
Sawyer waited for a while, smiling and applauding the passing children, keeping the figure in sight. The man stayed still, maintaining the same posture: slumped forward, his shoulders rising and falling.
There was no sign of the parade thinning out, as the school parties were joined by children and teenagers from youth groups, outdoor centres, sports clubs. Sawyer waited for a gap, and crossed the road, a couple of streets down from the man. As he reached the other side, the man stood up and stretched his arms back, as if limbering up.
Sawyer approached him. He was mid-twenties: sturdy build; just shy of Sawyer’s height; maroon outdoor jacket with a flipped back, fur-lined hood. ‘You alright there?’
The man puffed out his cheeks. ‘Thanks, yeah. Just not feeling too well.’ His speech was slurred; he’d clearly been drinking.
Sawyer forced a smile, as he stumbled past, towards the square. ‘Take it easy.’
‘Stella!’
A woman’s shout, from the other side of the road. Sawyer followed the sound. Piercing, frantic. The woman was crouched before a young girl of around eight or nine, gripping her shoulders, imploring her. A fresh wave of lantern groups approached, flooding the road, and Sawyer had to run to get back across in time to avoid the horde.
‘You never, ever go off on your own like that. Do you understand?’
The girl’s face crumpled; she was on the edge of tears. ‘There was a lady. She had coloured sparklers like on Bonfire Night.’
‘Excuse me.’ Sawyer slowed as he reached the woman and girl, careful not to get too close. ‘I’m a police officer. Is everything okay?’
The woman looked up over her shoulder. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She turned back to the girl. ‘Stella. Where’s Amelie?’
Stella looked up at Sawyer, suspicious. ‘She went with the lady.’
Sawyer crouched. ‘Stella, I’m a policeman. Can you tell me where you saw the lady?’
Stella glanced at her mother, then back at Sawyer. She waved a hand, pointing across the road. ‘Down there. By the post box.’
Sawyer stood up and craned his neck, trying to see past the bobbing lanterns as the dense crowd marched past. He caught a movement at the end of a side street, further back up the main road. A short figure in a black woollen hat—adult—and a child, hurrying away, along the street. Were the two holding hands? Was the adult forcing the child to go?
He sprang up and hurried along the pavement, pushing past the onlookers. The main road was a mass of revellers, most waving glowing paper lanterns above their heads, blocking his view. He ran sideways, jinking between the people on the pavement, straining to get a view across the road.
As Sawyer reached a point across from the side street where he had seen the figures, he plunged into a band of drummers, scattering them. Some stumbled to the floor, dropping their beaters, cursing. He barged through a group of lantern bearers and took a shove from a burly steward in a high-viz vest.
He lurched to the side, corrected himself, and pushed forward, onto the opposite pavement.
At the bottom end of the side street, he saw the short figure in the hat closing the back door of a car. The figure’s head lifted, looking up to his position, face in silhouette. He couldn’t tell for sure in the darkness, but the gait and movement seemed female. As the woman opened the driver’s door and fell into the car, he caught a flash of colour from her gloves.
The engine started. Sawyer broke into a run, dazzled by the headlights. The car moved off, screeching its tyres, and turned left, into a narrow connecting road that led away from the town.
59
Sawyer paced the sitting room, shielding his eyes from the early morning light. He had slept in short, fidgety bursts—half an hour, fifteen minutes—and he had been close to driving down to the station and demanding the temporary lifting of his suspension, for the greater good.
Walker’s phone rang for a long time before he picked up.
Sawyer caught his breath. ‘Anything?’
‘No sightings. Nothing from the road blocks.’ He sounded distant, ghostly. Amelie Clark. Eleven. She was there with her schoolmate’s mum and little sister. Schoolmate was ill, stayed at home with her father. Are you a hundred per cent on the car reg?’
‘Didn’t see anything. It was too dark. I was too far away. I got straight back to the mother. She’d already called it in. I gave a statement, description. Looked like a woman, but hard to tell.’
Walker sighed. Muffled office noise in the background; he was probably in one of the victimology rooms on the MIT floor. ‘I have to go. Briefing.’
‘Response was quick. The blocks would have caught something. She must have been taken somewhere local.’
But Walker had already hung up.
Sawyer changed into his running gear and drove down to the Manifold Valley. He parked at the foot of Ecton Hill and hauled himself out into the icy air. His limbs ached from lack of sleep, and as he jogged down onto the Manifold Way trail, his foot caught on a protruding tree root, and he almost fell forward, into a tangle of bracken.
He screwed in his earphones and moved off at a slow pace, shaking his head, trying to reboot his thoughts. He played his favourite album, Loveless by My Bloody Valentine: a bewitching brew of drone guitar and off-kilter melodies. It was his staple regrounding soundtrack, for when he needed to settle the blizzard of connections and compulsions.
It was early, and he only passed a couple of runners on the way up to Thor’s Cave. The slope at the entrance was slippery with dew and melted frost, and he had to push back against the wall, and sidestep up to the flat outcrop of rock where he had sat with Eva.
He looked out through the mouth of the cave, across the valley. Three men murdered, three children taken. A settled score, or an endless tit for tat? A brother, taking out his grief on the type of men who might have murdered his sister. Was Harrison Briggs a benefactor, an inspiration, or was his involvement in the murders more direct?
Three children: one now missing for four months; one—the daughter of his best friend—gone for close to a week; and now, Amelie Clark, stolen away before his eyes.
And Holly Chilton: cast out, or downed during a failed escape? Was her death a trigger for the abductor’s change of method? From online grooming and secret meeting to high-risk public abduction. Why the change? Was it urgency? Some need to fill the gap left by Holly?
Water trickled down from the cave ceiling, splashing onto the floor in the central chamber behind. Rhythmic patterns. Uniform. Soporific.
Sawyer’s eyes were suddenly heavy, and his head sank forward. He forced himself awake, and stared out at the restless treetops. He laid it out line by line, image by
image: the eye symbol; the teenage Briggs in his room, turned to camera; Mia in the back seat of Maggie’s car; Holly’s defiant stare into the camera; Joshua’s toothy grin.
He heard Stella’s voice.
‘There was a lady. She had coloured sparklers like on Bonfire Night.’
Sawyer hadn’t seen anyone else in the car before the woman had driven away. Were they really looking for a female abductor? It was unthinkable, almost unprecedented. The FLOs would need to speak to Stella, try to coax more detail about the woman who had lured her and Amelie.
He had only seen the figure in silhouette. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene from the previous night, using the “reliving” technique he had been taught by Alex. He spoke out loud.
‘I can hear a cry. “Stella!” I’m crossing the road, avoiding a group of children holding glowing lanterns. I’m looking back across the road. I can see a figure with a child.’ The images replayed in his mind. ‘She is holding the child. They are walking off down a side street. I am running across the road. I bump into people carrying lanterns and drums. I am running to the top of the side street. The figures are near to a car. The child is not there any more. The woman is wearing a black woollen hat. She looks up at me.’
He flexed at his memory, but saw no detail in the face.
‘The woman is getting into the car, into the driver’s seat. The interior light is on her. I see her gloves. Yellow.’
Sawyer opened his eyes and took out his phone. He opened his photo app and found the screenshots of the PC magazine. He swiped away the shot of Harrison in his bedroom and zoomed in on the image taken outside on the front lawn. Caption: SOFTWARE HOUSE: Harrison Briggs, at home with mother, Lynette.
He zoomed in on the image of Harrison, standing at his mother’s side. It was a little grainy and washed out, but the colours were clear enough: the khaki of Harrison’s parka, Lynette’s brown duffel coat, black hat, yellow gloves.
Sawyer gazed out across the valley, his breathing quickening.
He sprang up and slid down the rock slope on his backside, almost tumbling off the drop at the end. He scrambled out of the cave and descended the steps to the Manifold Way track. The nearest spot for phone service would be just outside Waterhouses, to the south. He ran hard, with his phone in hand, checking it every couple of minutes. As he crossed a rickety wooden bridge over the River Hamps, the phone showed a bar of signal.
He stopped, and called Sally O’Callaghan. When she answered, he was panting, struggling to catch his breath.
‘Jake. I didn’t know you felt this way.’
‘The fibres.’
‘Good morning to you, too.’
Sawyer steadied himself. ‘The fibres. From Holly Chilton’s body.’
‘What about them?’
‘Are you sure they were yellow?’
She lowered her voice. ‘Positive. Natural wool, dyed yellow. Why?’
He hung up, and ran.
60
Sawyer drove into Buxton and parked near the golf course. He headed for the Fairfield branch of Players, sticking to the narrow side streets, hanging back and waiting under shop awnings, scanning for signs of followers. He knew that professional surveillance was co-ordinated work: several operatives stationed at strategic points, in constant communication. But Fletcher was a lone threat, and he could see no sign of him, and no questionable behaviour in any of the other few people in the area.
The club was busy with an early lunch crowd, and he paid a half-day all-access fee to the new face on the reception desk and settled in by the wall of arcade cabinets, selecting a game—Juno First—which gave him an eyeline on the main door. It was a simplistic but moreish top-down shooter, and Sawyer found himself relaxing into the gameplay, blasting the swooping aliens with rapid bolts of elongated laser fire.
After half an hour, Ash shambled in, flanked by a couple of chubby teenage associates. His body language was surly, downbeat. He paid his entry fee and broke away from the others, stopping at a Bride of Pin-Bot pinball machine near to the retro arcade section. Sawyer continued his game, watching Ash between waves. He hammered at the flippers, swore loudly at lost balls, gesticulated at missed bonuses.
When Sawyer had lost his final life, he sidled up behind Ash, a little too close, and watched him play.
Ash sensed his presence. ‘Never seen a pinball before, yeah?’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Not really my game. Too random. Not enough control.’
Ash turned his head, irritated. He clocked Sawyer and held his gaze for a moment. He had pitted circles under his eyes, and he’d grown out a layer of uneven stubble. He turned back to the game.
Sawyer stepped closer. ‘Pretending you don’t recognise me. That hurts.’
Ash shrugged. ‘Just playing my game, bruv.’
‘So, are you the big man?’
‘You what?’
Sawyer moved around and entered his eyeline. ‘Now the bigger man has gone?’ Ash ignored him, tried to focus on the game. ‘I imagine you’re at a bit of a loose end? No line manager, and nobody with learning difficulties to boss around?’ He nodded at Ash’s two colleagues. ‘Although it looks like you’re not far off with those two.’
Ash cursed, and pinged in a fresh ball; he was working hard to keep up the pretence of not being bothered by Sawyer.
‘I’ve got a proposition for you. Let me tell you my side of it first. I solemnly swear that I won’t arrest you for participation in a county lines drug trafficking operation. PWIS: Possession With Intent To Supply. And if you’re really good, I might even forget to investigate the offence of kidnap and false imprisonment with a possible bonus of manslaughter for Robbie Carling’s unfortunate but inconvenient overdose.’
Ash pushed away from the game and turned to face Sawyer, glaring at him through hazy eyes. ‘Yeah? And what do I do for you?’
61
Harrison Briggs looked up from the bottle-green sofa, as Lynette entered the old sitting room. He set down his book and inspected her with his shining eyes. He had opened the blind at the top of the window, letting more light into the room. He had also changed his clothes: fresh blue hoodie, a new pair of skinny jeans, a different pair of bright red trainers. But the room still sang with his necrotic musk.
‘Love.’ Lynette stepped inside and turned down the music: softer, more ambient than usual. ‘You should take a shower. Before the lessons.’
Harrison smiled. ‘You should be quiet.’
She stood by the speakers. ‘The quiet woman.’
He glared at her. ‘There’s dignity in silence.’ He rose to his full height: rakish, stringy; long, long bones with a heavy, misshapen head. He was a vision from the Hall of Mirrors: unnaturally elongated, as if gravity had toyed with him, raising him high then stretching him back down, for its own amusement.
Lynette recoiled as he approached. ‘We could get some Christmas decorations up in the children’s rooms? Might help to keep them settled.’
He stood over her. ‘You won’t go out again.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll take the final two.’
‘You?’
‘Me. And then, the glory. The learning.’
Lynette turned away, braced for his rotten breath. ‘What do I do then, love?’
‘You’ll assist me.’ She dropped her head. They stood there for a moment. ‘I slept yesterday.’ He dropped his voice to the watery whisper. ‘Sam was there. It was now, but she was still a child. Trapped in time. Her innocence defiled. A life interrupted.’ He turned away. ‘It’s such a pity. Those idiots who killed Black, in prison. I would trade the rest of my life to be able to take his life. To take my time taking his life.’ He closed his eyes, crumpled his face in agony. ‘His kind should suffer.’
Lynette turned back to him. ‘This is better. That would be over so quickly. Now, you’re… bringing good to the world.’
He shook his head. ‘The world doesn’t know what’s good for it. That’s the problem. That’s what we’re goi
ng to start. That’s what we’re going to fix.’
Three loud raps, from the front door knocker.
Harrison strode back to the sofa. ‘Deal with that, then I’ll meet the new girl.’
Lynette walked out of the sitting room and closed the door. She walked around the perimeter hallway, past the central staircase that led up to the children’s rooms.
Three raps again, just as she reached the front door. She raised on tiptoes and peered through the one-way peephole.
It was a man, seemingly alone. Young, pale, excess weight hidden behind baggy sportswear. He had his head bowed, face covered in a tangle of dreadlocks.
Lynette called to him. ‘Who is it?’
He looked up, swept away the dreadlocks with a chubby hand. ‘Oh! Hello. Sorry to bother you, like. I wanted to talk to Harrison. I’m a big fan of the Raysoft games.’ He stumbled. ‘Like… Wormhole. And the others. I was wondering if he’d sign something for me.’
Lynette opened the door a few inches; it was restricted by two sturdy chains at the top and bottom. ‘How did you get this address?’
‘Oh. My friend has got an internet site, all about UK game developers, innit? He’s got lots of info and cuttings. I live in London but I’m on a trip near here with my folks.’
She studied him. ‘Harrison isn’t available, but if you give me an email address then I’ll get him to drop you a message, maybe send a signed picture later.’
Ash widened his eyes. ‘Thank you! That would be awesome.’ He took out a notepad, scribbled something, and handed the paper through the gap in the door. The woman looked at it, nodded, and closed the door.
