by Andrew Lowe
Caldwell scoffed. ‘Another treat. I go for a walk, on a lead. Like a fucking dog.’ He leaned forward and buried himself beneath the blanket, holding it over his head.
‘I fitted a motion sensor to the front gate that notifies me if anyone walks or drives in that way. Gives me plenty of time to get him back inside.’
Sawyer kept focus on Harold. ‘And what about Dr Kelly?’
Harold dropped his gaze. ‘He helped me. Gave me faith.’
‘He knew about all this?’
‘There were a few medical issues over the years. Wear and tear. He helped with drugs, treatment. We spoke about justice, and how society’s retribution for some crimes just isn’t enough. The removal of freedom, but dignity retained. A dignity denied to the victims.’
Sawyer stepped towards his father. ‘And you would have been happy to deny me that freedom? By framing me for Klein’s death?’
Harold sighed, pushed his fingers through his lank grey hair. ‘I had to do it. Because of this. To stop this.’
Caldwell edged the blanket away from his face. ‘Klein’s dead? That poor fucking bastard. Nothing but collateral. Framed once, thirty years inside, then killed by the man whose wife he was accused of murdering.’
A noise on the stairs.
Harold backpedalled to the bottom of the staircase, looked up to the door, and raised his arms in submission.
Austin Fletcher stepped down into the room, holding a Glock handgun with a silenced barrel in his right hand. He looked round, at Sawyer and Caldwell, and spoke to Harold. ‘Corner.’ He inclined the gun towards the far edge of the bookcase.
Harold backed away and stood beneath the skylight, arms up.
Caldwell sat up. ‘And who’s this?’
Fletcher stepped back, keeping his eyes on Sawyer and the gun trained on Harold.
Sawyer took a step away from Caldwell, towards Fletcher. ‘This really isn’t a good time.’
Fletcher aimed the gun at Sawyer. ‘Upstairs.’
Caldwell looked from Harold to Sawyer. ‘Are we all going?’
Fletcher swept a layer of melting snow from his bomber jacket, then pointed at Sawyer. ‘One.’
Sawyer shook his head, and locked his steely green eyes into Fletcher’s pinhole death stare. ‘Do it here.’
Fletcher gave a barely perceptible shake of the head and nodded to the staircase. ‘Now.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Too messy?’
Fletcher shifted the gun to the left, aiming at Harold again. He jerked it up to the ceiling. ‘Now, or he’s first.’
Sawyer smiled, glanced at Harold. ‘This is Mr Fletcher. Dale’s action man. Dale doesn’t like me.’ He let his head sink down and leaned forward, towards Fletcher, keeping his eyes on him. The motion could have been mistaken for a bow. ‘Mr Fletcher tried to kill me recently. Tried to make it look like suicide. Seems like he’s gone to Plan B.’
Fletcher jabbed the gun towards Sawyer. His forehead seemed suddenly red, flushed. ‘Up. Stairs.’
Sawyer raised his arms slowly, fingertips in line with his neck, and walked towards the foot of the staircase.
Fletcher stepped back, making room. He levelled the gun at Sawyer’s head. ‘Turn.’
Sawyer pivoted, arms up, facing the bottom step.
Fletcher checked on Harold—still in the corner—and Caldwell, sitting in the chair, watching. He moved closer to Sawyer and aimed the gun at the back of his head. ‘Move.’
Sawyer stood there, lowering his hands down to chest level.
Gun in right hand. Pointed at head. Too risky.
He glanced over at Harold.
Wait.
The room was quiet. A faint ticking from the ventilation grid. Fletcher’s quickened breathing, close behind. He would be used to getting his way, used to being obeyed without question.
Sawyer turned his head to the side, then forward. Fletcher still had the gun pointed up at the back of his head. ‘Your last kill was impressive. A guy with learning difficulties. A heroin addict. Tied to his bed. What do you do for an encore? Old ladies?’
No response from Fletcher.
Gun in right hand.
‘So, is this your style with the able bodied? Doing it from behind? I think you’re only in it for the view, following me up the stairs.’
Fletcher stepped in and prodded Sawyer in the back with the gun. ‘Now.’
Sawyer side-stepped to the left and spun, anticlockwise, facing Fletcher. The movement was instant, but flowing and natural, replicating the form on the wooden man dummy. As he turned, Sawyer hooked the crook of his left arm under Fletcher’s outstretched forearm and trapped it at the elbow, locking Fletcher’s wrist against Sawyer’s left shoulder. The gun now pointed away from Sawyer, back at the stairs behind.
Sawyer held the trap firm. He lifted his right heel and pivoted his hip, planting an explosive hook punch into Fletcher’s jaw. Fletcher’s head snapped to the right and Sawyer drove his right knee up into his chest, keeping Fletcher’s gun arm fixed and his wrist locked.
He braced for a desperate gunshot, hoped for the sound of the gun hitting the floor. But Fletcher held his ground, grappling and twisting to make an angle for a left hook. He pulled his gun arm, trying to get it free, but Sawyer held firm and headbutted him, square on the bridge of his nose.
Blood splashed into Sawyer’s eyes. He blinked it away and drove a biu jee finger strike towards Fletcher’s eyes. But his opponent jerked back his head, dodging the attack.
Fletcher was a beast: solid and strong, almost immovable. Sawyer turned his back on him, keeping his gun arm trapped. He chopped at the hand holding the gun—once, twice—then pivoted again, this time connecting an elbow into the side of Fletcher’s head. At last, the blow staggered him, and Sawyer wrenched away the gun. He scrambled back from Fletcher and raised the weapon, but Fletcher’s reaction was instant: he slapped at Sawyer’s wrist with what looked like an open-handed pak sao block, firm enough to dislodge the gun and send it flying across the room, by the side of the treadmill.
Fletcher’s face was now bright red with fury. He shoulder-charged Sawyer, and they crashed into the wall at the side of the stairs. Fletcher closed his hands around Sawyer’s neck, finding the Adam’s apple with his thumb. Sawyer pulled away, trying to roll him and regain the upper hand. But Fletcher was too strong, and pumped with rage. Up close, Sawyer caught his odour: sour and unwashed; pungent with the unmistakable scent of exotic tobacco. Fletcher pushed his face close to Sawyer’s. He grimaced, and the blood from his broken nose streamed down over his bared teeth.
Sawyer spluttered as Fletcher tightened his grip. He was trying to finish the fight by choking Sawyer unconscious. Sawyer kicked out his legs, but Fletcher widened his stance, stabilising his grip. Sawyer wrenched left and right, and gained an inch of leverage, to pivot his right hip and deliver another elbow strike to the side of Fletcher’s head. It didn’t carry much power, but it was enough to force him back and break his hold.
Fletcher staggered into Caldwell’s chair, just about staying upright. Caldwell fell to the floor and Fletcher gripped the backrest of the heavy armchair with both hands. He let out a primal roar, and spun the chair across the room towards Sawyer. But his aim was poor, and it skimmed off to the side, smashing into the table by the kitchen.
Harold ducked his head, wincing at the impact. He shifted over to the high shelf by the bookcase. Fletcher caught the movement, but turned to focus on Sawyer, who had made it to the gun on the floor by the treadmill. Fletcher rushed him, just as Sawyer turned and fired.
Muzzle flash, muted gunshot. The bullet buried itself in the ceiling, releasing a shower of plaster. Fletcher thundered forward, barrelling into Sawyer, and the two fell to the floor, by the metal toilet bowl.
Fletcher managed to get Sawyer onto his front. He closed his beefy fingers around the back of his neck and slammed his head down into the blunt edge of the toilet bowl. Sawyer grunted with the impact and wriggled free, blood flowing from a cut on his forehead.
>
He turned, fired another shot.
This time, the bullet skimmed close to Fletcher’s head, tearing through his left ear, splashing Caldwell with blood. Fletcher roared again, and held his hand to the side of his face. He backed away from Sawyer and slowly raised his head. His eyes flared, feral and sightless. Blood dripped through his fingers, down into his panting mouth.
He took a step forward.
Sawyer raised the gun, aiming at Fletcher’s head. He swiped the blood from his forehead, out of his eyes. ‘Third time lucky.’
Fletcher smiled and bared his bloodied teeth. He took another step toward Sawyer. ‘Empty.’
Sawyer backed away, into the wall. He glanced at the gun, aimed it up, ready to fire and check.
But from behind Fletcher: the deep double-chunk of a shotgun being cocked.
‘Okay.’ It was Harold, standing over by the high shelf, holding the double barrelled shotgun he’d set down on entering. He aimed the gun at Fletcher. ‘Over to the stairs, hands up high.’
Fletcher sighed, and raised his arms. He edged over to the foot of the staircase.
Caldwell shifted across and sat with his back to the wall beneath the television. ‘This is the best entertainment I’ve had in years.’
They stood there in silence: Harold with the shotgun trained on Fletcher, Sawyer with the Glock still raised.
A sharp buzzing sound from something in Harold’s pocket. Three bursts, a pause, three bursts.
He wedged the shotgun handle into his shoulder and reached the other hand into his pocket, silencing the noise.
Fletcher bolted, up the stairs.
Sawyer twitched, ready to follow, but looked back at Caldwell, and his father. ‘Is that the motion sensor?’
Harold nodded. ‘How did you get here?’
‘They charged me. Transport hit a bridge in the snow. I got out.’
‘My God, Jake.’
Sawyer furrowed his brow. ‘I took a car. They’ll have tracked it.’
‘Charged you?’ Caldwell leaned forward.
Rufus and Cain from the house above, barking.
A crash from upstairs.
‘Armed police!’
Harold backed into the corner, under the skylight. He lowered the shotgun. Sawyer stuffed the Glock into his back pocket.
Boots, thundering down the stairs. Two heavyset AFOs jumped down into the room. They wore armoured vests and carried semi-automatic carbines. One held his gun on Harold, while the other covered Caldwell and Sawyer.
DCI Ivan Keating ducked down behind them and stepped into the room. He was a lordly figure for such a lowly setting: full uniform, cap, polished insignia. Keating surveyed the scene: the blood, the shotgun. His eyes widened at the sight of the chained man, reeling in recognition. ‘Put down the weapon, Harold. What’s the situation here?’
Harold turned the shotgun towards Caldwell. Keating raised a hand, placating the AFOs. ‘Yes. This is your ex-DCI. William Caldwell.’ Keating stared at the hunched figure, chained to the floor. ‘He had an affair with my wife, thirty long years ago. And then he killed her because she wanted to end it.’
Sawyer caught Keating’s eye. He dabbed at the blood on his forehead.
Harold continued. ‘I looked into Jessica’s murder, five years after Klein was convicted. The hammer, dropped too close to the murder site. I knew there must have been evidence manipulation, and when I discovered that Caldwell personally interviewed Owen Casey, I checked the burglary victim statement and saw Casey mentioned but the rest of the paperwork buried.’
Caldwell tipped back his head and screwed up his face, braced for the end.
Harold looked at Sawyer. ‘I tried to visit Klein. I wanted to ask him about the hammer, where it was kept, if he saw anyone suspicious. But he wouldn’t see me. So I started a freelance investigation into my commanding officer. Turns out he had a thing for spooking out sex workers. Driving them to remote locations, getting rough, laughing at their threats to call the police. He got wind of my snooping and threatened me, saying his rank would protect him, and that I’d never be able to prove anything. He said that you and Michael would be next if I didn’t back off. And so I bought this place, and set up the garage. I lured him to a meeting here…’
Caldwell groaned. ‘And the rest is history.’
‘I tried so many things to numb the agony. And when I put it all together, it just wasn’t enough. To end his life as payment for Jessica’s. They just weren’t equivalent.’
Sawyer dropped his head. ‘And so you created this. A living hell. A purgatory. A prison for a man both alive and legally dead.’
Harold closed his eyes, trying to hold off the tears. But they trickled down the lines in his cheeks, glinting in the light. ‘And in the end, my desire for revenge took away my humanity, my soul. I was willing to sacrifice my son’s freedom to keep his mother’s killer captive.’
Keating took a couple of steps toward Harold. ‘Did you kill Klein?’
Harold opened his eyes. ‘Yes.’ He focused on Sawyer again. ‘I used a hammer to imply that it was retribution for Jessica’s murder. I left Jake’s sweet wrapper at Klein’s flat, hoping it would be enough to stop his investigation. I just wanted it all to end.’ He kept the shotgun aimed at Caldwell, and wiped away the tears with the inside of his arm. ‘After Jess had gone, it almost broke me. But I kept going. I’d lost the love of my life, but I tried to find a new love, with my faith. I raised my boys. I shouldered the sympathy. I was a vision of upstanding masculinity, outward dignity. And all the while I splattered my pain onto those canvases, sold it to restaurants, hotels.’
Keating held out a hand. ‘Harold. You still have plenty to offer, plenty to care about. Jake, Michael. You have a talent. The paintings aren’t just pain. That’s the love you had for Jess, guiding your hand. She left you in body, but she’s still with you in spirit.’ Harold stared at him, then back at Sawyer, Caldwell. Keating nodded. ‘You’re going to prison, Harold. But the judge will consider your age, the circumstances. I’ll make sure your conditions are decent, and you can continue to paint, follow your faith. Isn’t that what matters now?’
Sawyer raised his head. ‘Then all shall be well, Dad. Like Mum used to say.’
Harold’s face crumpled, the sobs overtaking him. He lowered the shotgun a few inches, then raised it back up, keeping his aim on Caldwell. Keating raised his hand to the AFOs again.
Caldwell smiled. ‘Do you know what Jess said to me on the day I killed her? She said, “Why?” What a stupid fucking question. She’d told me she wanted it all to stop, that I was too “controlling”.’ He raised his eyes to Sawyer, then back to Harold. ‘I didn’t kill her because I was humiliated that she wanted to end the affair. I was more angry with myself, believing that for once in my life I’d found a woman who knew what was good for her, who wasn’t stupid.’
Sawyer stepped out, between Harold and Caldwell, in the line of fire. ‘It’s better that he lives, Dad. Better that he continues to suffer, rots away.’ He took a step forward, towards Harold, towards the shotgun.
Harold fixed his reddened eyes on Sawyer; he was barely aware, deep in a dark trance. ‘I’m sorry, son. I love you.’ He glanced at Keating. ‘Will you look after my lads, Ivan?’
‘Harold. Of course. Give me the gun now. Let’s all get out of here safe.’
Sawyer kept walking, blocking Harold’s aim on Caldwell.
Harold raised the shotgun, aiming at Sawyer’s head. Sawyer froze. ‘Jake. That thing Mum used to say.’ He caught himself, struggled to hold his voice steady. ‘It was a kind of vision, from a Christian mystic, who said that there would always be sin, evil, but “all shall be well.” You can’t fall into despair at the state of the world. “There is nothing in darkness that will not be disclosed. Nothing concealed that will not be brought to light.” Luke. 8:17. Take care of your brother, Jake.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned the shotgun and dug the end of the barrels into the flesh beneath his chin.
‘No!’ Sawyer dived forward.
Harold gripped the shotgun barrel with one hand, squeezed the trigger with the other.
The shot was a thunderclap; its echo rolled around the basement room. Sawyer’s hearing cut out, replaced by a continuous shrill ringing.
Harold’s body dropped to the floor. Sawyer looked up, to the skylight, plastered with blood and bone. A central smear of bright and dark red. Surrounding patches of white flesh, grey hair.
He stared at the spray, measuring his breathing, alone with the ringing in his ears.
He turned. Keating had lowered his gaze, but the AFOs both stared over at Harold’s body.
Sawyer dived towards the nearest AFO, and delivered a sharp elbow strike to the side of his head. He fell awkwardly against the wall, and Sawyer wrenched the carbine out of his grip. He moved in on Caldwell, and dug the gun barrel deep into his cheek.
The second AFO raised his gun at Sawyer’s back.
Keating held up a hand. ‘Stand down!’
Sawyer stood over Caldwell, breathing hard, eyes fixed. Caldwell raised his gaze and curled up the corner of his thin lips. ‘Jess told you to run. She told you not to look back. But you’ve been brave. She’d be proud of you. That’s her finger on the trigger, isn’t it? What would she do now?’
Sawyer screwed his eyes closed. The blood from his forehead ran across his brow and trickled down his cheek.
The raised hammer. Metal on bone. The animal screams.
A hand on his shoulder. Keating.
He opened his eyes.
‘William Caldwell.’ Keating’s voice, muffled. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Jessica Mary Sawyer…’
Sawyer lowered the gun barrel. He turned and handed the carbine to the nearest AFO.
Keating. Still talking, from somewhere deep and far away.
‘You do not have to say anything…’
Sawyer walked to the staircase.
‘But, it may harm your defence…’
