by Andrew Lowe
Chase The Devil
DI Jake Sawyer Book Five
Andrew Lowe
Contents
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Prologue
I. DARK & LONG
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
II. THE ASPHALT WORLD
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Blank
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
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THE DI JAKE SAWYER SERIES
Creepy Crawly
Stronger Than Death
The Dying Light
Pray For Rain
Chase The Devil
BOOKS 1-3 BOX SET
Glossary
Don’t You Want Me?
Savages
The Ghost
Three Tense Tales
About the Author
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Details can be found at the end of this book.
Copyright © 2020 by Andrew Lowe
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Email: [email protected]
Web: andrewlowewriter.com
Twitter: @andylowe99
First published in 2020 by Redpoint Books
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
ISBN: 978-1-9997290-8-0
For Tom and Josh
What consoles me a little is that I’m beginning to consider madness as an illness like any other, and accept everything as it is.
Vincent Van Gogh, letter to his brother Theo, 21st April 1889
Prologue
Grinding, as the bolt is pulled away.
The door rolls aside, and the gloom of the barn is banished by a flare of late evening sun.
The man startles out of his stupor, shields his eyes. By the time he has shifted upright, sitting with his back against the wall, his captor has stepped inside and rolled the door closed.
The man tugs at the chain, rattling the base link against a metal plate fixed into a rim of thick stone at the bottom of the wall. His wrists are squashed together by a tight metal cuff, and his legs are secured to the chain by a clasp around each ankle.
The captor lingers by a storage unit just inside the door. He is still, shoulders rising and falling. Is he watching the man? Facing the unit? Impossible to tell at this distance.
He moves towards the storage unit and crouches, preparing something. As he stands and approaches, taking slow, lumbering steps, he passes beneath a filthy skylight, and the man catches an outline of his head: unnaturally large, with two protruding points sticking upright, near to where his ears should be.
Horns?
The man squints into the darkness, trying to catch more detail. But his captor turns and faces a workbench in the corner. He sets down a heavy bag, and the contents jangle. Metal, glass.
The man licks his lips with a dry tongue. ‘Please. Who are you? What am I doing here? This must be… mistaken identity.’
The jailer takes an item out of the bag and sets it down on the workbench. He pauses and reaches down for a second item. The man flinches at the sound of metal on metal. Rasping. Sharpening. He tugs at his chain again, sucks in a breath, tastes the stale air: faecal and rancid. ‘I’ve been here for a long time and… I don’t know what I’ve done. Please. Tell me. Why? Who—’
‘Close your eyes.’ The jailer’s voice is deep and low. He doesn’t turn; he nods to the bench. Again, the horn-like tips on either side of his head are caught in a weak shaft of light. ‘You don’t look at me. You don’t see anything.’
The man takes another breath; it catches in his throat. He closes his eyes. ‘Okay. I’ve done it. Now what?’
‘Keep them shut.’
The captor walks to the man and stoops beside him, breathing hard. The man can smell him now: pungent, unwashed. A hint of ammonia.
The captor moves behind the man and covers his eyes with a blindfold, securing the knot.
The man turns towards the jailer, panic in his voice now. ‘Please. Whatever you think I’ve done, I’m sorry. I don’t know unless you tell me. Please tell me. Let me explain, defend myself.’ He hears the captor walk back to the bench. ‘Jesus Christ. What are you doing to me? Why? What’s going to happen to me?’
‘You’re going to die. But not yet.’
Part I
DARK & LONG
1
MARCH 2008
Three knocks on the office door.
Detective Chief Inspector Ivan Keating slid the scene photos back into the blue file folder and called out. ‘Yes?’
But the door was already open, and a tall, slender man in his mid-twenties, dressed in full uniform, had stepped into the room. He took off his cap and shook out a tar-black thatch of uncombed hair that curled at his jawline. He bent his head forward, revealing a coin-sized albino patch at the crown. He regarded Keating with a hopeful smile, green eyes twinkling.
Keating squinted at him. ‘It’s customary to wait for an invitation before walking into a superior’s office.’
‘My apologies.’ A pause. ‘Sir.’
Keating sat back in his chair and beamed. ‘Your apologies? You certainly have your father’s charm, son. Shut the door. Sit down. Take your cap off if you like.’
The visitor closed the door and lowered himself into the soft-backed chair facing Keating’s desk. He took a moment to look around the room. Small window overlooking the main car park, corkboard with notes and a few photos, Macintosh laptop with blue gel wrist rest, wire tray of files. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, dangling the cap between his legs.
‘I saw your father last week,’ said Keating. ‘At his new cottage. Well… He calls it his studio. Still keeps a flat in town, I think. He seems fairly settled.
Couple of dogs. Nice view.’
‘I preferred the pre-religious version.’
Keating frowned. ‘Whatever gets you to the end of the day, eh?’
His visitor forced a smile.
Keating ran a palm across his tightly cropped hair, prematurely grey. ‘How is your brother getting along?’
‘He’s had some problems.’ Another pause. ‘He’ll be okay.’
Keating picked up a chunky ballpoint and tapped it on the desk as he spoke. ‘Fresh out of probation. IPLD tutor commended you. First official day as a paid-up copper. Welcome to the fold, PC Sawyer. Sounds good, eh? Nervous?’
A shrug. ‘Excited.’
‘You studied psychology and criminology at Keele, along with our FLO, Maggie Spark.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Travelled a bit after getting the degree.’
Keating pulled a file out of his tray. ‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Nothing exotic. Canary Islands.’
Keating laughed. ‘Well. That’s practically Africa.’ He browsed the file. ‘So why did you join the force, Jake? Surely more than just following in your father’s footsteps?’
‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad.’
Keating raised his eyes from the file. ‘Larkin.’
‘But the man who killed my mother fucked me up a lot more.’
Keating took a deep breath. ‘Marcus Klein.’
Sawyer bristled. ‘That’s the man who was convicted, yes.’
Keating set the pen down. ‘But you don’t think he did it.’
‘He certainly doesn’t.’
Keating eyed him, pulled a few papers out of the file. ‘I see you’ve already applied for CID. Not too thrilled by the prospect of farmhouse domestics and fly tippers?’
Sawyer smiled, activating a dimple in his right cheek. ‘Not crazy about the fashion.’
‘That’s how it works. You’ll spend the first part of your career trying to get out of uniform, and the rest angling to get back into it. Let’s see how you do. No promises. No fast track due to family connections.’ He sprang to his feet, picked up the blue folder, screwed on his cap. ‘I like the keenness, though. If you can make my job marginally less stressful, I’ll get you on the carousel for consideration. It’ll be a couple of years before you go before the board, though. At least.’
Sawyer stood up. ‘Interview with a DI and DS. Six-week residential course. I’d prefer the Sheffield one if possible, sir. Easier for travel.’
Keating laughed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He walked around the desk and opened the door, turning to angle his head towards the corridor outside.
Sawyer followed him into a large meeting room with floor-to-ceiling windows. Buxton town centre bustled in silence down below. Three people sat at the far end of an oval conference table: two men, one woman. The men were almost comically contrasted: one was vast and bear-like, with a dense brown beard, thinning hair and semi-rimless spectacles; the other was slight, watchful, in a light blue suit that didn’t suit him. The woman smiled at Sawyer as he entered, and tucked her rust red hair behind her ear.
He nodded at her. ‘Mags.’
Keating slapped his hands palms-down on the table. ‘Good morning, good morning. I’d like you to meet our latest recruit. This is Police Constable Jake Sawyer. I thought a bit of shadowing might be useful on his first day. See how the grown-ups do things.’ He smiled at Sawyer and nodded to a chair, which Sawyer took. ‘Jake, you know Maggie. This is our esteemed pathologist, Frazer Drummond.’ The large man raised a hand. ‘He’s based at Sheffield Hospital but drops in from time to time.’ Keating held an open hand out towards the other man. ‘And this is Martin Pittman. Detective Inspector.’ Pittman nodded at Sawyer. ‘Martin is SIO, Senior Investigating Officer, on a complex and pretty nasty new case. Body found at an abandoned building up in the Hope Valley. Falls under our jurisdiction, but because of the nature of the crime, Martin is liaising with a specialist unit up in Sheffield.’
Sawyer took a seat. ‘MIT?’
‘Sorry?’ said Pittman.
‘Murder Investigation Team. The specialist unit.’
‘Ah, yes. Local to South Yorkshire. We’re learning a lot.’
Keating scoffed. ‘We’re hoping to establish some kind of MIT for Derbyshire soon. Possibly here.’
‘Does the murder rate warrant it?’ said Sawyer.
‘It’s rare, but it happens. And MITs also cover other serious crime.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘But you suspect murder in this case?’
Drummond glanced at Keating. ‘That much is barely in doubt.’ He spoke with a Scotch growl, in sync with his stature. ‘Victim’s last moments wouldn’t have been too pleasant. Judging by his injuries, he was tortured for a long time, and the killer flayed much of his flesh, I’m guessing while he was still alive. Rupture and bleeding in his vocal cord lining, probably from the screaming.’
‘COD?’ said Sawyer.
Drummond regarded Sawyer over the top of his spectacles. ‘Looks like heart failure.’
‘Obviously,’ said Maggie, ‘the family only have an impressionistic view of the details. So this conversation has to be private.’
‘The investigation is drawing a blank,’ said Pittman.
‘Chicken farm owner,’ said Keating. ‘We’re looking into possible connections to rival businesses. There have been issues of that nature recently in the livestock industry. It’s competitive, and not always healthy. Maybe a feud of some kind. Something that’s spilled over, got out of hand.’ He slid the blue folder across the table to Sawyer. ‘Crime scene photos. I’m assuming you’re not squeamish?’
Sawyer opened the folder and sifted through the images: several angles of a hefty middle-aged man, beaten and bruised, slumped naked in the corner of a featureless outbuilding. Most of his torso was disfigured by bloody lacerations where oily patches of skin wilted away from his frame like peeling wallpaper.
‘Your father is Harold, right?’ said Drummond.
Sawyer nodded, keeping his eyes on the photos.
Keating walked to the window and looked up at the cloudless sky. ‘Fine pedigree. PC Sawyer already has detective ambitions.’
Drummond nodded to the folder. ‘Maybe build up to that slowly. Get a few stolen cars and local ratboys in the bank first.’
‘It’s not a feud,’ said Sawyer, replacing the photos.
‘Sorry?’ said Pittman.
‘It’s personal, intimate. Hands-on.’ He caught Keating’s eye. ‘Emotional. This is more about pleasure than business.’
Pittman glanced at Drummond, smiled. ‘Appreciate the input, PC Sawyer. We’re following a few lines of enquiry, but we’ll bear it in mind. You can maybe help me out with a few interviews here and there.’
Drummond drew a deep breath. ‘You really want in on all this, Sawyer? Murder detectives are a bit like goalkeepers. You don’t have to be mad, but it helps.’
‘PC Sawyer isn’t keen on the sartorial aspect of grunt work,’ said Keating.
Maggie smirked. ‘Women love a man in uniform, Jake.’
‘Is there anything else you’re not happy with?’ said Pittman, yawning. ‘There’s a lot of paperwork, you know. And the canteen food is hardly haute cuisine.’
Sawyer thought for a second. ‘I don’t like the cars.’
2
PRESENT DAY
An orange-and-black Mini Convertible pulled up outside a stone-built detached house that looked down on the Victorian sprawl of Hall Leys Park. Music from within: a husky female vocal, something about talking with myself. The car lingered for a while, idling, then fell silent.
Jake Sawyer unfolded himself from the driver’s seat and stepped out into the midday heat. He pushed a hand through his hair and walked down the path towards the front door. There was a slight tilt to his gait, but nothing you could confidently describe as a swagger.
Sawyer rang the doorbell and looked back, down towards the picnickers gathered on the grass in front of the bandstand. A recent storm had ta
ken the sting out of the record-breaking heatwave, but the air was still dense and sultry, and he plucked at his polo shirt.
A woman opened the door. She was late forties, short and rounded, with long auburn hair tucked into a hasty ponytail.
Sawyer turned. ‘Samantha Coleman?’
‘Yes. Mr Sawyer. Thank you so much for taking the time to see me.’ She shook his hand. ‘Come in.’
Sawyer followed her down a narrow hallway, through an immaculate kitchen and out onto a modest back terrace with table and chairs set at the base of a small raised garden. An overweight tabby darted from under the table and disappeared into the house.
‘Nice cat,’ said Sawyer. ‘Shame he didn’t stick around for a bit of fuss.’