Chase The Devil: (DI Jake Sawyer series Book 5)

by Andrew Lowe

  Sawyer slipped a hand into his pocket and tweaked the wrap he’d lifted from Ash as he’d played the videogame. ‘I’ve already had my head examined.’

  ‘You had another scan?’

  ‘About to head in for a follow-up. Alex recommended the neurosurgeon. Kevin Tsong.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. I’m sure it’ll be interesting. But you should get back to talking therapy, too.’

  ‘I’m focused on Michael for now.’ He stood up, walked through the doors, past a large sign, white on grey.

  THE NUFFIELD HOSPITAL FOR NEUROLOGY & NEUROSURGERY

  ‘You have to work on yourself, Jake. It’s like a plane safety check, when they tell you to put your own oxygen mask on first in the event of an emergency. You can’t help others when you need help yourself.’

  Sawyer leaned forward and squinted at the computer monitor. An oval outline, glowing blue on a black background, corralled a complex but symmetrical array of branches and channels.

  ‘So, this is you.’ Kevin Tsong rolled his wheeled chair closer and aimed a pen at the screen. He hitched up his silver-rimmed glasses for focus. ‘Transverse segmentation, top-down. We used the contrast dye to get a good look at the section highlighted in the scans you had many years ago. This leafy vegetable-looking part here is the cerebellum. All the white matter is nerve axons. This area here, in the temporal lobe,’ he hovered the pen over a brighter section, left of centre, ‘is the caudate nucleus. Basically, the housing for your amygdala, which is the almond-shaped structure here, just at the front of the hippocampus. Now look, there is a lesion, just over a centimetre.’

  ‘Is that big?’

  ‘Relatively, no. It’s a focal bilateral lesion, and I don’t see any evidence of malignancy. I’m confident of that because I see no other tissue damage in the area. It’s likely to be a trigeminal schwannoma—a benign tumour at the base of the skull. They rarely cause any problems, and if they do grow, they grow very slowly. You’ve probably had it for a long time. It is in an awkward place, though. I suggest we monitor with another scan in six months. It’s unlikely to cause any trouble, but if it does we can hit it with a bit of radiotherapy.’ Tsong sat back and turned his chair towards Sawyer.

  Sawyer’s expression remained steady. ‘What could have caused it?’

  Tsong swept his thick brown hair across his head, tidying the side parting. ‘Who knows? I understand you suffered some physical trauma as a child.’

  The sun poking through Tsong’s window.

  His dog barking, barking, barking.

  Blood on grass, shining red.

  ‘My mother was murdered. With a hammer. The killer also used it on me and my older brother. I was six, he was nine.’

  Tsong nodded. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Sawyer. Life must have been… complicated. So this will have taken place around thirty years ago. And you’re thinking the assault might have caused the lesion?’

  Sawyer shrugged.

  ‘Any other issues? Dizziness? Nausea? Weight loss?’

  ‘No. I sometimes have a strange tingling feeling at the base of my neck. But it’s hard to connect with—’

  ‘What it’s telling you?’ Tsong gave a vigorous nod. ‘And this sensation usually occurs in situations of stress?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s often when there’s a lack of oxygen.’

  ‘It could be that your amygdala has been damaged to the degree where you can only interpret, or detect, its signals in extreme situations.’ Tsong pushed his chair back and stroked his chin. ‘My brother-in-law is a free climber. I’m astonished by the risks he takes, but he says it’s the only thing that makes him feel alive. It may be that some people’s brain function means they need that intensity just to hit their baseline. Are you depressed? Do you take any medication?’

  The catch in his mother’s voice.

  ‘Run, my darling. Don’t look back!’

  ‘No medication. And, yes, sort of. But I wouldn’t call it depression. It’s more anxiety. Flashes, memories. Almost like the event is playing out again and I’m feeling the same things, only the adult version.’

  Tsong shifted in his seat. ‘We may be straying outside the boundaries of my expertise, Mr Sawyer. It sounds like there may be emotional or behavioural issues you need to address. But physiologically, my concern is minor.’

  ‘How about functional MRI? A go/no-go test?’

  Tsong raised an eyebrow. ‘To measure behavioural inhibition? What’s your specific concern?’

  Sawyer inhaled, held the breath for a few seconds. ‘My decision making, motivations. Compulsions. I sometimes have this sense of detachment from my surroundings.’

  Tsong wheeled his chair closer. ‘Could you close your eyes for me?’

  Sawyer did so. He caught a whiff of coffee on Tsong’s breath as he leaned in.

  ‘That’s fine. You can open them again.’

  Sawyer blinked. ‘What are you looking for?’

  Tsong backed away. ‘There’s a genetic condition called Urbach-Wiethe disease that can be related to amygdala damage, and it’s possible that physical trauma could exacerbate symptoms. It often comes with skin lesions around the eyelids and elsewhere. You have a little dryness, but nothing severe. Urbach patients often have unusual fear conditioning. Faulty startle response, difficulty in recognising fear in others. This is why it’s sometimes confused with a lack of empathy.’

  ‘And how does it progress?’

  ‘The prognosis is good. It’s not a life-threatening condition. It can present with minor respiratory issues, and there’s usually a progressive issue with episodic memory.’

  Sawyer squinted. ‘Long-term.’

  ‘Yes. Events. Emotions associated with those events. But Urbach-Wiethe is exceptionally rare. Only a few hundred cases have ever been recorded.’ Tsong drew in a deep breath, pondering. ‘As I say, I deal with the hardware. We could run some tests for galvanic skin response, but otherwise I see no reason to clinically assess your response to stimuli, unless you’re concerned about the effect it’s having on your job, or vice versa. From what you’re telling me, I would suggest you seek assessment from a trauma consultant. I have several colleagues—’

  ‘Have you read Henry Marsh’s book? The brain surgeon.’

  Tsong cast his eyes up to the ceiling. ‘Do No Harm?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sawyer ran a palm across the stubble on his chin. ‘The part where he says he has an “internal graveyard” of the people he lost in surgery. Do you have that?’

  Tsong sighed. ‘Of course. I operated on a chap a couple of years ago. Late fifties. Glioblastoma. The most aggressive tumour we know. I removed half but then I nicked a perforating branch of the basilar, an artery that carries blood to the brain stem and regulates the rest of the brain. Bright red blood shot upward, like a mini geyser. I stopped it, but it was too late. Oxygen deprivation damaged the stem irreparably and the poor man never regained consciousness. Marsh is actually referring to a French doctor, René Leriche, who said that every surgeon carries within himself a small cemetery, where he goes to pray from time to time.’ Tsong tilted his head forward and regarded Sawyer over the top of his glasses. ‘I’m sure you experience something similar. As a policeman.’

  Sawyer gazed at the image on the monitor. ‘It’s not really a cemetery for me. More like faces. Voices. Events. An internal projection that runs when I least expect it.’

  Tsong nodded. ‘We give our very best, Mr Sawyer. That’s all we can do. Sometimes it isn’t enough, or we’re just not capable. But we can’t save everyone.’

  13

  Sawyer parked the Mini on a verge at the end of a narrow track, near Grindleford Station. The early evening sunset cast a honeyed glow across the dense woodland of the Longshaw Estate, as it dipped towards the moorland trails and waterfalls of Padley Gorge.

  ‘Decent spot,’ said Ash, glancing up from his phone.

  ‘Decent?’

  ‘Yeah. Y’know. Pretty, like.’

  ‘I used to come here a lot
when I was a kid.’

  They got out of the car and stepped over a stile onto a walking track that wound its way up to a ridge at the top of the valley.

  Ash took the lead. He turned and shuffled backwards, smirking. ‘It’s weird. I can imagine you as a kid. Most coppers, they’re like, old. Get me? Like they were fucking born old.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘I’m not exactly young.’

  Ash turned away and pushed on. ‘No, but… Well, I ain’t ever seen a five-o doing the business on Missile Command, yeah?’

  Sawyer stumbled on a tree root. ‘Couldn’t we have parked any closer?’

  ‘Nah. I think there’s a private road round the other side of the estate. Too much hassle, though. I’ve always got in this way. Tradesman’s entrance, like.’ Ash looked over his shoulder, caught a raised eyebrow from Sawyer, turned back. ‘See what I mean? Mature.’

  A distant thrum of music drifted down from a large stone-built house that stood alone just beyond the estate boundary.

  ‘Is that the place?’ said Sawyer, waving a hand.

  ‘There’s no fooling you. And I meant to ask. The fuck do you want with Price, anyway?’

  ‘I’m trying to find someone he might have known. A lad who’s been missing for a while.’

  Ash turned and gave Sawyer a grave look. ‘So, what’s the story tonight?’

  ‘Like I said. Use the money I’ve given you, find Ricky Price, buy some dope.’

  Ash clicked his tongue through his teeth. ‘He won’t be happy about dealing at his crib.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to be happy. You just have to make sure he sells you the drugs.’

  ‘Isn’t this, like, entanglement or whatever?’

  ‘Entrapment. And no. It isn’t. I just want to loosen him up, not arrest him.’

  They passed a vast outdoor storage facility secured by high fencing. Tractors, harvesting machinery, trailed fertiliser spreaders, hay rakes, bale wrappers. Further ahead, two men at the front door of the house welcomed a couple and waved them inside.

  Sawyer kept low. ‘I’ll hang back. Stay in touch. Text me.’

  Ash laughed. ‘Text. So you’re not that young.’

  Sawyer watched as Ash approached the men and, after a brief conversation, entered the house. He propped himself up against a tree and killed half an hour with a few games on his phone.

  As he guided a skier down a complex slalom course with subtle flicks of his thumb, an email alert led him to quit the game and navigate to the Left Behind website, where he’d received a reply from the site owner, PaulX.

  Could talk tomorrow. Let me know when/where is good.

  He looked up. Ash had exited the house and was making his way across the surrounding scrubland onto the walking track, towards Sawyer’s position.

  ‘Forty sheets.’ He handed over a cellophane wrap of marijuana resin. ‘This can’t be for real. Buying drugs for police.’

  Sawyer sniffed the contents of the wrap. A little tainted but the resin was solid and malleable, not brittle. ‘Did he ask who it was for?’

  ‘Like he gives a shit.’

  Sawyer looked at him. ‘How much was it, really?’

  Ash hissed through his teeth again. ‘I told you. Forty.’

  ‘I know you told me that. But you’re lying.’

  Ash sighed and dug into his pocket. ‘Twenty-five. C’mon, man. I’m fucking polo. I still owe him for some speed I bought last week, which has now gone walkabout. FML.’ He caught himself, looked away.

  ‘Keep the change.’ Sawyer walked past him and headed towards the house. ‘Wait by the car. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Fellas’. Sawyer nodded to the men standing either side of the vaulted front door. Close-up, the music sounded like it was coming from a large one-storey outbuilding around the side of the house.

  The taller of the two stepped into Sawyer’s path. ‘You going inside?’

  Sawyer smiled, giving him the dimple. ‘That’s the plan.’

  The man was slight, and stood only an inch or two above Sawyer, but he looked agile, and his stance was confident; slightly side-on, semi-braced. He scrubbed at his chin. ‘And can you give me a bit more on this “plan” of yours?’

  The second man gave a mean little laugh, but stayed back in the shadow of the porch.

  ‘I’m a professional assassin,’ said Sawyer. ‘I’ve been hired to murder Ricky Price and torch the place, leaving no evidence and no witnesses. I can take you guys out first if you like. I promise to make it quick.’

  The tall man laughed. He turned to his colleague, then back to Sawyer. ‘Haven’t seen you before. How d’you know Rick?’

  Sawyer held up his hands. ‘It’s a fair cop. I’m actually his Grindr date.’

  The second man took out a phone and typed something. ‘Rick’s inside, in the main house. Let’s try one more time, shall we?’

  Sawyer walked around the tall man and approached the porch. The first man let him pass, but the second looked up from his phone and stepped in front of the door. ‘Tell him I’m a detective investigating the disappearance of two people. I’m here because I think that Rick can help me with my enquiry.’ He gave a broad smile. ‘You do know that’s a euphemism, right?’

  The inside of the house was an ugly mix of original features and gaudy refurbishments. Sawyer crossed the marble-floored hallway, and tapped on a rustic, barn-style oak door beside a wide staircase. A short but stocky man in a good suit leaned over the balustrade on the landing above, sipping a drink, watching.

  ‘Yeah!’ A voice from inside.

  Sawyer stepped into the room. It was still just about light outside, but the blinds had been drawn, and a vast TV mounted on the near wall flashed its imagery onto a rakish individual propped on the edge of a bright yellow velvet sofa. Barefoot, denim shorts, faded pink hoodie. The room smelt of zesty detergent, tainted by marijuana.

  The man handed his game controller to a young girl in a bathrobe perched on the arm of the sofa and raised his head to look at Sawyer, face obscured inside his hood.

  ‘What can I do for you, chief?’ He slipped back the hood. Piggy eyes; bushy black neck beard; thatch of turquoise hair on top, shaved around the sides.

  Sawyer walked forward and flopped into an armchair angled towards the screen. ‘You’re Ricky Price, right?’

  Price exchanged a glance with the girl. ‘I’m not aware we had a meeting scheduled.’

  ‘Hardly looks like your diary is packed, Ricky. Is this the new Call of Duty?’

  ‘You a fan, yeah?’

  ‘Haven’t played it. I like the older games. There’s a purity about them. I loved the original Modern Warfare, though.’

  Price recoiled in mock shock. ‘That’s fucking ancient, man.’

  ‘I’d say it’s still the peak of the series, before the money started to direct the art.’

  Price scoffed. ‘Okay, boomer.’

  ‘You’re about twenty years out. Are your mum and dad around?’

  ‘What are you, neighbourhood watch or something? We had a complaint about the noise?’

  ‘I’m a detective. Lloyd Robbins.’ Sawyer had named his alias after his favourite stage pickpocket, Apollo Robbins.

  The girl looked over at Price, who kept his eyes on Sawyer. ‘My mum and dad aren’t the “around” types, Detective Robbins. They sell farm gear, to farmers.’

  ‘Online?’

  He nodded. ‘Auctions too, sometimes.’

  ‘And you’re hoping to follow in their footsteps? Take over the business?’

  Price winced. ‘Nah. I do e-sports. Bit of producing. Not into shit-spreading.’

  ‘You recently spoke to a young woman called Virginia Mendez.’

  ‘Did I?’ Price took back the controller from the girl and re-engaged with the game. Crashes, shouts, gunfire.

  Sawyer raised his voice. ‘You did. She was investigating the disappearance of a lad called Darren Coleman, from Matlock. Went missing seven years ago. You knew him, didn’t you?’

&nb
sp; ‘Vaguely. He was alright. Long time ago, man. Seven years.’

  ‘Particularly for his mother.’

  Price’s eyes flicked to Sawyer. He hitched up his hood and went back to the game. ‘This Virginia his mum?’

  ‘No. She’s a journalist, looking into his disappearance. You would have spoken to her just over two weeks ago.’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  Price played for a few more seconds, then paused the game. He let the controller fall to the floor and sat back in the sofa. ‘Oh, yeah. Spoke on the phone. I didn’t have much to say to her about Darren, though. We were supposed to meet for a proper interview but she didn’t turn up.’

  ‘You say you knew Darren. In what way?’

  ‘He was a mate of a mate, I think. School connection, maybe.’

  ‘Did you sell him drugs, Ricky?’

  Price spluttered and leaned forward. ‘Drugs? No, I did not sell him drugs.’

  ‘But you do sell drugs, don’t you?’

  Price gaped at Sawyer and laughed. ‘Can you make your mind up? Are you gonna arrest me for kidnapping or drug dealing?’

  ‘Well, I have evidence for one of those.’ Sawyer took out the wrap of marijuana and held it up.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘We’ve been watching one of your clients. He just left here with it.’

  Price shook his head, smiling. ‘Strike One for the war on fucking drugs. Do you really think anyone gives two shits about a bit of dope, these days?’

  ‘By “anyone”, do you mean your parents? This is still their house, right? Am I going to find more of your product on the people in that outbuilding?’

  Price called out. ‘Taylor.’ He picked up the joypad and resumed play. ‘Look, Mr Robbins. It was nice to meet you. But unless you’ve got a warrant or something, I’m so over this conversation.’

  Taylor—the suited man from the landing—entered and approached Sawyer. ‘Let’s have you, cowboy. Time for bed.’