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

by Andrew Lowe

  He closed HOLMES and began cross-referencing local searches for ‘dogs’, ‘puppies’, ‘kittens’ with ‘animal cruelty’, ‘animal welfare’, ‘arrested’, ‘illegal’.

  A local BBC News article reported on the case of Jon Reed, missing since 2006. Reed had recently been released from prison after serving nine months for causing unnecessary suffering to puppies, rabbits and ferrets bred for sale on his farm in Hayfield.

  ‘Dogs’ and ‘animal cruelty’ led to a piece on the League Against Cruel Sports website, which covered the break-up of a dog-fighting network in Gradbach. The leader, Jason Donaghy, had boasted of breeding ‘the ultimate dog’.

  Sawyer logged into the PND—pleased to find that his access hadn’t been revoked—and discovered that Donaghy was still the subject of an arrest warrant since he’d failed to turn up at a court hearing, way back in 2007. More digging revealed that Donaghy had lived with his now-deceased mother who had officially reported him missing two weeks after his no-show.

  His phone rang.

  Shepherd.

  Sawyer connected the call and set the phone on speaker, waiting for Shepherd to speak first.

  ‘Sir?’’

  ‘Did you look into the Hardwick thing? Unresolveds connected to animals and the meat industry?’

  ‘Got a DC on it.’

  Sawyer took a sip from a glass of yesterday’s Diet Coke. ‘Is it Farrell?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s something bad. Farrell is my first guess.’

  Shepherd drew in a shaky breath. ‘It’s Maggie.’

  Sawyer hurried down the corridor of Buxton’s Cavendish Hospital. A large man in a short-sleeved shirt sat by the entrance to the acute care ward. He stood as Sawyer approached and nodded to the nurse at the station.

  Sawyer stopped. ‘Ed.’

  ‘Sir.’ DS Ed Shepherd bowed his head and brushed his plump fingers over his goatee beard. ‘She’s okay. I spoke to the doctor.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He said she has to rest. I wanted to tell you, because—’

  ‘Where?’

  Sawyer glanced at the wall, freshly decorated with icons showing human figures connecting and caring.

  We are actively respectful.

  ‘Minor concussion. Broken nose, two ribs. X-ray shows no internal damage. Not good, but she’s okay.’

  We work positively together.

  Sawyer slowed his breathing, looked Shepherd in the eye. ‘Where?’

  Shepherd sighed. ‘Room 5.’

  A fortysomething man in a crumpled suit emerged from the double doors by the nurse’s station. He eyed Sawyer and approached the nurse. ‘I’m going to get a cup of tea and make a couple of calls.’

  The nurse smiled and nodded, and the man walked past Sawyer and Shepherd and entered the lift.

  Sawyer strode past the station and pushed through the double doors. The lighting back here was muted, and he kept a slow pace past a small open recovery ward to a series of individual rooms at the back side of the hospital. The door to Room 5 was half-open, and he stepped inside.

  Maggie sat slumped in a bed near the window. A facial bandage covered the bridge and base of her nose, keeping her nostrils free. Both eyes were underscored with angry red bruising. As Sawyer entered, she shuffled herself upright and brushed her hair aside, wincing.

  Sawyer hovered by the door.

  Maggie held his gaze for a moment. ‘It’s okay. I’m not contagious.’

  He moved around the bed and stood by the window, looking out to the surrounding hills, with the two-storey stone folly of Grinlow Tower just visible in the distance. ‘Nice view.’

  ‘Have you ever been up there?’

  ‘That’s one for the tourists. It was built by a man called Solomon Mycock.’ He glanced at her; she raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds like a prank call name.’

  Maggie took a shaky sip from a plastic cup of tea. ‘Did you see Justin leave?’

  ‘Yeah. And he saw me.’

  She sighed. ‘He’s demanding justice.’

  ‘Well, he is a lawyer.’

  ‘Barrister.’

  Sawyer pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Sore nose, sore body. A bit groggy. I suppose it could have been worse.’

  Sawyer frowned, and placed a hand on her arm. ‘Did you get anything on him? A scratch? Anything we could take as DNA?’

  ‘We?’

  He smiled. ‘Figuratively speaking.’

  Maggie looked away. ‘Is Michael still here?’

  ‘In the private ward.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’ll live. Much to his annoyance. I’m not sure he recognises me.’

  She scoffed. ‘Like I said before, that’s ridiculous. Of course he does.’

  Sawyer withdrew his arm, took out a boiled sweet and tossed it into his mouth. He waggled the packet at Maggie; she shook her head carefully. ‘But enough about other people.’

  ‘Shall we talk about you? Did you have the brain scan results?’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘Inconclusive. Benign lesion. Stable. Near my amygdala, though. He said that might explain—’

  ‘Your choices.’

  ‘I was going to say, the way I laugh at danger.’

  ‘And drop ice cubes down the vest of fear.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘Haven’t seen Blackadder in a while. Maybe since college.’ He rolled the sweet around his mouth. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy who attacked you.’

  Maggie adjusted her position, wincing again. ‘Are you going to get him for me?’

  ‘He does need getting.’

  ‘He wore a balaclava. Big guy. It was strange, Jake. I don’t know what he wanted. It didn’t seem like he was in a hurry, either. Justin had just left for the cinema with Freddy and Mia. He must have been watching and waiting because…’ She gathered herself. ‘He was there so quickly.’

  ‘Where were you when you first saw him?’

  ‘In the kitchen. I was cooking.’

  ‘Did he take anything?’

  She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t look like it. Justin said he left a mess in my consulting room. Drawers were pulled open, but nothing seems to be missing. He even left my purse by the computer. DC Myers is at the house.’

  ‘Does Keating know?’

  ‘Yes. He’s in Manchester, though.’

  ‘Did he say anything? Did he smell of anything?’

  ‘No, and no.’

  Sawyer looked out towards Solomon’s Temple. ‘Any strange clients lately? Anyone spooked you or expressed outrage at their progress?’

  ‘Or stormed out, vowing vengeance? No.’ Maggie took a breath.

  Sawyer turned to look at her. ‘But…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You’re thinking of something that might be significant. But you’re not sure you want to tell me, because of my suspension, and maybe you don’t want me to be personally involved because you want me back in therapy.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Stop.’

  ‘Can I have a look around the house?’

  ‘Promise you won’t snoop through my underwear?’

  ‘I promise I’ll try not to.’

  Maggie turned onto her side, facing Sawyer. ‘There was a car outside the other day. The driver was just sitting there. My client noticed, but when I came out to check, he drove away.’

  ‘Brand?’

  She scowled. ‘I don’t know. I don’t do cars. Not a posh one. Sort of light brown.’

  ‘And the driver was blond. Ponytail.’

  She gaped. ‘Yes.’

  24

  Sawyer drove out of Buxton and climbed through the open moorland of the western Peak. Up here, the sky was vast and brooding, and as he entered the pastured valleys on the approach to the Roaches, he played the first Black Sabbath album: a favourite of his mother’s. The weather mirrored the ominous mood of the music, and a blush of grey clouds peppered the Mini
windscreen with hailstones.

  He parked in front of Maggie’s house, took a second to check the rear-view mirror—back seat empty—and climbed out of the car, inhaling the post-storm petrichor.

  He approached the main door, crunching over the gravel. The house sat on high ground at the edge of the Roaches’ gritstone ridge, and a carpet of purple heather rippled out to the climbing hotspot of Ramshaw Rocks.

  A hefty man with tall, slicked-back hair stepped forward from the door and smiled at Sawyer. ‘I can’t let you in, sir. Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to, DC Myers.’ He held up a door key. ‘From the owner.’

  Myers frowned. ‘Sally O’Callaghan’s team have done an initial sweep, but Sally will be here in person any minute.’

  ‘She’ll understand. We’re close.’

  He shuffled in place. ‘You’re… I should—’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’ Sawyer held up a pair of latex gloves and a pair of disposable shoe covers. ‘I won’t contaminate, I have permission from the house owner to go inside, and Keating would need to really step on it to get down from Manchester and stop me.’

  Myers forced a grin.

  Sawyer stepped closer and slapped on the gloves. ‘Five minutes.’

  Inside, Sawyer fitted the shoe covers and swept each room, checking the window locks, looking for potential hiding spots. Had Maggie’s attacker been in the house waiting, or had he broken in once he saw the coast was clear?

  He stood at the door of the main consulting room and looked out across the moor through the huge bay window. He examined the open drawer in Maggie’s work desk. Notepads, a spare box of tissues, pens, a block of multicoloured Post-it notes. He turned and gazed down at the shiny parquet floor, inhaling.

  The leathery aroma of the chocolate-brown futon.

  Sickly-sweet tang from the vase of lilies on the coffee table.

  Fingerprint chemicals: iodine, silver nitrate.

  Sawyer walked into the kitchen and opened the back door. Tiny dents and scuff marks decorated the centre of the outside keyhole; a few fresh-looking nicks around the edge. Nothing forced.

  He crouched down and scanned the edges of the wooden decking, stepping along and shining his phone light over the surface. Something caught his attention and he reached out to investigate.

  ‘DI Sawyer.’

  He looked up. A tall woman in her mid-fifties stood in the doorway. She peeled back the hood of a turquoise Tyvek suit and puffed her peroxide blonde hair off her face. ‘Sally.’

  ‘What. The fuck. Are you doing stomping all over my crime scene?’

  He held up the door key. ‘Owner’s orders. Just trying to help. I didn’t touch anything.’

  ‘Oh. That’s good of you. I also appreciate the shoe covers and gloves. Did you recover any boot prints? That’ll save me a bit of time.’

  Sawyer stood up. He held Sally’s gaze, unsmiling.

  Sally sighed. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘Bloodied but unbowed.’

  ‘Who would do that to Maggie?’

  He nodded to the back door. ‘Someone with a bump key, judging by the state of the lock. Not an internal pick. Not exactly a pro, but hardly an amateur, or an opportunist.’

  Sally folded her arms. ‘Noted. And any other elements to the profile?’

  ‘Smoker.’ Sawyer held up a half-smoked filterless cigarette with L&M printed in gold near the tip.

  On the drive back to Buxton, the sun cracked through the cloud, and Sawyer played his favourite album—Loveless by My Bloody Valentine—and immersed himself in the mind-clearing wash of overlapping guitars. He let his thoughts drift, hoping the music would hook whatever was nagging him and drag it out into the open.

  Unknown to his mother, Darren Coleman had been into urban exploration. The YouTube video showed him visiting an unknown building with Stuart Sutton, who had been excluded for heroin possession. Virginia Mendez must have seen the same video and interviewed Sutton for the fourth episode of the Finding Darren Coleman podcast. He needed to find Sutton and discover what he had discussed with Virginia Mendez, which could give him a lead on her movements after the interview.

  Was Price correct in his jibe about Darren being into ‘something stronger’? The association with Sutton made it plausible. Had he crossed the wrong dealer? Made a fatally poor choice in a desperate attempt to feed his habit? He needed more names, more potential threads that might connect to Darren.

  The Hardwick murder was, officially, out of his hands, but there was something there. Did his tabloid crack to Shepherd—BUTCHER BUTCHERED—carry more meaning than he expected? Was the killing a personal act of sexual sadism or did it relate to something wider, perhaps related to the unresolved cases involving animal abuse? If the killer was basing his actions on a twisted ethical basis, he’d hardly be short of potential victims.

  ‘What about yourself, Jake?’

  His mother’s voice again.

  He kept his eyes on the road, ignoring the flash of movement in the rear-view mirror.

  His breathing quickened, and the burning rose in his chest.

  Let it come.

  You’ve seen it before.

  Wait for it to pass.

  Keep breathing.

  It was a National Speed Limit road. He should find a lay-by, pull over, take a break.

  ‘I know Dad said to look after Michael. But you should also look after yourself.’

  His eyes flicked to the mirror.

  Again, Jessica Sawyer rested her forehead against the back window, eyes closed this time. She wore her burnt orange bathrobe, her black hair fallen over one shoulder.

  Inhale slowly, five seconds.

  Exhale slowly, five seconds.

  Wait another five seconds, repeat three times.

  Sawyer turned into a side lane and parked up in a tight passing place. He switched off the engine.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  ‘Mum.’ No answer, of course. His voice sounded choked and distant. ‘I can look after myself.’

  He looked to the mirror. Jessica smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. ‘All shall be well, Jake.’

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Her smile was tender, but doubtful.

  Sawyer balled his hands into fists, clenching away the hot flush of panic. ‘What am I missing?’

  He opened his mouth to speak again, and, remembering the last time, closed his eyes, forcing himself back to reality.

  He got out of the car and walked along the edge of the lane. He stopped and looked out across the moor, the wind whipping his jacket up like a cape.

  After a moment’s pause, as his breathing returned to normal, he dialled a number and waited for the familiar male voice.

  ‘Greetings, fellow pariah.’

  ‘I was hoping you could help me out.’

  Tony Cross laughed, too loud. ‘Because that went so well last time.’

  ‘I asked you to surveil my house, a couple of weeks ago. Remember?’

  Cross sighed. ‘What do think I am, Sawyer? Eighty? Of course I remember. I saw the guy in the light brown Fiesta sitting nearby.’

  ‘And you said there were bothies and farm sheds. Places where he might be holed up.’

  ‘Yeah, but they are seriously not your Rural Retreats cottage rental-type places.’

  Sawyer turned and walked back to the car. ‘Have another look. See if you can find out where Mr Fiesta is hiding.’

  ‘Dare I ask why?’

  ‘I’d like a word with him.’

  25

  Sawyer hammered both buttons on the control panel alternately in quick succession. On-screen, his pixelated athlete kept pace with another runner, eventually dipping through a finishing tape as the 100m Dash timing flashed beneath his score.

  A fuzzy digital voice confirmed the result. ‘Nine point five two seconds.’

  ‘Didn’t make the top three.’ A voice from behind. Sawyer turned to see Ash licking the edge of a rolling paper he’d filled
with tobacco. ‘What’s your best?’

  ‘I’ve done under nine seconds.’

  Ash whistled his approval and walked away, taking a seat in the café area at the back of the Players club. Sawyer followed, and slumped down onto the low cushioned bench opposite.

  Ash eyed him as he finished his roll-up. ‘What now? Am I scoring for you again?’

  ‘I need more on Price. But I don’t want to go up there myself.’

  Ash grinned. ‘Didn’t hit it off, yeah?’

  ‘He didn’t accept my Facebook friend request.’

  Ash pocketed the roll-up, shoulders heaving in silent laughter. ‘Ricky Price does not use Facebook, my friend. Just like nobody under the age of, like, thirty.’

  ‘He mentioned something about the lad I’m looking for. He said he was into “something stronger”. I want to know more about that.’

  Ash stuck out his bottom lip, nodded. ‘He’s not talking about skunk or whatever. You know that, right?’

  ‘I know that. I’d like a bit more detail. What did he sell him? How often? When did it start and stop?’

  Ash laughed. ‘You think your boy might have been jacking Ricky’s supply?’

  ‘I’ll know more about what I think once you shake out some details.’ Sawyer took three twenty-pound notes from his wallet and laid them on the table. Ash looked at them, raised his eyes to Sawyer, who added another.

  Ash snatched up the money. ‘Why don’t you get the feds on this, man?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to know that I want to know.’

  ‘So am I, like, your undercover boy, yeah? Your sidekick?’

  ‘More like my Huggy Bear.’

  Ash smiled, nodded. ‘You think that one’s lost on me, right? I watch Starsky & Hutch. Classic.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d still be bingeing your way through the third series of Love Island.’

  Ash clicked his tongue through his teeth. ‘You boomers, man. You’re so bait. You think we’re all stuck in our phones, but we get more than you think we do. YouTube, innit? I like seventies stuff. Sapphire and Steel. The Tomorrow People. It’s the internet. It’s, like, made everything up for grabs now, y’get me? Ain’t no such thing as the past on there, really. It’s like, we’ve got access to everything now, all across history. It’s like we’re always in the present.’