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

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘Did she say anything else?’

  Lillian shook her head. ‘She was whispering, muttering. I thought she was saying a name or something. Deborah, maybe. Or Dabbler.’

  35

  ‘Have a seat, DC Moran.’

  DCI Farrell glanced up from his computer as Moran closed the door behind him and perched on the edge of the padded chair facing Farrell’s desk.

  Farrell stabbed at his Return key with a flourish and pivoted to face Moran, grinning. ‘You wanted to see me.’

  Moran adjusted his glasses. ‘Sir. I’ve been reading the ballistics on the Sawyer investigation.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Farrell wriggled out of his suit jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. ‘I spoke to our good friend Detective Sawyer about the findings.’

  ‘Did he say anything interesting?’

  Farrell took out his breath mints and flicked one into his mouth. ‘Oh, he’s always interesting. Just nothing useful. He was closed tight, as ever.’

  Moran took a notepad from his inside pocket. ‘Have you heard of a man named Tony Cross, sir?’

  Farrell bit his top lip with his teeth. ‘The name is vaguely familiar.’

  Moran took out his phone and pushed it across the desk. ‘Here’s a story from a few years ago. The short version is that Cross was an elite marksman and AFO who took out a career scumbag in Hackney in 2016.’

  Farrell browsed the news report on Moran’s phone. ‘Oh, yes. There was a public enquiry.’

  Moran nodded. ‘The ruling went against him because the dead man had a MAC-10 under the seat, but he wasn’t actually holding it at the time of the shooting, and it turned out to be unloaded, anyway.’

  ‘Cross said he thought he was carrying.’

  ‘Yes. But he got an unlawful verdict, stood trial for murder. Acquitted. He’s now freelance. Does a lot of work for private security in the States.’

  Farrell sat back, tipped his head forward. ‘So how does this relate to the Sawyer situation?’

  ‘Cross was part of the Met’s SCO19 elite firearms squad. He worked with Sawyer on a couple of cases.’

  ‘And you think he might have helped Sawyer on the Bowman raid?’

  Moran shrugged. ‘Seems possible. Ballistics report says that the axe was struck by a round from a high-powered rifle. Cross was one of SCO19’s snipers. As it says in that piece, the Met Commander called him “the longest arm of the law”.’

  Farrell winced. ‘It’s good, DC Moran. But conjecture. Intelligent conjecture, but still—’

  ‘I can put him near Sawyer on the day of the Bowman raid.’

  Farrell frowned, put out by the interruption.

  Moran continued. ‘I have an ANPR hit on the car registered to Cross near Dovestone Reservoir on the day of the raid. This is around an hour before the official AFOs went in. There’s another hit around half an hour later, outbound.’

  Farrell grinned. ‘Okay. Now that is interesting.’

  ‘Should we talk to Cross, sir?’

  ‘It would have to be voluntary. I see no grounds for arrest. I may have something myself. I received a message from Jordan Burns, the husband of the woman held by Bowman and recovered by Sawyer. He’s asked for a private meeting. Unofficial, I assume. Perhaps, along with your information and whatever Jordan Burns wants to talk about, we can get the full picture and open Detective Sawyer up a little.’

  36

  Sawyer sped along the Snake Pass, away from Slackhall village. As he rounded a long corner, he spotted a single traffic cone planted beside a break in the roadside barrier, with a warning triangle: ROADWORKS 400 yds.

  He parked on a verge and climbed up over the opposite barrier, into the sparse trees lining the road. The terrain opened out into a vast open field, with distant woodland dividing the White and Dark Peak. He pushed through the long grass, scanning the ground, heading for an isolated copse a few hundred yards into the centre of the field. The slate-grey clouds loomed low, and he squinted into a scattering of fine rain.

  Despite the encroaching autumn, the group of trees was still in full leaf, and Sawyer conducted a slow spiral search, walking in a circle from the outermost point of the copse perimeter towards the centre, eyes fixed on the ground, head swaying from left to right with each step.

  There. Something neither green nor brown. He crouched, snapped on a pair of latex gloves and carefully extracted a dirty white rag from a tangle of bracken. It looked like a tea towel, torn in half, and smelt strangely fresh and earthy. He held it up to the light; one edge had been tainted by soaked-in blood.

  Sawyer flapped open a plastic Ziploc bag with one hand, and dropped the rag inside. He finished his search, and walked out of the trees across the field towards the dense woodland in the distance. The treeline was at least half an hour’s walk away. He let his mind rise away, imagined himself hovering above the scene like a drone. Had Virginia Mendez escaped from someone, and made it here from there? The rain stepped up, spattering onto the shoulders of his jacket. He turned, and walked back to the car.

  Later that afternoon, Sawyer set up his laptop on the coffee table and navigated to the HOLMES login screen. He entered Shepherd’s ID and password as usual, but instead of loading the main dashboard area, a pop-up window informed him that either the password or login were incorrect.

  They were all advised to change passwords every thirty days as routine. Few bothered, apart from the fussy, process-driven sorts. Like Shepherd.

  He tried a couple more possibilities, then abandoned the effort in case the system locked Shepherd’s account and warned him about the unauthorised access attempts.

  Sawyer pulled on his workout bottoms, stripped to his waist and stood before the full-length bedroom mirror. He slowed his breathing and, with great care, eased into the first Wing Chun form, Sil Lum Tao (‘Little Idea’). One hundred and eight separate movements, flowing into each other. Optimum efficiency, nothing classical or theatrical, always seeking the shortest path.

  He executed the form with his usual precision, but while the discipline usually induced a meditative sense of serenity, powering down the background noise to allow him to focus, today the session seemed to irritate him, inflaming a sense of something rattling around in the back of his mind, refusing to settle.

  He warmed down, showered and dressed. It was certain to be a treacherous evening ahead, and his mental chatter was tetchy and fragmented when he needed absolute focus, unclouded by emotion.

  His phone rang. He connected the call; Dean Logan spoke first.

  ‘It’s your friendly neighbourhood future Pulitzer Prize winner.’

  Sawyer scoffed. ‘Isn’t that a young man’s game? The dogged pursuit of moral outrage. Naive idealism.’

  ‘If you’re going to be rude, Sawyer, then I’m not going to tell you what I know about the new case you’re not allowed to be involved in.’

  ‘And you won’t get that exclusive ripper takedown story from me. The first step on the road to Pulitzer glory.’

  Sawyer switched the phone to speaker and set it down on the coffee table. He dropped into the sofa and unwrapped the block of Ash’s dope, began to roll a joint.

  Logan cleared his throat. ‘Mark Bishop. Fifty-two. Dumped in a ditch in a different patch of woodland. Near Mermaid’s Pool again, though. He managed a couple of hardware shops. One in Hayfield, one in Ashbourne. “Mark Bishop Home & DIY”. Snappy.’

  Sawyer burned off the marijuana and crumbled it into the joint. ‘COD?’

  ‘What am I, the fucking pathologist? I know the body was partially buried again, and I imagine it seriously ruined the day of the elderly walker who found it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Logan paused. ‘According to my source, it was similar to Hardwick. The killer took off most of his skin. And not just his limbs this time. He gave the poor bastard a really close shave of his chest and back.’

  ‘Refining the fantasy.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Sawyer muted th
e call, struck a match and lit the joint, then unmuted.

  ‘One more thing on the unfortunate Mr Bishop,’ said Logan. ‘I had a little nose around his particulars, so to speak.’

  Sawyer took a silent toke. ‘Thanks for that image.’

  ‘He had a previous for animal cruelty. Cautioned last year for keeping dogs in unsanitary conditions. RSPCA visit after a neighbour complaint. He’s also got two fines on record. One for contravening the Dangerous Dogs Act, and another against Section 8 of the Animal Welfare Act.’

  ‘Dog fighting.’

  ‘Gold star. Curiouser and curiouser, eh, Sawyer? What’s your assessment?’

  Another drag. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment, without a full victimology analysis. The dog stuff might be nothing to do with why he was killed.’

  ‘Okay, then. Now, how about a foaming pint of ale later. And you can tell me all about the day you took out the nasty ripper man.’

  Sawyer coughed on a sharp patch of smoke. ‘Washing my hair tonight. But we’ll set something up soon.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise to try.’

  He hung up and lay back on the sofa, finishing the joint, inhaling deeply, savouring the fuzzing edges, letting his mind swirl and dip into its darker recesses.

  He paused on a thought, dropped the joint end into a can of yesterday’s Diet Coke, snatched up the phone and tapped in a new number. As usual, Walker answered immediately.

  ‘Matt.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You really don’t need to call me that, you know.’

  ‘Force of habit.’

  ‘Nothing to do with respect, then?’ Walker hesitated. ‘Joking.’

  ‘I haven’t found any other address for Stuart Sutton yet. But his name has popped up in a link to a local rehab initiative that started up a few years ago up in Hathersage. An SIS.’

  ‘Supervised Injection Site. Safe and hygienic places to shoot up. They’re usually run by charities to prevent overdose. As you can imagine, they’re controversial.’

  ‘Yeah. I spoke to someone at the Hathersage place who recognises the name. But there’s obviously a lot of anonymity involved, so I need to dig carefully.’

  Sawyer reached for the can of Coke and just about stopped himself from taking a sip. His head spun, and he closed his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts. ‘I wanted to ask you about the Hardwick and Bishop murders.’

  Chatter in the background. The sound of Walker closing a door. ‘Sir. I’m not sure—’

  ‘I know you’re on the case. You don’t need to compromise yourself. Just a thought.’ A flash of nausea. He took a deep breath. ‘I think there might be a connection between a few other cases going back quite a few years. Shepherd has the details. And, yes. He’s been talking to me. You’ve probably been following lines of enquiry that I suggested. Maybe he’s even taken the credit.’

  ‘Well, he—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Sawyer forced himself to slow down, measure out his thoughts. Sweat prickled on his forehead. ‘In 2006, a guy who ran a puppy mill was murdered in Hartington. In 2008, the owner of a broiler chicken farm was tortured and murdered, using similar methods to that shown on Hardwick and Bishop.’

  ‘Yes. I know these. In 2010, there were several attacks on a badger-culling group, and in 2010 and 2012, two mispers. One connected to animal experiments, and the owner of the old abattoir outside Hayfield.’

  Sawyer deepened his breathing. ‘Look into prison or psychiatric hospital releases from the early 2000s, up to 2006.’

  ‘The puppy mill murder.’

  ‘Yes. Cross-ref the releases with connections to animal charities, activist groups, ALF. This is someone who started his work in 2006, and so his fantasy should be refined by now. What started him off? There would have been violence in his past, and a lack of love or some kind of domestic complexity that led to the withdrawal of love, or a betrayal as he saw it.’

  ‘You’ve said before, focus on outlying detail.’

  Sawyer sat back. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The gap. Between the 2012 misper and the Hardwick murder. If it’s the same man, then—’

  ‘Yes. Good work. Why the gap? Whoever is doing this, it looks like he stopped for a few years, but has now started up again. And I don’t see any sign that he might be about to stop again anytime soon.’

  Sawyer drove through the dimming daylight, listening to his mood-settling playlist: ambient Aphex Twin, Stars of the Lid, The Beloved. He skirted Buxton town centre and parked in an anonymous industrial estate with a cluster of numbered structures that looked more like container crates than buildings.

  He walked to the far side of the grounds, and entered a three-storey, glass-fronted building with a sign over the main doors: SCIENTIFIC SERVICES.

  Sally O’Callaghan stood at the front desk, talking to a male receptionist who, given his build, had clearly been hired to double up as a security guard. She spotted Sawyer and headed over. ‘If we were in a relationship, I would insist on more notice before being summoned to bend to your will.’

  He smiled. Dimple. ‘You don’t strike me as the submissive type, Sally.’

  ‘Astutely deduced. My first husband made that mistake.’

  He held up the Ziploc bag with the torn tea towel from the copse. ‘Pretty please?’

  ‘You want me to make you a bloody bandana?’

  ‘DNA. Prints. The works.’

  She took the bag. ‘And when would sir be requiring my findings? Last Tuesday, I assume.’

  Sawyer swayed in place, and had to put his foot to the side, steadying himself.

  Sally’s eyes narrowed. ‘You okay? I know you’re technically off duty, but I thought you didn’t drink.’

  The room fogged over for a second, then cleared. Sawyer reached out to a nearby table; the beefy security guard raised his eyes to them.

  ‘I’m not drunk. Just… bad sleep. Busy head.’

  ‘You do realise this is the second independent favour I’ve done for you in the last few weeks. When do I get some kind of reimbursement?’

  ‘If they send me away for the Bowman thing, you can have my cat.’

  Sally leaned in, studying his eyes. ‘So, what are you doing with all your free time? Idle hands. You know the saying.’

  ‘I’m helping with a cold case. I wanted to ask, do you remember Detective Inspector Martin Pittman?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There might be a connection with a couple of things we worked on together a few years ago. He was sort of an early mentor for me. I’d like to talk to him.’

  She angled her head. ‘Fresh out of Ouija boards, I’m afraid. Pittman died a couple of years ago. Lung cancer.’

  37

  Dale Strickland sized up his shot. Blue into the corner looked like an in-off.

  ‘Brown?’ Jerome stood over the table, resting his gigantic hands over the point of his cue.

  Dale shook his head. ‘No easy red.’ He checked his watch. Almost 10pm. ‘Our guest is due. You ready?’ Jerome gave a slight nod. ‘Let’s head up.’

  They locked the private snooker room, walked through the busy public area, and climbed the stairs to the carpeted corner office on the top floor. It was dark outside, but Dale drew the blind on Deansgate and settled into the revolving chair behind his glass-topped desk. Jerome stood at his side, facing the door, his muscled bulk barely contained by a tailored white shirt.

  Dale took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with his cuff.

  Jerome raised his head, keeping his eyes on the door. ‘Do we know his position?’

  Dale slotted the glasses back over his eyes, taking time to adjust them to his liking. ‘Position?’

  ‘About the woman.’

  ‘I’m assuming he’s made the link to Fletcher, yes.’

  ‘So why the meeting?’

  Dale shrugged. ‘I’d say he wants to see if we know anything about Fletcher’s movements and plans. If he’s accepted that Maggie was attacked by Fletcher, then he’ll
assume that Fletcher is past caring and will be targeting him next.’

  Jerome snorted. ‘Maybe he’ll ask for protection.’

  A buzzer rang. Jerome pressed a button on a wall panel and studied the video image. He held his thumb onto a second button for a few seconds. The image went blank and Jerome resumed his position at Dale’s side.

  ‘Switch on,’ said Dale. ‘He doesn’t look like much. But remember, he’s on suspension because of his involvement in the death of a suspect.’

  Jerome shook his head. ‘I’ll snap him in half if he tries anything.’

  Footsteps in the corridor outside. Sawyer walked into the office and took a spot on the mock Persian rug before Dale’s desk.

  Dale sat back and knitted his fingers together, holding his hands up to his chin. ‘Always a pleasure, Detective Sawyer.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘Let’s start this how we mean to go on, Dale. With a little honesty. Time to square things, don’t you think?’

  ‘We’ve done this. There’s nothing to square.’

  ‘I’m sure you have the gun. The one used on the unfortunate Shaun Brooks. Probably taken from the cave by The Mountain here.’

  Jerome frowned, glanced at Dale.

  ‘It’s from Game of Thrones,’ said Dale. ‘The TV show.’

  ‘I say, “mountain”,’ said Sawyer, studying Jerome. ‘More of a hillock.’ He turned to Dale. ‘The gun keeps you clean, and it takes away my insurance. I assume you’re hoping that I’ll take out Fletcher, or vice versa. Either works for you to sweep up the mess and commune with your new colleagues in high office, without fear of hindrance.’ He stepped closer to the desk. ‘I think you know that Fletcher won’t come for you. But you don’t want to take him out directly if you can help it. Which is why you had my friend beaten up and tried to make it look like Fletcher’s work. So I’d take him down for you.’