The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘How’s Luka?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Difficult. Playing up at school. He’s having some counselling but he doesn’t want anyone to know. Especially his mates.’

  ‘No ill effects from the car accident?’

  ‘He’s had check-ups. He’s fine. They think he might have ADHD.’

  ‘I could talk to him.’

  Eva jumped in. ‘We’re separating. Me and Dale.’

  Sawyer switched the phone to speaker and set it down on the coffee table. ‘Is he moving out?’ He opened his wallet and shuffled through the contents: coffee shop loyalty schemes, bank cards, expired V&A Museum membership. He dug into the inner pocket and took out the tatty polaroid of his mother, standing at the gate on Christmas morning, 1987: awkward smile; orange bathrobe; coal-black hair bundled into the hood of the robe, with a few strands spilling over her shoulders.

  ‘He wants to live closer to Manchester. Still keen to see Luka. I told him not to tell Luka yet. But he did, anyway.’

  Sawyer pulled out a European Health Insurance card. ‘Gives him the moral high ground. Makes it look like his decision, like you’re too difficult to live with. If you’d spoken to Luka together, it would have seemed too mutual and made him look weak.’ He studied the front of the card.

  Name: BROOKS

  Given names: SHAUN CHRISTOPHER

  Eva sighed. ‘I don’t care about any of that.’

  ‘You just want him out. You think he’ll be a better influence on Luka with occasional access. Summer trip to the Heights of Abraham.’ She didn’t answer. He heard the clink of a Zippo lighter. ‘You’re smoking?’

  ‘Yes. That’s still legal, right?’

  ‘Depends where you are. I can talk to Luka, you know. He might listen to the guy who rescued him from an underground cave network.’

  She puffed out smoke. ‘I don’t want to put him in that awkward place. Between you and his dad.’

  ‘Is that how you see Dale? There’s your father, and there’s your dad? One is biology. The other is a relationship. Sometimes they go together. Not in this case.’

  ‘Is this an audition for stepfather?’

  He laughed. ‘Does Dale know someone called Shaun Brooks?’

  ‘Haven’t heard the name, no.’

  He replaced the cards and photo and closed the wallet. ‘Come and see me.’ The crackle of burning tobacco, another puff of smoke. ‘You know you want to.’

  ‘It was a mistake. You know it can’t be repeated. For everyone’s sake.’

  ‘Including mine?’

  ‘Especially yours.’

  Sawyer pulled on a T-shirt. ‘You can’t just plot your life from moment to moment. Neat little segues from one phase to the next. It’s messier than that.’

  ‘No, but I want the separation to be smooth. Dale knows it’s over, but he also knows about you. He’s wary.’

  ‘I’m a big boy. Dale likes to intimidate people. It’s his currency. Bullies need victims, though, Eva. He doesn’t scare me.’

  She barked out a laugh. Contemptuous, exasperated. ‘Always the same with men. It all comes down to a pissing competition in the end. I work for an accountant, remember? Not everything is zero sum.’

  ‘You don’t make a “smooth” separation from people like Dale. I did a bit of checking. Jason Haig. The driver of the car that hit Luka. Accidentally, remember? It was Luka’s fault?’

  ‘Jake…’

  ‘Haig was badly beaten in his own house a couple of weeks ago. In front of his wife and son.’ Sawyer picked up Shepherd’s tactical pen from a pot on the table and doodled on a stack of Post-it notes. ‘The lad was ten years old. They threatened to hurt the bloke’s wife unless he joined in with the beating.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘They made a ten-year-old boy punch his own dad in the face. That’s not a robbery with violence. That’s calculated humiliation.’

  ‘You don’t know that Dale had anything to do with that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. And so do you.’ Silence at Eva’s end. ‘Come and see me.’

  He checked the phone. She had hung up.

  12

  ‘Is it in?’ Keating tapped something into his corner computer with a flourish. He pivoted his chair to face Sawyer and Shepherd.

  Sawyer glanced at Shepherd. ‘You haven’t seen it online?’

  Keating waved a hand. ‘I don’t look at anything online. There’s just too fucking much of it.’

  Sawyer smirked. ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of…’ He sighed. ‘People. And their opinions. What does it say?’

  On cue, Stephen Bloom entered, trailed by DC Walker. By his standards, Bloom was dressed down: dark blazer, white shirt, no tie. Walker was Monday-morning fresh, and Sawyer wrinkled his nose at his excessive cologne.

  Bloom laid the morning edition of the Derbyshire Times on Keating’s desk. The front page showed a large archive shot of Susan Bishop as Suzie Swift, clearly taken sometime during her TV heyday: beaming in period dress, huddled in for a promo shot with TV variety star, Ronnie Barker.

  The headline was a screamer. A Logan classic.

  TRAGIC TV SUZIE FOUND DEAD IN DERWENT

  Keating scanned the story. ‘How does he know she was stabbed?’

  ‘We saw the husband yesterday, sir,’ said Shepherd. Keating raised his eyes to Sawyer, then across to Shepherd. ‘We gave him the details. ’

  Sawyer shook his head. ‘Logan must have doorstepped him.’

  Keating sat back. ‘Evidently. When you say “we” gave him—’

  ‘I told him,’ said Sawyer.

  ‘And you didn’t think it might be worth keeping that private? Cards close to chest? At least until Drummond has finished his work.’

  ‘He’s her husband. He has a right to know.’

  ‘Yes. But he also has a right to expect us to catch the bastard who killed his wife. And that’s a fuck of a lot easier if the killer doesn’t know what we know.’

  Walker stepped forward. ‘Shall I arrange some support for the FLOs at the Bishop house, sir? There’s bound to be more press interest now.’

  Keating smiled. ‘That’s up to your case manager, son.’ He flashed a glare at Shepherd. ‘Let’s stay ahead of the story from now on. I’d rather the public got their details from us, not from serpents like Logan. Any hard news?’

  ‘Just spoke to Sally,’ said Shepherd. ‘Her team have completed two sweeps of the Bishop house and surroundings. Nothing.’

  Sawyer turned to him. ‘Don’t you find that a bit strange?’

  ‘He might have forced her outside,’ said Walker. ‘Weapon threat.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Or he’s just meticulous. It’s happened before. Killers who do their homework. They know what we look for. One guy in Baltimore used a black light torch to make sure he’d caught all of the fluids.’

  ‘I agree with Walker,’ said Sawyer. ‘He surprised her. Forced her out to a vehicle. Subdued her.’

  ‘Find me the vehicle,’ said Keating. ‘This could be pretty straightforward if he’s stupid enough to be driving something we can link to him directly.’

  ‘Myers is on it, sir,’ said Shepherd.

  Walker cleared his throat. ‘I spoke to the husband about Susan’s heart transplant. He said there was no hint of any resentment, no accusations of queue jumping. They were asked if they wanted details on the donor, but declined. The operation was textbook, apparently. He said her condition went from life-threatening to being as manageable as something like asthma.’

  Sawyer sat down, leaving himself and Keating as the only ones not standing. ‘And nobody in her life was opposed to organ donation on religious grounds or whatever?’

  All eyes were on Walker. ‘I didn’t pursue that angle. I’ll look into it.’

  ‘I don’t think any religions are opposed to organ donation,’ said Shepherd, ‘apart from Christian Scientists. They let their kids die rather than submit to medical care.’

  Bloom spoke up. ‘They wouldn’t see it that wa
y. They would see their child as being chosen by the Lord.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘And He has that “mysterious ways” disclaimer. Handy. Although, of course, there’s also that inconvenient commandment about not killing. Which is what the parents are doing to their kids by refusing the medical help.’ His phone buzzed. He stood up and spoke to Shepherd. ‘I have to take this. Brief the team and call an update for 3pm.’

  He strode into his office and closed the door. The low autumn sun flared through the half-closed window blind, mottling the room in solid strips of shadow.

  He sank into his chair and connected the call. ‘Max.’

  ‘Jake. Good to hear you.’ Male voice. Middle-aged. London, close to cockney. ‘How are things up North? Grim?’

  ‘Green. Just about.’

  ‘Winding down for the winter?’

  Sawyer rummaged through a drawer. ‘Hardly. Plenty of excitement up here lately.’

  ‘Bloodshed at the Nell Gwynn Tearooms?’

  Sawyer laughed. ‘Fawlty Towers.’

  DI Max Reeves tutted down the phone line. ‘Still can’t get much past you. I’ve been busy. Got your message. Not like you to come running. You must have got the internet up there, by now?’

  ‘I’m calling in the favour.’

  Reeves went quiet for a second. ‘I’ve got the files for your mum’s case, from general registry. They were outsourced to the Met about fifteen years ago. Also dug out the Buxton station records for a year either side, as you said. And I’ve sniffed out a few repeat burglars from that time. And when I say “that time”, Sawyer, we’re basically talking fucking Jurassic era on the police admin clock.’

  Sawyer pulled out a notepad and pen. ‘I get that it wasn’t easy, Max. You can lose the crown of thorns.’

  Reeves laughed: too loud and long. ‘This is a lot more than calling in a fucking favour. I don’t see why you couldn’t do this yourself. Bit of research not beyond a man of your talents? Or do I not want to know?’

  Sawyer squinted through the blinds. ‘It’s personal. I don’t want anyone knowing that I’m looking into it.’

  Reeves sighed. ‘Like I say, a few names pop up. If you could tell me a bit more about what you’re looking for, I could narrow it down.’

  Sawyer scratched out a doodle in the corner of a clean page. ‘I’ll cover that.’

  ‘Top of the table of repeat appearances is one Owen Casey. No fixed abode. Notes say he was part of a community of Irish travellers that settled around Uttoxeter in the seventies and eighties. He was nineteen at the time of his last arrest. June 1988. A few weeks before…’ He trailed off. ‘Now. Apart from being so prolific, here’s the thing that makes Casey stick out. I think he was used as an informant, around this time. June.’

  ‘Unusual for travellers.’

  ‘Yeah. I thought that. Not usually a rich seam of snitches. But this last offence was pretty nasty. Aggravated. And yet he was released without charge. Homeowner chased and caught him. Given his history, it’s unthinkable that he would have just walked.’

  Sawyer wrote the name Owen Casey on the top page of the pad. ‘Any paperwork? Anything formal? Any record of a specific enquiry he might have helped with?’

  ‘Not a scrap. Source handling was different then. You know that. These days, it’s regulated up the arse by RIPA. Back then, it was all informal. Snouts down the pub.’

  Sawyer sat back. ‘I didn’t realise you were that old, Max.’

  Reeves snorted. ‘Comedian. Are you not getting this, Jake? I’m catching the bad smell from here.’

  ‘Who nicked him?’

  Reeves slurped at a drink. He was building to something. ‘Ready for the fun bit? The arrest record. I went through hundreds from that period. With respect to your humble beginnings, Jake, this is Buxton, Derbyshire. It’s not Bogota, Colombia. Out of all the records outsourced to the Met from that station at that time, including the murders, this is the only arrest record with no paperwork. I only know Casey was nicked because he’s mentioned in the victim statement. Someone didn’t want his arrest to go on record—’

  ‘But they forgot to bury the victim statement.’

  ‘Yeah. The victim clearly knew Casey, because he mentions him by name. Must have done him over before.’

  ‘Is he still around?’

  ‘Kenneth Townsend. Died about ten years ago.’

  Sawyer sketched jagged lines around the O of Owen. ‘So where is Casey now?’

  Reeves laughed. ‘We are so square now, Sawyer. In fact, I think it’s you that owes me a favour.’

  13

  Amy Scott slotted her phone into the dashboard cradle and pulled out of the hospital car park. It had been a busy shift: an endless staff meeting on new NICE guidelines, training up an assistant nurse, fighting a few minor admin fires, and a depressing end-of-life care meeting with the parents of a twenty-nine-year-old who would not be seeing thirty. Her friend Lisa worked in oncology, and although Amy’s work never directly involved breaking bad news, their roles often overlapped.

  For lunch, she had inhaled a bowl of greenery from the hospital M&S, and she was craving a hit of carbs. Ideally, with a glass of something red and barely affordable, in the company of someone with half a brain.

  Amy glanced out at the ugly modern church on the corner of Barnsley Road. A sign advertised the latest Alpha Course: Bear Grylls on some mountainside, staring off into the distance, surrounded by think bubbles (‘Is there more to life than this?’, ‘Does God exist?’, ‘What happens next?’).

  She unlocked her phone screen. ‘Hey, Siri. Call Lisa.’

  The phone’s virtual assistant confirmed her request and connected the call.

  ‘Hey, babe.’

  Lisa was loud and lively, and Amy squeezed the volume decrease button a couple of times. ‘You still in?’

  ‘Tell me about it. I feel like I’ve only just got here! Won’t be out until at least seven, at this rate. We’ll have to do another night. Sorry, darling. No hot dates on call?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fighting them off. Got to have a break sometime, though.’

  Lisa laughed. ‘Seriously. Anyone on the scene?’

  ‘Had two good ones recently. The first seemed okay in messages, but then we did a live chat and he was pretty dull. Didn’t directly respond to what I was saying. Just seemed to use my messages as a sort of bridge to get to what he wanted to say next.’

  Lisa made a buzzing sound; shorthand for ‘rejected’. ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘He was really nice.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I mentioned Ava.’

  Lisa sighed down the phone. ‘Schoolgirl error. They’re men. They’re looking for sex. Don’t make them think of bedtime stories.’

  ‘I want more than just—’

  ‘The more than just sex stuff comes after the sex, not before. Look. You wanna get off Match. Soulmates is loads better for your type.’

  Amy laughed. ‘Easy for you to say, with the steady consultant boyfriend.’

  Lisa coughed. ‘It’s an open relationship.’

  ‘Does he know that?’

  ‘He seems okay with it when it comes to his wife.’

  Amy’s phone screen showed an incoming call waiting, from ‘Broomfield’.

  ‘Oh. It’s Ava’s school. I’ll have to take it. Call you later.’

  Amy tapped the End & Accept icon. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ms Scott? It’s Rose from the school office. Are you able to collect Ava today?’

  Amy recognised the voice. Chatter in the background. ‘Of course. I’m on my way. Is there a problem?’ She checked the time: 3:06. The drive was barely ten minutes. Pick-up at 3:20.

  ‘No. Everything is fine. But Ava’s uncle called. He left a message.’

  ‘Uncle?’

  ‘Yes. He seemed to think he was picking up Ava today?’

  Amy’s mind spun through the options. ‘I don’t have any brothers. Are you sure you’ve got the right Ava?’

  A pause. Muffled
conversation. ‘Yes. Ava Scott. We don’t actually have any other children called Ava.’

  Amy squeezed the accelerator. She bullied her way around a queue of turning cars and crossed over the Neepsend canal bridge. ‘What was the message?’

  More muffled conversation. ‘The caller asked if we could write it down and pass it on to you. He said, “I can’t take Ava today. But I can do it any other time.”’

  14

  Keating took a chair at the side of the MIT whiteboard and shifted it side-on, to give him both a presiding position and a full view of the room. Sawyer sat at the desk outside his office, behind the perched Sally O’Callaghan and just out of Keating’s eyeline. Sally didn’t turn to acknowledge him; surely she wasn’t still sulking after their exchange yesterday?

  ‘We’ve completed two full sweeps of the scene at Fairholmes and the Bishop house. Susan’s killer has barely left a blade of grass out of place.’

  ‘I’ve never known a scene like it,’ said Sally. ‘No blood, no DNA. No fibres. No prints. Patent, latent or impressed. Susan was naked, so we couldn’t use any soil samples from footwear. K9s found a few spliff butts at the Derwent site, nothing else.’

  ‘Did you use different personnel for each sweep?’ said Sawyer, behind her.

  Sally didn’t turn. She tilted her head and addressed her response to Shepherd. ‘I didn’t, actually. They’re professionals, and if there was anything to find then they would have found it. We completed several searches. Linear, grid, quadrant, spiral. We’re testing the soil samples under her fingertips but I’m guessing it’ll be from her allotment. If the killer has left any trace, then Almighty fucking God himself would have trouble finding it.’

  ‘Tyre tracks?’ said Keating.

  ‘Plenty. But both the road outside the Bishop home and the Derwent scene were wet. Even if we could separate them, the results would be too distorted to be meaningful.’

  A brief, despairing silence. Myers raised his hand. ‘Rhodes has been busy on passive data that fits time of death. No ANPR near either scenes. Couple of larger cars caught on shop CCTV in the village, but no plates in view.’