The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  Michael looked at him. He had gained more weight in recent weeks, and cultivated an unruly thatch of beard: black around his lips, grey at the edges. He squinted, muting the green of his eyes. Sawyer raised his eyebrows, hoping for more words, but Michael just strained and grimaced, as if swallowing something unpleasant. He held up his hand and splayed out his fingers and thumb.

  ‘Five?’ said Sawyer. ‘That many? Let’s try again. Maybe you just haven’t met the one who’s right for you yet. Let’s build on what happened a few weeks ago. Now you know you can do it, yes?’

  Michael turned back to the screen, paused, then nodded his head in rapid jerks.

  ‘Like I promised, Mike. I’m going to help you get your life back.’

  Michael reached to his bedside table for an opened can of Dr Pepper, exposing the diagonal ladder of scars down his inner forearm. Some of the rungs were made up of single, straight swipes, while others had been carved in place with jabs and scratches. He took a drink, shrugged.

  Sawyer pushed on; he was used to the rules, the gestures. ‘I might have found someone who can help.’ This time, Michael shook his head. ‘Mike, I think he’s the one who stole the weapon, to frame Klein. He’s our link to the killer. I don’t think he did it, but he could help us find who did. Maybe there’s enough time passed now. Maybe he feels safer.’

  Michael sighed. His shoulders slumped. He clenched his hands in his lap and threaded his fingers together, writhing them around.

  Sawyer shuffled in close and rested a hand on his brother’s fingers. ‘You said she asked him why. Mike? She knew him. I think she knew him well. She pulled off his mask, didn’t she? You must have seen that.’ He leaned forward, deep into his brother’s personal space, making himself un-ignorable. ‘What did he look like? You saw him, yes? Yes?’

  Michael’s fingers stopped moving. He raised his eyes to Sawyer. A sheen of tears muted the bright green of his irises.

  He shook his head.

  47

  On the drive down to Sheldon, Sawyer scrolled through his phone contacts and tapped one of the names. He set the phone to speaker and slotted it in the dashboard dock. The reply was almost instant, and the caller’s stentorian tone seemed to rattle the bodywork.

  ‘Detective Sawyer. To what do I owe this pain?’

  ‘You know how I only call when I need something?’

  He heard Frazer Drummond shuffle some papers, flick a switch. ‘Uhuh. And why break the habit of a lifetime?’

  ‘Talk to me about detergent. With active oxygen.’

  A pause. ‘As my son Ben says, “JFGI”.’

  ‘I’ve done that. Googled it. But I’m old-fashioned, Frazer. I prefer the opinion of an expert over the online mind hive.’

  ‘Flattery might work with the lonely MILFs of Ladbroke Grove, Sawyer. But it’s lost on me.’

  He slowed for a cattle grid, stayed silent.

  Drummond sighed. ‘At industrial strength, it’s the hard stuff. You don’t just buy a batch of that at Superdrug. He’s done his research. He knows how the forensics work. He’s a step ahead. Usually, they’ll splash around the Domestos. Bit of Cif to make sure. Who does your clean-up?’

  ‘Company called CTS Decon. Checks out.’

  Drummond clicked his tongue. ‘You not spoken to Sally about this?’

  ‘Of course. Just looking for a second opinion.’

  ‘Might not be a professional connection. He just needs to be cosy with chemistry. He’s stacking them up, though. Can you do me a favour and catch this fucker before the weekend? Daughter’s birthday party.’

  Sawyer’s phone pinged with a text message.

  ‘House full of teenagers?’

  Drummond snorted. ‘Oh, yes. The boys, I can handle. The girls frighten the life out of me. And there’s fireworks. I fucking hate fireworks.’

  ‘Is there anything you don’t hate?’

  Drummond thought for a while. ‘Montoya Cabernet. Ruby red. Black cherry and blueberry on the nose. Plum and vanilla finish. With a sweet, tender lamb, and honey roast vegetables from a wood-fired oven.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A spot of walking and birding around the Gouthwaite Valley. My wife, my kids. But that really is it. Listen. Love to chat, but you know how it is. Dead people.’

  ‘Your favourite sort.’

  Drummond cackled and hung up. Sawyer checked his phone message.

  Eva.

  Not ignoring you. Hold back for a while. Dale acting off. Suspicious? xx

  He sighed, and accelerated through a flooded dip near a farm entrance, drenching the Mini in muddy water. He called Shepherd.

  ‘Sir. How was the “word” with Keating?’

  ‘It was more his words than my words. I’m busy this afternoon, but I want you to talk to Myers. While he’s tracing Joseph Dawsons, get him to cross-reference with chemistry graduates. Stick to colleges and unis in the North and Midlands.’

  ‘Is this the scene clean-up angle? The one we only found out about today?’

  Sawyer paused, hoping it would transmit his irritation. ‘I told you, we had to keep it quiet because we were looking into one of our own contractors.’

  ‘With respect, sir—’

  ‘Don’t say that, Shepherd. Please. Let’s take our mutual respect as read, yes? No need to apologise for frankness.’

  ‘I’m the direct report for the DCs on this case. I should know—’

  ‘You do know. Now. Before, I made the decision that you didn’t need to know. As your direct report. Myers, please. Chemistry. Stay on target. We can kiss and make up later.’

  He hung up, angered by his need to have the last word.

  Sawyer picked up Klein at the Barrel and they drove on to Sheldon in near silence. Klein looked frail and haunted, as if the adventure was all a bit too much for him.

  They turned in to the road alongside the Magpie Mine site. Sawyer glanced at Klein as he jinked around the potholes. ‘How’s your living situation, Marcus?’

  Klein managed a faint smile. ‘First name terms at last!’ He lifted his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. ‘It’s okay. I have the place to myself until just before Christmas. My brother is away.’

  ‘Is something bothering you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Not at all.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Klein turned to him. ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’ve interviewed lots of people over the years. You get used to the little tells and body language leaks.’

  Klein sighed. ‘It’s strange. I’m having a little trouble adjusting. Nothing serious. Struggling with the small things. The maintenance. Day by day. The supplies, the consumables.’

  ‘The things that were done for you on the inside?’

  ‘Yes. Prison does have its positives.’

  Sawyer steered into the parking area. ‘I suppose that’s one of the freedoms they take away. The right to make those small choices. The little decisions that make up the days. Brand of toothpaste. When to go to bed. What to eat and when.’

  Klein laughed, without humour. ‘There’s also… You’ll probably laugh. But I’m really feeling the paranoia. Like someone is watching me. Or following me.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Since I’ve been out. Just a feeling. Noises. Looks from people in public. I’m hyper-sensitive to cars behind me, waiting for them to turn off so I can be sure they’re not following.’

  ‘It’ll take time. All this? It’s just the real world. Life. Freedom.’ Sawyer smiled. ‘You wanted it. You’ve got it. But you can’t just pick up where you left off. You have to rebuild. Start at the foundations.’

  Klein closed and opened his eyes. ‘Mr Robbins. For all that I appreciate your help and your support, you’re forgetting one thing. You might believe that I didn’t murder Jess, but I know that I didn’t. For certain.’ He looked at Sawyer. ‘And there’s one other person who also carries that certainty. And this freedom.’

&n
bsp; They walked along a scruffy public pathway; it was Open Access Land, but designed to distance observers from the fractured outbuildings of the disused mine.

  Klein cupped a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sinking sun. ‘They used this place to suck lead out of the earth in Victorian times. But then they had to pump the water out, and it became unprofitable.’

  Sawyer gazed out across the broad, flat field. The brick ruins brooded in the afternoon shadows; a clutter of chipped pottery, gnawed down by the elements. The buildings were mostly low and roofless, gathered around a central engine house with a cylindrical chimney that loomed like an obelisk. The place was a fossil; a monument to obsolete industry, marooned in the centre of the very ground it was built to exploit.

  ‘I read there was a murder here,’ said Sawyer. ‘A rivalry with another mine or something.’

  Klein scoffed. ‘Probably an industrial accident. And the tale has grown with the telling. There’s a lot of that round here. The ghost tours feed off it.’

  It was already past three. The mine was deserted, but for the occasional hiking couple cutting through from Bakewell and Ashford. They passed the rickety winding house, and picked around the central buildings. Anything with a roof had been bricked up, apart from an empty corrugated shed and a restored two-storey house: firmly secured. Klein pointed to a sign on its door.

  STRICTLY PRIVATE PROPERTY

  PDMHS

  ‘PDMHS?’ said Sawyer.

  Klein thought for a few seconds. ‘Peak District Mine Historical Society. It’ll be their field centre.’ A squall of wind raised his wispy grey hair and he dug his hands into his jacket pocket. ‘There’s no “bothy” here, Mr Robbins. No secret meeting. I think we’ve been had. Maybe it’s time to switch strategy. Try the art of fighting with fighting.’

  They walked back to the roadside parking area. As they stumbled down a rocky slope onto the main path, Klein froze and placed a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder.

  He took out his phone and showed the screen to Sawyer. It was blank. ‘Don’t look up. I’m sure that’s the one! I’ve seen it before, near my brother’s place.’

  Sawyer kept his head tilted down towards the screen. He lifted his eyes and looked across at the distant parking area, just visible behind the tall perimeter hedge. It was close to dusk, and he had to squint to focus. A large burgundy BMW was parked next to his Mini. They were too far away to read the number plate.

  ‘I’m sure, Mr Robbins. I’m sure that’s the same one.’

  ‘Can you take a picture?’ said Sawyer. ‘We can zoom in later.’

  The car engine started and its lights came on.

  Klein opened his camera app. But by the time he had raised the phone, the car had pulled away.

  48

  At the cottage, Sawyer executed the second Wing Chun form, Chum Kiu, and ran through his post-workout stretches. Slowly, mindfully. He walked into the bathroom and opened both taps, full. He was eager to sink into the frothy water and power down for the night. There was too much in motion. The killer, the Caseys, Eva, Michael, Klein.

  The car. It wasn’t the one he had seen outside the house on the rainy night. But he had seen it before somewhere. A while ago. Somewhere stationary.

  He picked up The Gift Of Fear from his bedside table and walked through into the bathroom. He stopped, listened. It was about this time that Bruce would usually emerge, scratching at the door for food.

  Nothing.

  He carried on into the bathroom. The water thundered down, full volume. He took a bottle down from a shelf over the sink, opened it, sniffed it. Coconut. He squirted too much into the base of the stream and stood there for a while, transfixed by the bloom of bubbles.

  He turned off the taps and stabbed his fingers through his thickening hair. He was about to strip, when he heard a familiar drilling sound. He looked out and saw his phone jerking across the wood of the coffee table. The microwave clock read 10:40pm.

  He rushed into the sitting room and picked up the phone.

  It was Keating.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘DI Sawyer.’ He was gruff, angry. He drew in a breath, composing himself. ‘I’ve just seen the end of tonight’s BBC news. The regional section.’ He spat out the words in short, angry bursts. ‘The main story. From one of tomorrow’s newspapers.’

  ‘Logan?’

  ‘I assume so. I took a picture of the screen. Check your messages.’

  Sawyer’s stomach lurched. ‘Do I need to come in?’

  ‘If it’s not. Too. Much. Trouble.’

  He hung up.

  Sawyer looked at his inbox and opened the message from Keating. The picture attachment showed a wavy TV screen with the front page of the Derbyshire Times. The main image was a large shot of three red roses lined up side by side. Above them were three smaller square images in a neat row, with photographs of Susan Bishop, Sam Palmer and Simon Brock.

  The headline screamed out.

  EXCLUSIVE! RED ROSE KILLER TAUNTS HERO COP

  Shit.

  As soon as the killer saw this, he would know that Amy had spoken to the police. How much time did they have? Had he been watching the programme, too? Amy’s protection detail was geared towards catching him staking her out, but the threat against her had now been stepped up.

  As he threw on his shoes and jacket, he heard a car cross the driveway bridge and turn off its engine.

  A single set of footsteps approached the front door.

  Two slow, strong raps.

  Only one person. He could handle that.

  He opened the door.

  It was Shaun, from the Barrel Inn. He had scrubbed up a bit: thick blazer over the black polo-neck. ‘Evening. Tough guy.’

  Sawyer shrugged. ‘You don’t write. You don’t call.’

  Shaun nodded. ‘Still a smartarse.’

  Sawyer checked him over. The jumper was fitted; no unnatural stretch around the waist. Clean. Bulge in one pocket. Car keys. For the first time, Sawyer was struck by the size of Shaun’s hands: chunky fingers, flexing in and out of fists. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but now’s not a good time.’ He turned off the light and moved to step out onto the porch.

  Shaun shifted to the side, blocking his path. ‘We won’t keep you long. Just a quick thing.’

  Sawyer moved forward. They were inches apart; face to face. ‘We?’

  ‘Let’s play nice, fellas.’

  Sawyer looked around Shaun, to the white Mercedes parked in front of the Mini, blocking him in. An equally hefty man climbed out of the passenger seat, followed by a shorter, wirier colleague on the other side. It was the short man who had spoken. He was holding a small pistol.

  Sawyer squinted into the darkness. ‘Is that a Glock?’

  The man smiled. ‘It is! Austrian. Purchased from an Irish associate, if you’re interested.’ Hint of a Scottish accent. He was handsome, in a good suit. Yellow tie. Blond hair in a tidy block on top of his head, short at the sides. His colleague was the biggest of the three: square-jawed and angry-looking. Shaven headed, like Shaun. Blazer and white shirt. He had a small gym bag over one shoulder.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ said Sawyer. ‘I’ve got to go out. If you’d leave me your card, I’ll be sure to get back to you at the earliest convenient opportunity.’

  The short man waved the gun towards the cottage interior. ‘Let’s pop inside. As the man says, we’ll make it quick. I can’t guarantee it will be painless, though.’

  Sawyer backed into the sitting room and turned the light on. Shaun stepped inside, followed by the other two. The biggest man closed the door behind them.

  ‘So, is this an upgrade?’ said Sawyer. ‘You sent the Reminder guys and now you’re the Final Warning team?’

  The man with the gun kept it on his hip, pointed at Sawyer. ‘I’m afraid we don’t follow that system. It’s more of a fast track from warning to consequence. We’re the debt collectors.’

  ‘And for whose benefit are you collecting the debt?’
r />   The man glared at him, flashed a forced smile. ‘Now. You already know Shaun. I’m Marco, and this is Hector. Doesn’t speak a lot of English. He’s more a man of action.’

  Sawyer laughed. ‘What is this? Some new hidden camera show? The dumb goon, the mute muscle, and you. The brains of the operation? Or are you all sharing just the one brain cell?’

  Marco smiled.

  ‘Go on, then. This is where you nod at one of the other two and they give me a slap.’

  Marco lost his smile. ‘Are you left or right, Mr Sawyer?’

  ‘I’m apolitical. It’s all about Stoicism for me. And the milk of human kindness.’

  ‘I mean physically. Which one is your wanking hand?’

  ‘I have to use both.’

  Shaun nodded at Sawyer. ‘It’s the right. I remember from the pub.’

  Hector lifted the bag off his shoulder and pulled out a length of thick rope.

  ‘I won’t lie to you,’ said Marco. ‘This isn’t going to be the most pleasant evening of your life. But you can make it slightly less unpleasant.’ Shaun dragged a chair over from the kitchen. ‘Here’s the plan. I’m going to stand here, pointing this loaded gun at you, while Marco and Shaun tie you to that chair.’

  Marco took a heavy-looking chisel and a round-headed mallet out of the bag.

  ‘Is this a sex thing?’ said Sawyer. ‘Can’t you just stick to each other? Leave me out of it?’

  ‘We said we’d cut something off you if you didn’t listen,’ said Shaun.

  Marco nodded. ‘We’re going to take your right thumb. The one you use to send phone messages.’

  ‘To Eva? I like it. Poetic justice.’

  Marco ignored him. ‘And if you somehow manage to keep sending messages—’

  Sawyer snorted. ‘By, say, using the other thumb?’

  ‘Yes. Then we’ll be back for that one later.’