Creepy Crawly: DI Jake Sawyer Series Book One

by Andrew Lowe

  Ainsworth frowned and looked down at the notebook, doodling. ‘With deceased subjects, are you able to relay emotion? Specific messages?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I feel the spirit’s energy as if the person is in the room next to me. Sometimes, if there is an urgent message to pass on, I have to fight back a terrible nausea, a desire to wrench myself away and plunge back onto the corporeal plane.’

  Ainsworth looked up. ‘The real world.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Ainsworth nodded. They sat there for a few seconds in silence, staring each other down. ‘Mr Beck, it’s possible that you believe what you’re saying. But my job with the Challenge is to test your claim using scientific rigour. Some subjects have taken exception to this “judgemental” atmosphere.’

  ‘I have no concerns about your attitude towards me. Your science will demonstrate my veracity.’

  Veracity. Corporeal. Ainsworth was starting to wonder if Beck was just an overgrown student who had styled up a persona. Or, if he was the perpetrator of some sort of hoax or sting.

  He stood up. Beck did likewise and approached the desk. ‘Mr Beck. It’s been a pleasure.’ Up close, his eyes were sly but tired-looking. They clasped hands. Beck offered only a slight squeeze, and he didn’t move his hand up and down. ‘Kelly will be in touch about the details. I hope to see you again very soon.’

  Beck had lowered his head, as if in shame. He slipped his hand free and let it drop. He was taking slow, deep breaths. He stumbled back to the chair and sat down. ‘Professor. Please forgive me. I do not wish to embarrass you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Beck looked up. He was trembling. ‘I feel… you are not at peace, Professor Ainsworth. The loss. The sadness within you. It is so black. It is like you have fallen into a deep, dark pit and you can’t find your way out.’

  Ainsworth smiled. He walked to the door and opened it. ‘Thank you for coming in, Mr Beck. I look forward to testing your claims.’

  8

  Sawyer spread two small pats of butter over a round of thick white toast. He dug his knife into the pot at the centre of the table and covered the layer of butter with an opaque patch of strawberry jam.

  Maggie watched, as he lifted the slice away from the plate and chomped into it, showering the table with crumbs. ‘Enjoying that?’

  He nodded. ‘Bread’s a bit thick.’

  ‘You have the palate of a three-year-old.’

  ‘I went to The Ivy a few weeks ago. Awards dinner thing.’

  ‘Yeah? Did you push yourself out of your comfort zone? Seafood risotto? Venison burger?’

  ‘I had the bangers and mash.’

  ‘Not from the children’s menu?’

  Sawyer gave her a sheepish smile.

  They were having breakfast at The Nut Tree: a cramped but popular café on the main road in Hartington, around halfway between The Reading Room and The Roaches. It was a one-storey grey brick building extended from an L-shaped patch of detached houses. The multi-paned front window gave it the feel of a sweet shop, but inside it was all dark wood and low ceilings: more like a refitted pub.

  Maggie sipped her herbal tea and took in the Monday morning tourists: mostly middle-aged ramblers, a few younger couples in fashionable but flimsy Hi-Viz jackets. It was warm out, but Maggie knew the risks of underestimating the Peaks’ meteorological mood swings. She squeezed the teabag against the side of the cup. ‘Is this the kind of place you’d meet for an affair?’

  Sawyer looked up. ‘I didn’t realise we were having an affair.’

  She gave him a shove. ‘In theory. Plenty of dark little corners and hidden tables. Maybe too obvious.’

  He took a slurp of tea. ‘It’s a middle-class greasy spoon. Use sourdough for your beans on toast and double the price.’

  ‘Don’t see you complaining about your toddler’s breakfast.’

  ‘I’m not saying that wouldn’t be delicious. Just a bit tarted up.’

  Fresh from her early morning home clients, Maggie was looking formal for the surroundings: grey pencil skirt, criss-crossed black blouse, low heels. Sawyer was blatantly a man of leisure: Bruce Lee T-shirt poking up from behind a slate-grey hoodie, jeans, classic black-and-white Vans.

  Maggie dropped her voice; there was nothing confidential in what she was about to say, but she was conditioned to avoid unnecessary leakage. ‘So, Keating wants me on call for the Padley case. He’s still setting up the Sheffield MIT, so he’s basing the enquiry on the first floor of Buxton. Brought in a few DCs. There’s a DS, Shepherd, he was with him in Sheffield. He’s brought him down to run the show.’

  Sawyer nodded. He fiddled with a sachet of sugar. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Seems decent. Big chap.’

  His eyes lifted. ‘Big, as in up or around?’

  She smiled. ‘Around. Probably got his eye on the top brass track. Not so much active police work.’

  Sawyer returned to the sugar. ‘Body shamer.’ He glanced up. Maggie angled her head. ‘So what happened at the briefing?’

  ‘Visiting the vic’s parents tomorrow. Hathersage. They were away when the body was found last week. Eighteen-year-old. Toby Manning. They found him in a shallow grave in a dense patch of woodland near a brook.’

  ‘I know it. Used to have a girlfriend who lived up there. Kissing practice in the trees.’

  ‘Couple of years ago?’

  He laughed. ‘COD?’

  ‘Asphyxiation. Probably strangled. He was in a box, Jake. Like a cardboard coffin. Why not just dump him in the ground?’

  Sawyer shrugged. ‘Anal retentive type? Sex game gone wrong? Unintentional killing. Feels like there’s regret there. Reflected in how he treats the body.’

  ‘I get the feeling there’s more to know, but Keating wants to focus on Toby’s recent associates. Any enemies. We’ll have to speak to the parents. But they’re obviously in bits.’ She sighed. ‘Toby was about to go to university, start his life.’

  ‘We?’ Sawyer added another spoonful of sugar to his tea and stirred.

  ‘Going with Shepherd.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  Maggie eyed him. Was he serious? ‘Of course not. It’s Keating’s case, and you don’t work for him.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘How did they find the body? Date of death? How was it found?’

  She bristled. ‘I don’t know, Jake. O’Callaghan was at the briefing. FLOs all left and she spoke with Keating and Shepherd privately.’

  ‘Need to know, eh?’ Sawyer stared down at his warped reflection in the polished dark wood. ‘Where’s the body now?’

  ‘With Drummond. If that’s not a sign to stay out of it, I don’t know what is. O’Callaghan said the autopsy was already done.’

  Sawyer looked up. ‘Is he still in his cave up in Sheffield?’

  ‘All the unexplaineds go up there. You know that. Hardly frequent, though.’ Her hand went to him, rested on the end of his fingers. ‘You’re not in London any more. How’s the guest house? Are you getting out?’

  He finished his tea, eyes fixed on the inside of the mug. ‘Why would you strangle someone, put them in a box, then bury them in a shallow grave? You’re hardly likely to have makeshift coffins lying around in case of a crime of passion. And, as you say, if you’re going to bury someone, you just dig the hole and toss them in.’ He clunked the mug down on the desk, too hard. ‘It feels ritualised. Ceremonial.’

  Maggie cut her scone in two, waiting for him to run out of steam.

  ‘The guest house is okay. Lots of doilies. You know the type. I need somewhere permanent. Might look by the old place.’

  ‘Near the lane? Is that healthy?’

  ‘No.’

  She took a bite, held the moment, watched as one of the older couples loaded up their backpacks. ‘Have you read the book yet?’

  ‘I will. Once I’ve worked through the local attractions. I lived here for the best part of twenty years but I hardly know it.’

  ‘Have you been to see your brother?�
�

  He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. ‘Of course. I’m not sure if it made things better or worse.’

  A raisin escaped from Maggie’s scone. Sawyer snatched it up and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘You know what RD Laing said?’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He said that we destroy ourselves with violence masquerading as love.’

  He nodded. ‘Didn’t he also say that it’s an insane world, and insanity is a perfectly rational response?’

  She brushed down her skirt. ‘More or less. I’m done. Need to square away a few client issues then get ready for tomorrow.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll get this.’

  ‘You got cash?’

  ‘No. But they take—’ She burrowed in her purse for a few seconds, then stopped and looked back at Sawyer. He was holding up her bank card. She snatched it back. ‘That is still a really annoying habit.’

  Sawyer grinned. ‘I think the speed of the autopsy means cause of death is unclear, or there are other unexplained elements. And I think the secrecy means the body was fresh, so it must have been easy to find.’

  He stood up.

  ‘I think the killer wanted us to find it.’

  9

  Eva Gregory scaled the stairs to the paediatric ward at Buxton’s Cavendish Hospital. The stone steps were tall, and her legs dragged as she hauled herself upward. It was the first time since the accident three days earlier that she had spent the night at her own home, and on top of the exhaustion and personal guilt, she carried an extra burden of professional anxiety. The bosses at her accountancy firm had been understanding, but there was a sense that the goodwill around her absence was fading.

  She greeted the nurses at their station and entered the overheated side room where her nine-year-old son lay on his back in a short but wide bed, eyelids flickering. He moaned and cast aside the sheets, revealing a crumpled figure in blue-and-yellow Minions pyjamas, clutching a stripy plush cat. Luka was small for his age: an overgrown toddler with a bony frame and a wayward swish of light blond hair. But Eva had worked hard to bolster his frailty with confidence, and his voice always rang loudest among the chatter of his peers.

  The car had hit him as he scurried to a traffic island on the main road outside his school. The driver had braked but couldn’t avoid clipping Luka, spinning him into the bollard and—luckily, given the rush-hour traffic—down onto the safety of the bobbled concrete. He had clunked his head on the bollard’s raised paving and lost consciousness. Luka’s friend Adam had told Eva that Luka had developed the habit of being the first to the island, taunting the others as they waited by the roadside, berating them for being ‘too scared’ to make the dash.

  ‘Hello, my darling.’

  She took a seat on the side bed: her fitful resting place for the last couple of nights. Eva was tall and conspicuous, with bleached white hair gathered into a flawless ponytail. She crossed her legs, took off her dark-brown Tom Ford glasses and rubbed at her eyes.

  ‘Mum!’ He crawled over for a hug. She wondered where ‘Mummy’ had gone. He would be ten in a couple of months.

  Karen, the lead nurse, followed her in. ‘We’ve been a little bit sick in the night, but nothing to worry about.’ She was Irish, old-school matronly. ‘The doctor is happy with the results, but he wants to do another couple of scans, just to be sure.’ She spoke to Luka. ‘You’re going to be fine, my poppet.’ She picked up the cat, waved it in the air. ‘If you were one of these, though, you’d have used up a life.’

  On arrival, Luka had shown signs of brain swelling and had been put into a medically induced coma. He was recovering well, but one of the neurologists had told Eva he was unhappy about Luka’s tiredness and short term memory loss, and wanted to keep him in for observation and deeper tests.

  Luka sat up. ‘My head hurts, Mum. It’s really bad.’ He put on his glasses. Earlier that year, when his short sightedness had been confirmed, he had insisted on the cherry red frames, telling Eva he wanted it to look like he wasn’t ashamed of them.

  Karen checked him over and made a note on his clipboard. ‘Your headache is because of your medication, my lovely. We’ll get you something for the pain.’

  Luka’s eyes teared up, and Eva held him, snuggling his head into her neck. ‘I know it’s not nice. But you won’t be here for much longer now.’

  He spoke into her shoulder. ‘Can I go for a walk around soon?’

  Karen smiled. ‘Not yet. Maybe in another day or so. You might feel better in your mind, but we can’t let you loose until your body’s fully recovered.’

  Eva rummaged through her shoulder bag. ‘I’ve brought you some books, and you can take my iPad. I’ll buy you a couple of new games if you like.’

  Karen gave Luka a glass of water. ‘Open your hand.’ He complied, used to the routine by now. She pressed a small white pill into his palm.

  He threw it into his mouth and gulped down some water. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are very welcome, my lovely. Now, I just need to borrow your mum for a second. I’ll bring you some breakfast and the doctor will be round soon.’

  ‘Will it be Doctor Fisher?’

  ‘Yes! He’s nice, isn’t he?’ Luke nodded. ‘Now, if you take a look at these brilliant new books, we’ll be back in a minute or two.’

  Karen led Eva to a small break room at the back of the nurse’s station. She closed the door, and her sunny demeanour dimmed.

  ‘Ms Gregory. Luka’s father, Dale, telephoned yesterday.’

  Eva’s stomach lurched. ‘What did he say?’

  Karen shook her head. ‘I didn’t speak to him myself, but apparently he was rather aggressive. Abusive, even. He said he’d been “informed” about Luka, and demanded to speak to him. That wasn’t possible, and the duty nurse told him we would talk to you today.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about that.’

  ‘We’re not social workers, Ms Gregory. Luka’s care is paramount, but my staff need to be able to conduct themselves without—’

  ‘Okay!’ Eva waved a hand. Her voice was louder than she’d intended. ‘I’m sorry. Just…’

  Karen rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. ‘Of course. A stressful time. He’ll be fine. He’s in the best possible hands.’

  ‘I’ll fix it. I’ll go to see Dale tomorrow.’

  Karen nodded. ‘Are you separated, my dear?’

  ‘No. Well. As good as. He’s in prison.’

  10

  Sawyer took the rickety lift down to the pathology lab in the basement of the Teaching Hospital at Sheffield’s Northern General. Most of the main building had been refitted since his last visit—an unexplained death at a youth club in Sheldon—but as he stepped out into the muted light of the main corridor, it was like slipping back in time. While the rest of the hospital was in motion, busy with the business of preserving and prolonging life, this was the other side: a place of stillness, where there was nothing more to be done but bring down the bodies and prepare them for whatever ritualised farewell their culture demanded. It was a place of abandoned hope, dug deep beyond public view, and in no need of artwork, natural light or redesigned signage.

  He flashed his warrant card and followed the familiar route, as if on rails: right at the first junction, past chemical storage, through a small lobby to a suite of offices which adjoined the mortuary and autopsy room. He peeked through a glass window in a large door marked F. DRUMMOND and walked in without knocking. A gigantic man in a short-sleeved brown shirt stood with his back to the door, slotting a folder into a filing cabinet.

  ‘Hello, Frazer.’

  The man tilted his head. ‘Jake Sawyer.’ He turned. Thick grey beard, shiny-bald on top. He was a frightful presence: pushing seven feet, bred for bear wrestling. His pale blue eyes narrowed behind semi-rimless glasses. ‘What’s dislodged you from under your rock?’ His voice was level, cautious, with a tang of Glaswegian.

  Sawyer smiled. ‘The chance to spend some time basking in your effervescenc
e.’

  Drummond studied him for a second, then turned and finished his filing. ‘I heard you were quitting.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘One last case, eh?’

  Sawyer took in the room. It hadn’t changed in six years. Functional desk with one chair, stacked wire document tray, shelves straining with colossal ring binders. No pictures, no photographs. A windowed side door led through to the autopsy room; Drummond could sit at his desk and gaze through at the gurney, the body drawers, the unflinching light.

  ‘You know how it is. Cases choose you. How’s Sophia?’

  Drummond slammed the cabinet shut and moved over to his desk chair. A tea tray on a side table rattled as he walked. ‘What’s the matter? Lost her number?’

  Sawyer snorted.

  Drummond slumped into the chair and gazed up at him, far from amused. ‘Sophia is well. Emma’s learning the piano, getting good grades. Ben likes his new school. Bit of a personality clash with his computing teacher, but otherwise fine. Good little footballer.’ He tilted his head forward and surveyed Sawyer over the top of his glasses. ‘So, despite your best efforts, we’re happy. Now. What do you want? I’m busy.’

  ‘So am I. That’s why I need your help.’

  Drummond couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Your NLP techniques won’t work with me, Sawyer.’

  ‘Padley Gorge. You ran the PM, right?’

  Drummond reclined his vast frame; the chair creaked in outrage. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Incorrect answer. The work was ordered by Keating’s MIT. You’ll have to bounce it off him.’

  Sawyer smiled, flashing his dimple. ‘Keating’s MIT is still a work in progress. He’s setting up at Buxton nick for now. I’m technically on the books there.’

  Drummond looked away, fiddled with a pen.

  ‘What happened to this boy, Frazer?’

  ‘Hard of hearing in your old age?’

  Sawyer took out a boiled sweet, half unwrapped it and squeezed it into his mouth. ‘We’re on the same side.’