Creepy Crawly: DI Jake Sawyer Series Book One

by Andrew Lowe

  In, and out.

  He rested his hands at his side, palms placed on thighs.

  In, and out.

  As he breathed, his head bobbed up and down. Before the visit to the Manning house, he had combed and styled his hair, using a dab of sculpting wax to cover the albino patch at the back of his head. But it had been a warm day, and the hair had settled, revealing the small cluster of shining strands.

  In, and out.

  Across his back, a neat row of Greek characters was scored into the space between his shoulders.

  Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού

  The idea of the tattoo had nagged at him since a school trip to Paris in the mid-nineties. At the Père Lachaise cemetery, he had slipped away from the scheduled tour of literary headstones to visit the graffitied grave of Jim Morrison. It was one of his few clear early childhood memories: his mother’s passion for the darker shades of sixties music—The Doors, Hendrix, Cream—and the way it seemed so urgent and volatile, compared to the aloof classical music that drifted from his father’s study.

  He had copied the inscription on Morrison’s grave into his notebook, researched the meaning (‘True to his own spirit’) and, on his eighteenth birthday, flattened the sketch over the workbench of a Greek-Australian tattoo artist in Amsterdam’s old town.

  In, and out.

  Behind him, Sawyer’s ageing laptop sat open on the bed, a small black flash drive protruding from the USB socket. The white padded envelope from the Manning house lay opened on the bedside table.

  In, and out.

  He opened his eyes, assumed the training stance, and began to work through the first Wing Chun Kung Fu form: Sil Lum Tao (‘Little Idea’). The form was a series of prescribed, sequential movements intended to strengthen legs and arms, and to embed the core principles of the system: absolute economy of movement, and the idea of an imaginary vertical centreline around which the practitioner focuses defence and attack.

  Always efficient, always direct.

  Nothing classical or traditional. Nothing for show.

  As a teenager and twentysomething, Sawyer had trained in Wing Chun, and its contemporary spin-off, Jeet Kune Do. He had found the study both empowering and soothing, and although the self-defence benefits were obvious, he now used the Wing Chun forms as a dynamic meditation, fanning away the mental fog.

  He executed the one hundred and eight movements with fluidity and precision, and towelled down his hair. After a few warm-down stretches, he sat on the bed next to the laptop, sipped a glass of water and clicked on the video’s Play icon for the third time.

  The footage was dark, but had clearly been captured by a static camera with good light-enhancing ability. It showed the head and shoulders of a young man—Toby Manning—lying prone, in a confined space. As he writhed, Toby’s head jerked from side to side. He bucked and nodded, wobbling the camera as he clunked his head on the roof of the space.

  Sawyer leaned closer to the screen. Toby’s eyes were wide and glistening, shining through the gloom. The pupils twitched and fluttered. Was he still sighted? Capable of seeing anything?

  Toby moaned and wailed, but with little volume. Had his throat been constricted? Damaged? His lips quivered but he formed no discernible words.

  At the one minute mark, Toby’s eyelids flickered and his struggle abated. He lay still: an outline, no longer lit by his petrified stare.

  Sawyer closed down the video window and gulped back his water. He had dealt in death for most of his time as a detective. He’d seen the sickening aftermath: the corpses, the decay, the clean-up.

  But Toby Manning was only the second person he had observed in the act of dying.

  14

  Maggie tapped on the glass and eased around the open door into the office of Detective Chief Inspector Ivan Keating.

  ‘Nice to see you, Maggie. Take a seat. I’m just practising my signature on a few bits and pieces.’

  Maggie settled into one of the two chairs opposite Keating. The morning was muggy, but he was in full uniform, with his police hat resting on the desk beside a stack of papers. He took a sheet off the top of the pile, studied it for a few seconds, scratched something into it with a chunky ballpoint, and transferred it to a separate pile on the other side.

  Keating was a curious cocktail for brass. Celtic genes—Irish mother, Welsh father—with a hide rendered hardy on South Pennines farmland. He was on the cusp of sixty and a little heavy for his modest height, but he wore his tidy crop of white hair with pride: an emblem of experience. His accent remained neutral but shifted closer to Welsh or Southern Irish when he wanted to convey irritation. He could be fierce, but never used his position to browbeat lower ranks.

  Maggie had read a recent Times piece where Keating had contributed to a debate on the arming of UK officers. His argument was eloquent, insisting that guns enhance officers’ sense of safety but not necessarily their actual safety.

  ‘Where is he?’ Keating didn’t look up.

  ‘On his way. Traffic.’

  He gave her a look, returned to his paperwork.

  Maggie had hoped to catch Sawyer before the meeting, to ambush him about the padded envelope. She gazed around the office. It was a large, high-status room that Keating kept in obsessive order. He had positioned himself in the corner, between a detached front desk, for meetings and paperwork, and a two-level corner workstation in darker wood, which housed his computer terminal, stacked paper tray and overhanging bookshelf. On the far wall, he kept his legendary noticeboard layered with booklets from murder victims’ funeral services. The board had been mentioned in the Times piece, where Keating explained that he used it to ‘remind myself why I do the job’.

  Sawyer walked in without knocking and took the remaining seat. He’d recycled the navy suit but had opted for a sober grey tie this time.

  ‘Mags.’ He caught her eye and turned to Keating. ‘Sir.’

  Keating tidied the second pile of papers and set down his pen. He looked up at Sawyer and raised a feathery eyebrow. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony, Detective Inspector. Have a seat.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘How are you, sir?’

  Keating sat back in his chair and indulged Sawyer with a smirk. ‘I’m fine. You look well. Thank you for coming in. Good of you, given that you don’t work here yet.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I am delighted to have such a capable detective back on my team, DI Sawyer. But you seem to be a bit confused about your start date.’

  Sawyer glanced at Maggie; she was already looking at him, apprehensive. He turned back to Keating. ‘You need me. Now.’

  Keating’s smile drained away. ‘I already have a highly skilled DS on the case. Maggie is coordinating FLO, and—’

  ‘I know Padley. I used to play there. As a kid.’

  ‘We don’t need Ray Mears, Sawyer.’

  Maggie spoke up. ‘Sir, DI Sawyer’s abilities are not in dispute. But I would recommend that he maintains the agreed schedule for transfer.’

  Sawyer snorted. ‘You know what they say about idle hands.’

  Keating swivelled his chair and faced the corner desk. He opened an email. ‘I agree with Maggie. You’re not officially scheduled to make your transfer for another five weeks.’ He turned back. ‘Take a break. Read a few books. Sample the cream teas. Do some fell running. I haven’t finished setting up, anyway. The enquiry is based here for now, and the Murder Investigation Team will still be here when you’re ready.’

  Sawyer held his gaze. ‘I didn’t want to go to Sheffield, anyway. Who does?’

  Keating opened a drawer and pulled out a file. As he browsed, Maggie stared down the side of Sawyer’s head. He sensed her gaze and looked over; she lifted her eyebrows in challenge.

  ‘You were smashing it in the Met.’ Keating looked up from the file. ‘Odd that the Chief Constable approved your transfer with…’

  ‘Efficiency?’

  Keating found his smile again. ‘Uncommon urgency. I’m wondering if you burned
a few bridges. Designed your own fast track. Why the sudden desire to swap the bright lights for the rolling hills? What’s that phrase? “You can never go home again”.’

  ‘This is a dark one, sir. You know me. I do dark.’

  Keating rubbed at his hair. ‘I don’t believe in destiny, Sawyer. I believe in cause and effect. Actions and consequences.’

  Sawyer glanced at Maggie, then back to Keating. He leaned forward. ‘Tell me about the camera.’

  ‘How the fuck do you know about that?’

  Keating’s desk phone trilled. He snatched up the receiver, listened for a few seconds, and sprang to his feet. ‘On my way.’ He hung up, put on his hat and made for the door.

  Maggie and Sawyer stood. ‘Sir?’ Maggie stepped back as Keating yanked at the handle and flung the door open.

  ‘That was Shepherd. He’s at Padley Gorge. They’ve found another one.’

  15

  Professor Donald Ainsworth strode into the largest tutorial room, a few doors down from his office in the Persinger Parapsychology Unit. Viktor Beck followed him in, flanked by Kelly and a tall, heavyset younger man with a shaven head and ginger goatee.

  The room had been stripped down to the bare fittings: no posters, nothing cosmetic. Just a single cantilevered chair tucked under a round wooden table in the centre. The table held ten white plastic boxes—shoebox size—lined up across the radius. The lid of each box was marked with a bright yellow sticker showing a letter of the alphabet, from A to J.

  Beck, as ever, was all in black and unshaven, while Ainsworth had opted for formal wear: passable off-the-peg suit; white shirt; vermillion bow tie. He had allowed his salt-and-pepper beard to grow longer than usual, but it was pruned and elegant. Professorial.

  ‘Mr Beck. This is an old acquaintance of mine. An ex-student. Dean Longford.’ The heavyset man nodded and shook Beck’s hand with too much vigour. ‘Dean is a stage magician whom I consult from time to time.’

  ‘A pleasure, Mr Beck.’ Dean was clearly local: gruff and accented. He smiled. ‘Looking forward to this a lot.’

  Beck nodded, unruffled. ‘Can I take a seat, Professor Ainsworth?’

  Ainsworth moved over to the chair, blocking Beck’s path. ‘In a moment.’ He produced a notebook and pen from his inside pocket. ‘Now. To clarify. Your claim of remote viewing is based on an unexplained flow of information resulting from the handling of certain items.’

  Beck held up his head. ‘That’s correct. I understand you label this as “general extrasensory perception”. I do not claim any kind of psychokinesis, and my ability only manifests itself upon contact with an object—’

  ‘Belonging to the person. Yes. As you are aware, Mr Beck, we test claimants with a single subject study. The methodology and conditions are devised to be rigorous. This scrutiny has rankled with some of the other claimants.’

  Beck moved around Ainsworth and crashed down into the chair. ‘It will not affect me.’

  Ainsworth nodded. ‘Please do not touch any of the boxes until I have explained the process.’ Beck clasped his hands and laid them on the table, like a chided schoolboy on his best behaviour. ‘We will soon leave you alone in this room. I have to tell you that you are being observed and recorded.’ Ainsworth pointed at the surveillance camera perched high on the near wall, pointing down at the table. Beck didn’t look up. ‘Today’s test is based on pilot studies I have conducted with several other remote viewing claimants. I can’t comment on their experiences, but the results have been less than impressive and the prize remains unclaimed.

  ‘I have recruited ten random psychology students from a sample of volunteers. They have each provided us with an object that is strongly connected with them. It may be something they use every day, or it’s an item that has been in their presence for many years. The objects are in the boxes before you.

  ‘Each student is currently in a separate location here in the university. They are all seated in relatively featureless rooms, with a number, one to ten, clearly marked on the wall nearby. There is nobody else in the rooms with them, and they have been informed that they might have to remain in the rooms, with bathroom breaks, for the next few hours. The numbers of their rooms were selected at random, earlier.

  ‘I will require you to handle the objects and determine the location of their owners.’

  Beck nodded. ‘So, I match letters to numbers. No problem.’

  Ainsworth stole a look at Longford, who raised his eyebrows. ‘In order to pass the test, you will need to match all ten objects correctly. The odds of this happening by chance are enormous. Kelly, Dean and I will be watching from my office. The test is what we call “open control”, in that there is nothing hidden, no secret observation, nothing underhand. If I am satisfied that you have successfully matched all the objects with their owner’s locations—’

  Beck looked up at Ainsworth. ‘I was looking at the new Mercedes A-class.’

  Ainsworth smiled. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mr Beck.’

  Beck sucked in a deep breath and gazed down at the table top. ‘Why do you do this, Professor?’

  Ainsworth cleared his throat. ‘The study of parapsychology, or “unknown science”, has been set back by psychic fraud. Pseudo psychics. There is no ego or personal agenda here. I would be just as happy to confirm positive results and award the prize, as I would be in debunking your claim.’

  Beck stroked his stubble. ‘The publicity would be good for your department.’

  ‘It’s more a question of credibility.’ Beck didn’t answer, and didn’t look up. Ainsworth was growing weary of his studied enigma. ‘You have noted that you do not require specific conditions, Mr Beck. Absence of white light, partitioning, no direct observation.’

  Beck picked at a fingernail. ‘I would prefer lower lighting to help with concentration, but there is nothing else. I just require physical contact with the items. There are often times when I am unable to make a connection, for reasons unknown. But that’s not a result of conditional issues.’

  Ainsworth caught Longford’s eye again. ‘Of course. It’s not an exact science.’

  Kelly stepped forward. ‘I will need to check you over, Mr Beck. Clothing, hands, hair, shoes.’ She produced a handheld metal detector. ‘I will also need to screen you for concealed objects.’

  Beck stood and faced Kelly. ‘It will be… a pleasure.’

  Kelly raised an eyebrow and ran the scanner over Beck’s torso, arms and legs. She stepped around to his back and repeated the process. She set the scanner on the table and took each of Beck’s hands, examining their backs and fronts.

  ‘Could you tip your head forward, please?’

  Beck complied, and Kelly took a soft hairbrush to his hair, lifting at the roots, peering into the centre.

  ‘Would you take off your shoes, please, Mr Beck?’

  He unbuckled his Cuban heels and Kelly examined the inside of each boot.

  Beck slipped them back on. ‘Do you mind if I visit the toilet before we begin?’

  Ainsworth nodded. ‘No problem. But Dean will go with you.’

  Beck left the test room, followed by Longford. In the delay, Ainsworth scribbled a few notes.

  Kelly checked something on her phone. ‘He seems confident.’

  Ainsworth put his notepad away. ‘Yes. Cocky, even.’

  Beck and Longford came back into the room. Ainsworth looked at Longford, who raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  Beck sat down and took a deep breath.

  Ainsworth turned a dial on the wall and the lighting dimmed. ‘The test will begin in your own time, Mr Beck. We will return when you give us the signal that you’re done.’

  Beck smiled. ‘Hopefully, it will be obvious when I’m done.’

  Ainsworth, Longford and Kelly left the room and hurried down the corridor towards Ainsworth’s office.

  Longford glanced at Ainsworth. ‘He used a cubicle. But I checked it over first. Wasn’t in for long.’

  Ainsworth and Longfor
d entered Ainsworth’s office. Kelly slipped her phone into a drawer on her desk in the reception area, and joined them by the computer on Ainsworth’s corner desk. They had already opened a desktop window that showed a live video feed of Beck. He had taken the lid off Box A and was lifting out the object: a small plush elephant, faded blue-grey. He turned it over in his fingers, set it down on the table and opened the lid of Box B. He took out a bland wristwatch with a brown leather strap. Ainsworth and Longford leaned in to the screen; Kelly pushed herself into a viewing spot between them.

  Beck bowed his head and caressed the watch’s face with his thumb. He stayed almost perfectly still for several minutes, eyes open, his thumb moving in a circle over the face.

  He looked behind him, up to the camera. ‘This item is connected to the person in room number six.’

  He replaced the watch in Box B and opened Box C. He took out an ageing digital camera and examined it.

  Ainsworth checked his notes. ‘He’s right about the watch.’

  Longford nodded, impressed. ‘Good start. He’ll get my attention when he nails the first five.’

  Beck worked his way through the other boxes and objects: a tatty leather glove, a toothbrush, a Zippo lighter. He was systematic: taking time to handle an object, declaring the room number, then placing it back in its box.

  After he had successfully matched the contents of Boxes B, C, D and E, he turned back to the elephant. He held it for a while, moving his fingertips over the surface. Ainsworth leaned in so close that Longford and Kelly had to shift position to keep sight of the screen.

  Again, he set down the elephant and opened Box F.

  Longford backed away and sat down on the patchwork armchair. Kelly took his place next to Ainsworth, fixated on the screen. ‘Could he have had any prior knowledge of the items or locations?’

  Ainsworth shook his head. ‘Impossible. We had thirty subjects and thirty objects this morning. The ten were selected randomly, along with their room numbers. I placed the items in the boxes personally.’