Creepy Crawly: DI Jake Sawyer Series Book One

by Andrew Lowe

  A gaunt detective seated close to Shepherd unfolded his arms. ‘Why send the footage to the family, sir? He could just stick it on YouTube.’

  ‘Intimacy?’ All eyes turned to Sawyer, as he finished unwrapping a boiled sweet. ‘A strange kind of respect for the victim’s privacy? Maybe he values his work too much and doesn’t want to dilute it by adding it to the memes and pet videos.’ He popped the sweet into his mouth.

  ‘Work?’ The detective adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles and re-folded his arms.

  Keating took a step forward. ‘This is Detective Inspector Jake Sawyer. A couple of you might have worked with him when he was a DS here a few years ago. He ran away to London and picked up a few bad habits, along with working some pretty interesting cases on the Met murder squad, which I’m sure he'll be happy to bore you with. He’ll be joining the official MIT in a few weeks but I’ve asked him to join us in an advisory capacity until then.’

  Shepherd cleared his throat and continued. ‘There are other similarities to the Toby Manning murder. Bruising around the back of the skull, probably from a hammer blow. It is my considered view that we are dealing with a systematic, highly motivated and extremely dangerous multiple murderer.’

  Mutters from the back. ‘No shit.’

  Shepherd pointed to a couple of detectives sitting near to Sawyer. ‘Intel. Get onto PNC and Crimelink. See what comes up. Check the Multi-Agency Public Protection Arrangements. I want to know if anyone has suffered an attempted abduction, or been accused of similar offences. Has anyone just got out of prison for something similar? As we know, Toby Manning had traces of a drug in his system. We’ll know soon if the same is true for Georgina, but I would expect it.’

  The room was still for a second. A large detective with tall, slicked-back hair and rolled-up sleeves pivoted in his squeaky chair, breaking the silence. ‘Is there a significance in both bodies being found in similar locations?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Well volunteered, DC Myers. Focus on local connections. Why that spot? DC Walker, dig a bit deeper with the coffins.’ A murmur of laughter. ‘Sorry. Bad choice of words. Look deeper into the coffins. Where is he getting them from? Look into likely online sites, delivery details. He’s probably used more than one source and had them delivered to more than one address, so work from, say, a twenty-mile catchment area with the burial location as the centre.’

  Walker nodded and made a note. He was short, fresh faced; he barely looked old enough to be the work experience guy. ‘He probably got it all online but it’s worth checking local hardware stores for cable tie purchases.’

  Shepherd motioned to a small group of male and female detectives clustered around a desk near the window. ‘Let’s get busy on passive data. CCTV. Mobile numbers pinging off local masts. And he must have used a car to get the bodies to the woods. There’s an ANPR camera on a junction that leads to the Padley Gorge car park. Cross-ref the details with windows for both vics’ burial times. We’re looking for any vehicles that show up a couple of hours before and after the burials. Trace, investigate, eliminate. If the same vehicle shows up more than once, I want to know about it.’

  Myers waved his pen for attention. ‘How did the walkers find the body? Same as before?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘A large wooden cross. Two branches taped together. No finger marks. Same tape as the camera. Bright yellow.’

  Sawyer’s voice again. ‘It feels more like a presentation than a concealment. Interesting that he wants the burial sites to be obvious but doesn’t want to widely share the footage.’

  ‘Yes.’ Shepherd stammered. ‘An anomaly. Worth thinking about.’

  Stephen Bloom got to his feet. He was long boned, well groomed, Nordic. In contrast to the other detectives’ saggy M&S three-pack white shirts, he wore a fitted powder blue pullover and what looked like tailored black trousers. ‘One body is a local story. Two is national.’ Bloom’s accent was as defined as his dress: rolling and musical, with a Germanic rhythm. He gave the impression that it wasn’t a desire for gravitas that drove him to stand when he spoke at briefings; it was an opportunity to show off his fashion choices. ‘We need to prepare a statement. Call a press conference.’

  Keating nodded. ‘Let’s get it ready to go. But given the recent time of death, I’d rather hold off until we’ve had a chance to work in the clear, for a day or so at least. See me after, Stephen. And I hope it goes without saying that I do not want to hear that anything has leaked to the media from this room.’

  Shepherd mopped his brow. ‘I’ll coordinate victimology. We need the life stories of Toby Manning and Georgina Stoll. Did they know each other? Shared interests, places, pursuits. Is there anyone who connects them? Anyone they left behind? If they’re random, how did he pick them up? Let’s get a timeline together. Back here at 8pm sharp.’

  ‘Sir?’ The gaunt detective with the wire-frame glasses spoke up again. ‘Just one more question.’

  Sawyer broke in. ‘Don’t tell, Moran. Let me guess.’ All eyes turned to him again. He rolled the sweet around in his mouth. ‘It’s something about me, yes? What am I doing here?’

  Keating stepped to the front, next to Shepherd. ‘As I said, DI Sawyer is local, and—’

  ‘Not any more, sir.’ Moran eyeballed Sawyer.

  Sawyer smiled. ‘I understand, Moran. You don’t want someone pissing on your patch. Let’s just say I’ve brought my London ways.’

  18

  Sawyer and Shepherd rolled down through the Winnats Pass, heading for Sickleworth Golf Club. They took Shepherd’s car: a boxy old mustard yellow Range Rover befitting his bulk. Sawyer gazed out at the tall, contoured crags flanking the narrow road, and cast the odd side glance at his driver. Shepherd wielded the car like a learner: face upturned, leaned in too close to the wheel, hands fixed at ten to two.

  Sawyer wound down the window—a manual roller—and sucked in the unsoiled air. ‘Step on it, man. We’ve got a killer to catch.’

  Shepherd stole a quick look over. No smile. ‘Not much space between the victims. Wonder how many he’s planning. Feels a bit Suffolk Strangler. Method more colourful.’

  ‘Steve Wright? Off-the-peg misogynist. Boring. Probably mother or girlfriend issues. Maybe impotent. Took it out on sex workers.’

  ‘I mean the frequency. He killed five women in six weeks. Bodies discovered over ten days.’

  Sawyer shrugged. ‘Post-coital rage. Self-loathing. There’s something deeper here. Male and female victims. We need to find out if they knew each other. Rule out randomness.’

  Shepherd nodded.

  Sawyer opened the glovebox and rummaged around. ‘You got a team on victimology?’

  ‘Marshall and Butler. Good DCs. Women. They’re always better at victimology.’

  Sawyer scoffed. ‘Sexist.’

  Shepherd slowed behind an overburdened farm vehicle. ‘You mentioned “work”. Back at the station.’

  Sawyer slammed the glovebox shut. ‘That’s how he sees it. You have to step outside of the tabloid thinking. Again, people like Wright. It’s all misplaced rage. I’m not getting that from this. I’m feeling the method more than the madness. He’s lucid, aware of the effect his presentation will have. To meatheads like Moran, he’s a beast. Psycho. Maniac. That nonsense sells papers, but it doesn’t help us.’ He turned to look at Shepherd, green eyes glinting. ‘In his mind, he’s an artist. And if you want to understand an artist, you look at the work.’

  Shepherd frowned. ‘So why the needle with Moran?’

  ‘Good copper. But he’s a long-time friend of Drummond’s.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Not your bezzy mate?’

  ‘Do you want the cryptic answer or shall I be embarrassingly frank?’

  Another look. ‘Go for it. Might as well get our secrets out in the open.’

  ‘I had a thing with Drummond’s wife when I first started out here. Summer barbecue. Back in 2012, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Big house up near Ewden. Nice v
iew of the reservoir. He found out. I dodged the punch but slipped on something by the pool. Broke a couple of ribs. He was suspended. He’d just got the home office pathologist gig, and I could have pushed it, but I didn’t.’

  Shepherd craned his neck for overtaking options, but the road was too narrow. ‘You didn’t defend yourself?’

  Sawyer shrugged. ‘It was indefensible.’ He waved towards the road. ‘Pull out. He’ll move over.’

  Shepherd cracked a smile. ‘This your “London ways” coming through?’

  Sawyer sighed and sat back. ‘What part of Liverpool are you from?’

  ‘West Derby.’

  ‘Not really Liverpool at all, then.’

  Shepherd snorted. ‘Spoken like a true woolyback.’

  ‘Red or blue?’

  ‘Blue, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Red for me.’

  Shepherd risked a longer look. ‘Red what? Utd?’

  ‘Liverpool.’

  Shepherd scoffed. ‘You were born in the depths of Derbyshire. You can’t be a red when you’re from a village in the Peak District.’

  ‘You sound like my dad. You can be anything, wherever you’re from. Nice to know you’ve had a look at my file, though. Taken an interest. How did you end up here? Shouldn’t you be stalking smackheads on Jersey Close?’

  ‘Didn’t fancy that. I prefer the great outdoors. Hiking, climbing.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘What’s wrong with the Lakes? Bit nearer your end.’

  ‘Too much fudge. And I like the landscape more rugged.’

  The farm truck eased into a rest stop near the car park at Speedwell Cavern, and Shepherd squeezed the Rover through, accelerating into the dip at the edge of Castleton.

  The two were silent for a minute or so. Shepherd seemed to be brewing up a big question. He spat it out.

  ‘You’re young for a DI, sir.’

  Sawyer raised an eyebrow, but kept his gaze fixed out of the window, at the stone-built semis on the village outskirts. ‘Surname will do.’ He turned. ‘Remember. You don’t work for me.’

  Shepherd kept his eyes on the road. ‘I respect the rank.’

  ‘I didn’t waste time.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Why did you join the service?’

  ‘Service?’

  ‘You don’t seem like the “I want to make a difference” type.’

  Sawyer closed his eyes, breathed in through his nose. Musty upholstery. Shepherd’s sickly cologne. Silage on the summer breeze. ‘My dad was a copper.’

  Shepherd waited for more. Nothing. He shifted up a level. ‘That’s not why you joined, though, is it?’

  ‘No. It was for the loose women, the fast cars, the suffocating admin.’

  ‘DI in the Met. Fast riser. You could have been Commissioner by your mid- forties. Retire at fifty. Why the transfer? Why walk away from that?’

  ‘I didn’t walk away to spite myself.’

  Shepherd slowed for a mini roundabout and turned to Sawyer. ‘Why, then?’

  Sawyer shrugged and met Shepherd’s gaze. ‘I wanted to spend more time with my demons.’

  They walked into the golf club bar, shoe heels squeaking on the polished, walnut brown floor. An elderly barman in a red polo shirt stood behind a terracotta bar set beneath a row of hanging pendant lights, their dim bulbs encased in copper cages. He looked up as they entered, and watched them squelch over to the line of unused bar stools.

  The place was empty but for a group of young men in a recessed VIP area. They sat around a hefty wooden table, in a conference circle, before a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the course.

  ‘Excuse me!’ One of the men called over the back of his reclined chair. Local vowels, phone voice. ‘Sorry. There’s a dress code.’

  Sawyer and Shepherd stepped up to the bar. Sawyer swiped a promotional leaflet from a side table. Membership rates, annual dinner, tournament schedule.

  Shepherd flashed his warrant card; Sawyer didn’t bother. ‘Morning. I’m Detective Sergeant Shepherd, this is Detective Inspector Sawyer. Could you spare us a couple of minutes? Few questions.’

  The barman brightened. ‘No problem at all. How can I help, officers?’

  ‘Detectives.’ Sawyer replaced the leaflet. ‘Can I ask your name? What’s your role at the club?’

  ‘James Prentice. I’m the General Manager.’

  Shepherd took out his pad and tactical pen. ‘We’re investigating the murder of a young lad who was a member here.’

  Prentice shook his head. ‘Awful, yes. Toby. I knew him. Well, by sight. He was here most Tuesdays. Decent player. I didn’t see him that night. I was up at an event near Leeds.’

  Up close, Prentice seemed younger. His stooped posture put ten years on him. He was short and still and well trained.

  Shepherd scribbled a note. ‘His father says that Toby was here on the Tuesday. His body was discovered the next day.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ The man from the VIP area approached the bar. Mid- twenties, expensive haircut, pinhole eyes. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt and a pair of red-and-white checked golf trousers. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘We did. We just chose to ignore it.’

  The man stopped. He stood close to Sawyer, at what he presumably considered was an intimidating proximity. ‘I’ll say it again, then. This is a private members’ club, and the dress code—’

  Sawyer flashed his warrant card. ‘Listen, Rupert. We’re not here to play golf. So how about you sit down and sublimate your outrage into another glass of daytime alcohol?’

  The man snorted and backed away, holding Sawyer’s gaze, waiting for as long as possible before pivoting and heading back to his table.

  Shepherd spoke to Prentice. ‘We’d like to know who was here last Tuesday. Do you have a registration system?’

  Prentice stepped into a back room and called out. ‘Yes. Everyone signs in when they arrive.’

  Shepherd looked at Sawyer. ‘Rupert?’

  Sawyer shook his head. ‘As in the bear. Trousers. Didn’t really work.’

  Prentice reappeared and hauled a large, leather-bound book onto the bar. Shepherd turned to the record of the previous Tuesday’s entrants and made a few notes. ‘I’ll need contact details for these names.’

  Prentice hesitated. Shepherd stopped writing and looked up. ‘Of course.’

  Sawyer turned and surveyed the room. It was bland and correct. Shades of beige, swipes of lime. Low-lying crescent chairs, branded coasters. ‘Is the car park covered by CCTV, Mr Prentice?’

  ‘Some parts. Not the members’ area.’

  They headed back across the car park. A cross breeze whipped up Sawyer’s tie.

  Shepherd looked back. ‘Nice colour, sir. Buxton nick isn’t known for statement wear.’

  ‘I like to trailblaze.’ He spotted the Range Rover and diverted through the gap between two tall SUVs. ‘Is Maggie with Georgina’s parents?’

  Shepherd had to turn sideways to shunt his sizeable frame through behind Sawyer. ‘No. Both dead. She’s going to see her husband later today when he’s back from a business trip. They only got married two months ago.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Why don’t you go with her? We can catch up before the briefing later. I’ll work on connections. See what your two come up with.’

  They stepped out into the open space between the rows, near the exit gate. A bright green Audi TT revved and roared out of its slot further up near the clubhouse. The car banked around and screeched down the channel towards them.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ Shepherd almost dashed for the row ahead, but went for the safer option, and stepped back between the SUVs.

  Sawyer stopped in the centre of the channel. He turned to face the Audi and beamed at the driver: the man who had confronted them about dress code.

  The car squealed to a halt, its front bumper a couple of feet from Sawyer. He moved round to the open driver’s window. The man pulled the brim of his Burberry baseball cap down low over his fa
ce and turned his head away.

  Sawyer leaned down. ‘You might want to get yourself a less powerful car. Looks like you’re having trouble controlling that one.’

  19

  After Shepherd dropped him at The Reading Room, Sawyer took the Mini up to Sheffield. It was an hour of splendid isolation, pushing up past the Eyam tourist traps, swerving northeast across the unclad moorland of the Stony Ridge cut-through, all to the soundtrack of his favourite album: Loveless by My Bloody Valentine. The music functioned in a similar way to his Wing Chun forms: the swirling guitar squall always seemed to rinse out his mind, sluicing away the unwanted muttering to leave a gleaming surface where he could lay out the detail with clarity.

  The killings appeared theatrical, cinematic, but there was something oddly detached about them, with the bodies marked to be discovered. Was that pride? A cat leaving its kill in the centre of the sitting room?

  They were looking for someone who was probably local; who knew the rhythms of walkers and cyclists around the burial area. The MO pointed to the killer being smart, confident, a fastidious planner. Although the camera suggested an element of sadism, the forensics and mixed gender of the victims implied it was oddly non-sexual.

  But it was as if the asphyxiation and live burial were too passive. He wanted them to die horribly, and he needed to feel in control of the actual moment of death, but he also wanted to be one step removed from it: screened by the camera lens, the earth, the cardboard.

  Following the established pattern, he would probably send Georgina’s husband footage of her death on a flash drive, and it was obviously important to intercept it. But the killer would surely assume that Toby Manning’s family had received the first flash drive, and would know that the second was unlikely to reach Georgina’s husband. Despite his comments at the briefing about the killer not wanting the footage to go public, he had advised Shepherd to keep someone from one of the intel cells alert to potential YouTube postings, using software that narrowed down the options to local uploads only.