The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘Jake. Forgive me. I have one last question. My daughter, Lena, had a cherished toy elephant when she was a little girl. He selected the elephant as belonging to a deceased person in the test, and at a private reading at my house, he confirmed the name she used to call it.’

  ‘Yes. Eva told me about that.’

  ‘Well. How could he possibly have known the name?’

  Sawyer sighed and looked at Jensen. ‘It was Winny, right?’

  ‘Eva told you?’

  ‘Yes, but I could have just as easily told her. Your daughter started a Tumblr blog a year before she died. It was a scrapbook of music, images, thoughts. Beck’s people will have done some research. There’s a photo of the elephant on there, with a caption. It says, My lovely Winny. Beck just used the special ability of typing into a search engine box.’

  Sawyer rang off and climbed into the Mini. He took a boiled sweet from a bag in the glovebox and pinched it out of the wrapper, into his mouth. He pulled away from Eva’s house. It had started to rain, and the little car’s windscreen wipers squeaked against the glass. As he rounded the corner, aiming for Hartington, a burgundy BMW edged away from the opposite kerb, manoeuvred a swift three-point turn and headed off in the same direction.

  66

  In the Nut Tree, Sawyer crunched into his thick, white, jammy toast.

  Maggie smiled. ‘The crumbs are going into your coffee.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s all bound for the same destination.’

  She sat back and sipped her coffee. ‘Tell me what happened in the cave.’

  ‘Are we in therapy?’

  ‘If it helps, then yes.’

  He swiped a napkin over his mouth. ‘It was a tingling feeling, like I’ve had before. Only a lot stronger. It just took me over. Made me shake. Shiver. I couldn’t breathe properly. There wasn’t enough air. Not because we were in a cave.’

  ‘You said the caving guy told you about CO2 deposits.’

  ‘Yes. That might have triggered it. But it felt deep. Almost existential. Like…’

  ‘Like you were dying?’

  ‘Exactly that, yes.’

  She leaned forward, rested her hand on his. ‘You broke your cherry. You had your first panic attack.’

  ‘I saw the same in Shepherd. Twice. At Padley Gorge, and then in Sheffield. But, this… The sheer force of it. I’ve had these strange tingles before. But this was something new. There was no let-up. I couldn’t shake it. It was like making a lunge for something, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t quite grab it.’

  ‘And this was also after Crawley had attacked you?’ He nodded. ‘With a hammer?’

  Sawyer wrapped a hand around his forehead and furrowed the skin. ‘With a hammer.’

  ‘Do you still have your original scan results?’

  ‘My dad does. CT. MRI. He says they show bilateral amygdala damage. But it’s not as simple as that.’

  She sat back. ‘You may be using this knowledge to avoid confronting deeper issues. Denial of a physical problem is a good way of keeping your brain from focusing on what’s really damaging you. Also, there’s good research to suggest that low oxygen level, in this case caused by the CO2 build-up in the cave, can trigger an extreme fight-flight reaction. Which is another way of describing a panic attack. So the amygdala damage might inhibit your natural fear response, but not when you’re deprived of oxygen.’

  ‘You make it sound like my kryptonite. Last time I checked, though, lack of oxygen is bad for everyone.’

  ‘This is biology. But as I say to you, every time we talk like this, you need to address the deeper stuff. I wouldn’t want you as my official client or patient. But I know some great people.’

  He looked around the café, searching for deflection. ‘How’s Eva?’

  ‘You mean Ms Gregory?’ Sawyer didn’t take the bait. ‘Better. Luka’s doing well. Looks like the husband will be out next week. Shepherd told me about Crawley’s mother. Will you pursue?’

  ‘1990 assault, unreported, practically impossible to prove.’ He shook his head and drained his coffee mug. ‘Oh! I found a place. In Edale. Seeing it tomorrow. I have to get out of my guest house. I’m starting to feel like the Major in Fawlty Towers.’

  She smiled. ‘Jake. Are you really back here for police work? For your career?’

  ‘Why else would I be back?’

  She gave him the look.

  ‘Mags, I can’t bring my mother back to life. I know. But the man who killed her, and who attacked me, is walking around, free to do as he pleases. I want to take that away from him. Deny him the freedom to live his own life, as he denied my mother the freedom to live hers.’

  ‘You still don’t believe it was Klein?’

  ‘I know it wasn’t Klein.’

  ‘So this transfer is nothing to do with his impending parole?’

  Sawyer took another crunch of toast, didn’t answer.

  ‘Here’s a thought. What if he isn’t even out there? What if there’s nobody to find? No freedom to deny? It was a long time ago. He might even be dead. Remember your Stoicism. Seneca’s thoughts on anger. He said that you need to focus on healing, not on seeking vengeance for the injury. You told me you’d “done the healing”. It’s not true, Jake. You’re a long way from being healed. It’s a lifelong process. Not a journey with an end.’

  67

  Sawyer drove the Mini to Enterprise Rentals. As he lingered in the drop-off area, he took a call from Marcus Klein via the prison’s internal switchboard.

  ‘Mr Robbins, I just wanted to let you know that I’m due for release in three weeks. On license. We could meet. I have some… new ideas.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I looked through an old diary. From the summer before it happened. I write about how it was a hot night and I was restless and sleepless and thought I heard a noise somewhere downstairs. I couldn’t get back to a deep sleep after that. I kept thinking I could hear noises.’

  Howard came out of the office. Sawyer handed him the keys and he opened up the car to check it over.

  ‘I bet that was the hammer. It’s either the person who killed Mrs Sawyer stealing it, in order to frame you, or someone they’d tasked with doing that. I’m hoping that’s the case.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They might be easier to track down. You said you used the hammer around a year before to fix a number to your door. Do you remember using it in the run-up to the murder?’

  Klein was silent for a few seconds. ‘No.’

  ‘And at the time of the murder, you said you were out running?’

  ‘Nice research, Mr Robbins. Yes. I ran nearly every day after teaching. It was a sort of decompression zone, between work and life.’

  ‘And nobody saw you on the run?’

  He sighed. ‘No. That was the problem. It was just my word on where I was. Flimsy alibi.’

  Howard pointed at the car, gave Sawyer the thumbs up and the ‘need a signature’ hand signal. He smiled and pointed at the phone in response.

  ‘How were the coppers who arrested you, given the nature of the crime?’

  ‘They were okay. Decent. Keating, the main guy, was fine. A couple of the others warned me about how it was going to be nasty for me inside. I remember another copper. Senior. Bit too pleased with himself. He was interviewing me with Keating, but he didn’t say much. Just sat there watching, with a little smile on his face.’

  ‘Probably the DCI. Ready to take credit for his officers’ good work. Forget the police. We should focus on the hammer. Someone saw you putting that number onto your door. They found a way to get into your house to get it, probably on that hot summer night. Maybe the windows were open and it was easier than usual. And then they used it in the attack and dropped it at the murder scene. So, who was that? And how did they manage it?’ Sawyer looked at Howard, who raised his eyebrows in anticipation. ‘I have to go. Call me when you’re out and we can arrange a meeting. I’m going to work really hard on this, Mr Klein. It was an app
alling crime and I want to help you clear your name.’

  He hung up and turned to Howard. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Couple of bodywork scuffs. Nothing major. Have you enjoyed it?’

  ‘Yeah. How much?’

  Howard frowned. ‘For another week?’

  ‘For good. I’d like to buy it.’

  68

  Sawyer signed the car off for another few days, giving Howard time to speak to his boss about the sale. He drove to Waterhouses, and parked at Brown End Farm at the south end of the Manifold Valley trail. There he rented a hybrid bicycle and joined the Tarmac trail alongside the River Hamps.

  He knew that his phone service would drop as he dipped into the Valley. It was palpable; that sense of sliding off the grid, easing out of contact and sinking into timeless tranquillity.

  He cycled along the tree-sheltered track, past grazing Gritstone sheep, nodding to walkers. Further on, the recent rain had swollen the River Manifold and, as he relaxed with tea and cake at Wetton Mill, he saw that the water had risen from the sink holes which swallowed it in summer. Sawyer had always loved the idea of a disappearing river: of nature doing nature’s work, because of geography and geology, with no consideration for human eyes.

  He opened his backpack and took out the copy of Cocaine Nights, left for him by Beth at The Reading Room reception when she had checked out that morning. The business card was still inside, but she had written a message on the back.

  Didn’t want to leave you an excuse to follow me back to my boring home. ;)

  Beth x

  Sawyer bought a sandwich from the mill and cycled to the plaque at the foot of Thor’s Cave. He locked up the bike and climbed the steps. The cave entrance was muddy, but he knew the topography of the rock, and clambered up to the central cavern with no trouble.

  Unusually, there were no other hikers or explorers around, and he perched on a rock in the middle of the chamber and ate his sandwich, taking in the crisp air, thinking and listening: to the faint carry of the river below, rushing trees, squawking egrets, echoes of the ages. Like his father, and Maggie, his mother had told him to run, to go forward and not to look back. And her prayer still resonated; there would always be sin. Bad things. Evil. Returning here had sharpened his grief, but it had also strengthened his resolve. He would stay. Until all was well.

  He cycled back to Brown End and returned the bike. On the approach to the farm, his phone had connected with service again, and he felt a series of vibrations.

  He sat down in the Mini, drew in a deep breath, and took out the phone.

  The vibrations were Missed Call alerts and messages. Seven of each. From Chris Hill.

  He ignored the messages and called Rosemary House. The receptionist connected him through and Hill answered immediately.

  ‘Mr Sawyer? Thank goodness. Could you please come over right away? Are you available?’

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s your brother. Michael. He’s become extremely agitated. Vocal. No actual words, of course, but he has written down your name in large letters on his whiteboard.’

  Sawyer hung up and screeched away from the car park. He hared through the central Peaks, to Rosemary House, and hurried into the reception area.

  Hill was waiting for him. ‘Don’t worry about the pass, Mr Sawyer. Please come through.’ Sawyer charged ahead of him, down the green and beige corridor. He opened the door of Michael’s room.

  His brother was lying on the bed, face down, hands over his head.

  The whiteboard was propped at his side. He had written the word JAKE many times, in various colours.

  Michael turned, saw his visitor, and sprang up off the bed.

  Sawyer took a step into the room. He looked at the board, then back up to Michael.

  As far as he knew, his brother hadn’t spoken a word to him, to anybody, in twenty years.

  And now.

  ‘Jake.’

  Sawyer’s stomach somersaulted. Michael’s voice was low and gentle, almost a whisper.

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Remember what?’

  ‘The killer. I remember what Mum said to him.’

  To progress again, man must remake himself. And he cannot remake himself without suffering. For he is both the marble and the sculptor.

  Alexis Carrel

  Prologue

  ‘Adult trauma call!’

  The two paramedics hustled the trolley from the back of the ambulance and wheeled it into A&E. Running.

  The man at the front glanced back at the unconscious young woman. She had been wedged into a rigid plastic scoop with her head squashed between two stabilising blocks.

  The waiting obstetric trauma team swarmed around and escorted them along the corridor.

  The paramedic at the far end of the trolley addressed the senior A&E doctor. ‘Unidentified female, involved in a high-speed road traffic collision where she was the restrained driver of a motor vehicle involved in a head-on collision with an HGV. The airway has been secured with an endotracheal tube. She’s not making any respiratory effort, and she’s currently being mechanically ventilated. Oxygenating at ninety-nine per cent, with the ventilation. She currently has a blood pressure of seventy over thirty. Heart rate is one hundred and five.’

  They crashed through double doors into the main ward.

  The paramedic took a breath, steadied himself. ‘She’s cool to the touch and peripherally shut down. Mottled. There are no external signs of significant haemorrhage. BM is six point seven. GCS of three throughout.’ He paused again, and the doctor caught his eye. ‘She’s sustained significant left-sided head trauma and it appears she is at least thirty weeks pregnant. No information on past medical history or allergies. Unable to verify identity. Her passenger was deceased at the scene.’

  The obstetrician stepped forward. ‘Late stage gravid uterus causing IVC compression.’

  The A&E doctor conducted his primary survey: a rapid head-to-toe assessment, looking for evidence of airway compromise. ‘We need to maintain cervical spine immobilisation, but I want this woman put into a left lateral position.’ The trauma team—three men, two women—eased the woman over onto her right side. ‘She has a blown left pupil. I’m concerned there might be raised intracranial pressure. Possible haemorrhage.’

  The anaesthetist looked round at his colleagues; the fight was fading from their eyes. ‘Still no respiratory effort. I’m using extremely high ventilation pressure.’

  The doctor felt around the woman’s neck and shook his head. ‘No carotid pulse. We’ve lost cardiac output. Starting CPR.’

  The paramedics wheeled the trolley into a bay.

  ‘This woman is continuing to deteriorate,’ said the obstetrician. ‘We need to perform a perimortem section before we lose the baby, too.’

  The A&E doctor screwed his eyes shut and ran through his final checklist. ‘No circulation. Major head injury. No respiratory effort.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Irretrievable.’

  The general surgeon and obstetrician gathered their instruments.

  The doctor whipped a curtain around the trolley.

  Part I

  A DESIGN FOR LIFE

  1

  Jake Sawyer jumped down from the grass verge onto the Tarmac path that ran parallel with the Hope Valley railway line. He bowed his head and drove forward. The soles of his running shoes were cushioned, but his steps fell heavy on the solid ground and the impact rippled through his core.

  He sucked in the thin morning air, feeding his scorched lungs. The pain was a pleasure; it was one of the few things he trusted as proof of his existence, his aliveness.

  A tremor in the track. Sawyer checked his stopwatch. The Sheffield train would be rounding the corner as it crossed the River Noe, levelling for its approach into Edale, three miles down the line.

  He slowed, plugged in his earphones and started the music.

  He reached around into the pocket of his backpack, and pulled out a
chestnut-brown balaclava. He rolled it over his head. The fabric scratched against his shaven scalp and flattened his week-old beard.

  He pocketed the watch, took in another gulp of air, and sprang away, easing into a jog.

  Sawyer had been planning the move for weeks. Observing. Rehearsing. Mapping it out. Marking down the stats in a notebook: the average speed of the trains, his running times from this end of the path to the level crossing.

  There was a chance he had miscalculated, missed something.

  There was a chance he might die.

  But, as ever, the idea was detached, abstract, irrelevant.

  There was only the pain. And the howling guitars, the clobbering drums. He had selected ‘Faster’ by the Manic Street Preachers: a rallying cry for self-empowerment.

  He was sprinting now: along the path, in the shadow of the fence that separated the Tarmac from the scrubland at the edge of the railway track. The verge kept him hidden from drivers and walkers over on Edale Road.

  Ahead, the level crossing lights flashed to herald the train’s approach. He knew that the red-and-white boom barrier would already be down, and it was unlikely there would be a car waiting to cross. Not this early.

  Even if there was a car, he might just do it anyway.

  Sawyer turned his head, saw the lights of the train sparkling through the mist.

  He forged ahead. Maybe it was his time. Maybe this morning, his measurements wouldn’t apply. A distracted driver. A fresh security protocol.

  If it was his time, he couldn’t have picked a more spectacular backdrop for his final view of the world: at the other side of the track, the meadow thinned to an olive green span of eternal moorland, rising to the heather plateau of Kinder Scout: the highest point in Derbyshire. The peak of the Peak District.

  He could see the road now, at the level crossing. No cars.