The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘The pleasure’s all yours.’

  Dale Strickland laughed. He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms. ‘I never got the chance to thank you for the part you played in ensuring my son’s safety. If there’s ever anything you need, I’m forever in your debt.’

  His speech was measured, calm, almost rehearsed. But something feral flickered behind the eyes. He was shorter than average, but held himself upright with his chin raised. Expectant, arrogant. He let his gaze drift away from Sawyer, as if he was already bored with the encounter.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Sawyer. ‘Just doing my job. Cleaning up your fallout.’

  Strickland didn’t react. ‘You’re being modest. That man was a total maniac. Who knows what harm he could have done to others? I expect you got a gold star on your record for catching him?’

  ‘He did some bad things, yes.’

  Strickland caught Sawyer’s eye. ‘He’ll suffer in prison.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s an observation.’

  Sawyer stepped forward, one foot on the bottom step of the porch. ‘People who get in your way usually suffer, don’t they, Dale?’

  ‘After a fair warning.’

  ‘How about Jason Haig? Did he get a warning?’

  Strickland screwed up his face in exaggerated confusion. ‘I can’t say I know the name.’

  ‘The guy who was driving the car that accidentally hit Luka.’

  ‘Is this an official visit, Mr Sawyer? Or just a bit of extracurricular harassment?’

  Sawyer stepped up onto the bottom step. ‘This might be a tough one to understand, Dale, but it’s not about you.’

  Strickland smiled. ‘Eva’s out. Shopping.’ Footsteps on the stairs in the hall, descending. ‘So, is this a bit of aftercare? Don’t you have specialist people for that? Head-shrinkers?’ He smiled and eased off the door frame, scrubbed at his cropped grey hair. ‘Detective Inspector Sawyer. Luka’s fine. Eva’s fine.’ Strickland lifted his hands and held them a few inches from Sawyer’s face. He brought the palms together repeatedly, in a slow, sarcastic handclap. ‘Bravo. You got the bad guy. You did your job. Now, I respectfully request that you run along and get back to protecting the locals from aggressive cows.’

  A small boy—skinny, with messy blond hair and red-framed glasses—eased around Strickland’s legs. He was sullen and wary, but brightened at the sight of Sawyer. ‘Hello, Jake.’

  ‘Hey, Luka. How are you doing? Wasn’t it your birthday recently?’

  Luka frowned. ‘That was ages ago.’ He shrugged. ‘Got a PlayStation.’

  ‘Nice. I’m a gamer, too. I like the older games, though. You all better now? Back at school?’

  He nodded, glanced up at his father. ‘I have to take tablets. And I see a man sometimes at lunch.’

  ‘A counsellor,’ said Strickland, checking something on his phone. ‘Some state-approved do-gooder.’

  ‘He’s alright,’ said Luka. ‘He doesn’t shout.’

  Sawyer looked up at Strickland, whose eyes stayed glued to his phone. ‘And how is your mum?’

  Luka nodded. ‘She’s okay. Sometimes, she’s sad.’

  Strickland put his phone away. ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘When are you doing my first lesson?’ said Luka.

  Sawyer frowned, confused. ‘Lesson?’

  ‘Unlocking things without keys. Like you did in the cave with the handcuffs. You promised!’

  Strickland stepped in front of Luka. ‘That’s secret stuff, son. Police work. Detective Sawyer was only joking.’

  ‘No,’ said Sawyer. ‘I wasn’t. I keep my promises. I’ll teach you soon, Luka. Maybe when things are a bit less complicated. One or two things in the way at the moment.’ He glanced at Strickland again. This time he got a look.

  ‘Get back inside, Luka,’ said Strickland. ‘Homework.’ He nudged Luka back into the house and edged out onto the top step. Sawyer was at a lower level, but the height difference set them face to face, like boxers at a weigh-in. ‘I’m going to be crystal clear, Mr Sawyer. Your work here is done, and if you try to make contact with my wife or son again, then I will have to take action.’

  Sawyer nodded, maintaining eye contact. ‘And since you’re being clear, can you just clarify what the nature of that action might be?’

  ‘Have you read The Art Of War?’

  ‘Yes. Sun Tzu. Chinese general and philosopher. Respected military manual, often used in business strategy. What’s your point, Dale? Been Googling?’

  If Strickland was surprised, he hid it well. ‘Sun Tzu said, “All warfare is based on deception.”’ He raised his eyebrows.

  Sawyer laughed. ‘So, if I talk to Luka or Eva, then you’ll get me, but you’re not going to tell me how. Here’s another Sun Tzu quote for you: “Avoid what is strong and strike at what is weak.” That’s more your style, isn’t it, Dale?’ He joined Strickland on the top step and loomed over him. ‘But you really should pick on someone your own size.’

  19

  He walked down the verge, to the edge of the Tarmac path, and squatted down to rest behind some bushes. He took the chestnut-brown balaclava out of the backpack and rolled it down over his face.

  The low autumn sun cast a golden dazzle over the railway track. Sawyer gazed across the burnished moorland beyond the station outbuildings and waited. No music this time. Just the sound of himself. His slow and steady breathing.

  A shroud of cloud settled over the Kinder high ground, guttering the sunlight.

  A dog barked somewhere, and another rebuked it.

  The track rattled. The 17:14 from Sheffield.

  He waited.

  This time, he kept the stopwatch in his pocket and counted down the seconds out loud. It would be imprecise, and the dusk would reduce the driver’s visibility.

  The risk was higher.

  But still, he felt no dread. No anticipation.

  This time, there was only wonder. A terrible relish at the thought of no more thought. Only oblivion.

  He thought of ‘Aubade’: Larkin’s black-eyed meditation on death. ‘The anaesthetic from which none come round.’

  Sawyer sprang to his feet and jumped down onto the path.

  Ahead, the lights of the level crossing flashed red and yellow. The boom barrier was already down.

  The rails pinged and popped. The train had long since crossed the river and turned the corner onto the straight stretch of track.

  He had waited too long.

  He wouldn’t make it.

  He ran hard. Top speed. Leaving nothing behind. He was in a race now.

  At the crossing, he hurdled the fence and weaved around the barrier.

  The train horn blasted its warning.

  He sprinted for the crossing point and looked to the side.

  He crunched through the trackside gravel and glanced to his right.

  The train was almost on him.

  Too large. Too close.

  Too real.

  He had miscalculated.

  The driver again, leaning out of his cab, shouting.

  The horn. Deafening now.

  He had misjudged the time, the distance.

  A flash of his mother.

  His brother, crumpled on the ground.

  His dog.

  Metal on bone.

  ‘Why?’

  If her killer was still out there, he would learn of Sawyer’s death. He would smile with relief.

  He might even claim it as his own work. Thirty-year-old business, finally finished.

  ‘Don’t look back!’

  He ducked down and found an extra burst of speed.

  The train roared forward, seconds away.

  Sawyer lunged for the track, dug his heel into the rail. He jumped across, swinging his arms for momentum.

  He felt the whump of the train car as it punched through the air behind him.

  He toppled into the trackside scrub and lay on his side, balled up, knees pressed into his face. Foetal
in the mud. Panting.

  He tuned in to himself. This time, there was something to feel.

  Not fear.

  Disappointment.

  Back at the cottage, Sawyer stripped down to his underwear and worked on the wooden man, slamming his arms against the stubby poles. Too fast, too strong. No quality or precision.

  He turned to the full-length mirror by his bed and assumed the Wing Chun horse stance. He worked through a few centreline punching exercises, locking his elbows with each thrust.

  Left-right. Left-right-left-right. Two, then four, then eight.

  He increased the punch speed until the blows were more like flurries, loose and undisciplined.

  He closed his eyes and abandoned the controlled counts for a continuous roll of left-right punches. Strike after strike. Exhausting himself.

  The force of the motion staggered him out of the stance and he dipped forward.

  A right punch crunched into the mirror. Sawyer froze and opened his eyes. There was a fist-sized hole in the centre of a cobweb of shattered glass. Two rivulets of blood oozed through the channels of the fracture and found the smooth surface below. They trickled down, side by side, glinting in the lamplight.

  Cursing, he headed to the bathroom. The mirror had cut through the skin of his right hand, leaving splinters of glass embedded in the flesh between his fingers. He picked out the glass, rinsed away the blood and wrapped a gauze bandage around the wounded area.

  He shambled back into the bedroom, turned off the light and slumped down onto the bed. He lay back, not bothering to shuffle up to rest his head on the pillow.

  Sawyer’s hand flared in pain, and he thought of paracetamol, ibuprofen. But he lay there, still, focusing on the sensation, the jagged throbbing around his knuckles. Again, the pleasure of pain. His own pain. Unique. Uncomplicated. Without mystery. Nothing more than his physiology reporting on the injury. Proof that his body, at least, wanted to live.

  Outside, a barn owl screeched, as if in comment. It repeated the call every few seconds: a territorial warning. Stay away. Keep your distance.

  The rhythm of the calling carried him to a deep, dreamless sleep.

  And then he was awake: wide-eyed, with a pulsing headache.

  It was still dark outside, but the blackness in the room had softened to a damp grey. The owl was long gone, replaced by the halting twitters of a few early risers.

  Why was he so suddenly alert?

  A new rhythm: short bursts of vibration, one every couple of seconds.

  His phone, on the sitting room table.

  Sawyer rolled off the bed and staggered out through the open door. The microwave clock told him it was just after 6am.

  The phone danced across the table. He rescued it as it reached the edge.

  Shepherd.

  20

  ‘Male, early forties.’ Shepherd scaled the stone wall and led Sawyer into a patch of dew-sodden woodland off the A57 near Hollow Meadows. ‘We think it’s Sam Palmer. Football manager.’

  Sawyer fell in alongside him. ‘Think?’

  ‘We’ll check ID, obviously, but one of the forensics recognised him. He’s a fan of Palmer’s team. Chesterfield. Conference Premier Division.’

  ‘Fourth tier?’

  ‘Fifth.’ Shepherd glanced down at Sawyer’s bandaged hand. ‘Defending someone’s honour?’

  ‘Slashed it on a tear in my punch bag.’

  Shepherd whistled. ‘You’ve worn out a punch bag? I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.’

  ‘Bad.’

  They flashed their warrant cards at the officer on the outer cordon. He nodded, and Shepherd held up the scene tape for Sawyer to duck under.

  ‘COD?’ said Sawyer, as they edged down a slope towards a copse of amber trees.

  ‘Waiting for you. Scene is secure. Sally’s team has been busy. Delivery was the same as Susan Bishop.’

  They crossed a single-track lane and passed round the back of the Scientific Services Unit van.

  The tent squatted in the centre of the copse. The blend of colours made Sawyer feel queasy: Paladin glare, watery dawn haze, blue-and-white tent fabric. A swarm of FSIs—more than usual—were sweeping the inner cordon, consulting with the turquoise-suited Sally O’Callaghan. The manager waved them through.

  ‘DI Sawyer!’ Sally bustled forward. ‘A beautiful morning for murder.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘Sally. Dog walker?’

  ‘Surprisingly not. Runner. Says he saw the body when he took a rest in the trees. A white lie. We found a patch of fresh piss.’

  Sally led them through into the tent. Two masked FSIs—presumably Sally’s key generals—were waiting inside. One handed Sawyer a pair of latex gloves, while the other—the one from Fairholmes with the calm eyes—ushered Sally into the corner for a discussion about body transportation.

  Shepherd leaned close to Sawyer. ‘Where do they get these geeks?’

  Sawyer shrugged. ‘Bored researchers?’ He peeled on the gloves and crouched beside the black holdall. ‘No effort to conceal?’

  ‘Seems like it was left out in the open. Although this place is hardly Times Square.’

  Sawyer opened the whole zip before looking at the body. Like Susan Bishop, the man was naked, face up, and wrapped tight in polythene, sealed with the same silvery grey gaffer tape. He was white, middle-aged, overweight, with a modest patch of thinning brown hair. Remarkably unremarkable. His hands had been crossed at the wrists, concealing the area between his legs. No blood, no obvious injury.

  Sally joined them. ‘Again,’ said Sawyer. ‘Meticulous. Tape cut into even sections. Clean and stripped. Private parts covered.’ He leaned in and squinted at the body through the polythene. ‘Bruising around the wrists and mouth, forehead.’ He unpeeled a section of the polythene and studied the man’s torso, sifting through his brittle body hair. ‘Whatever the madness behind his method, he’s certainly consistent. That’ll help us catch him.’ He stood up. ‘Nothing on the front. Help me turn him over.’

  Shepherd took a pair of gloves from the FSI, and together they eased the body up and over onto its front. It slapped into place with so much force it almost rolled a second time. Shepherd stood upright and watched as Sawyer ran his gloved hands over the contours of the man’s back.

  ‘Anything?’ said Sally.

  Sawyer nodded, but didn’t turn or stand. ‘Something.’

  Later that morning, Shepherd gathered the team in the main office and tacked a picture of the victim next to Susan Bishop on the whiteboard. He was about to turn and speak when Sawyer burst out of his office and strode to the front, carrying a folder.

  He held up his bandaged hand to silence the chatter. ‘This is Samuel Mark Palmer. He was forty-one years of age.’ He stopped at the whiteboard, slapped the folder down on a desk, and faced the detectives. ‘You killed him. You subdued him and you took him to a private place where you lay him on a sheet of polythene. You cuffed him and covered his mouth with gaffer tape. You turned him onto his front and you stabbed him, once. You waited for him to die. You cauterised the wound with a soldering iron. You cleaned up. You removed the tape and the cuffs. You transferred him to another sheet of polythene and you laid out his hands, covering his crotch area. You wrapped him up tight and you slotted him into an extra-large black holdall, which you dumped in woodland off the A57.’ Sawyer placed his hands on the desk in front and leaned forward. His eyes were crazed and raging. ‘Why? Why did you do all of this? Why did you do it this way? Who was Sam Palmer to you? Did you know him personally? We need to answer these questions before we have another body on our hands.’

  Walker waved a hand. ‘I don’t think he knew either of them personally, sir.’

  Sawyer perched on the desk. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s all too intimate. The nudity. There’s a lot of work. Cleaning the bodies, cauterising, removing clothes. Normally, when a killer knows the victim in a case like this, you either see rage or cruelty or, at the other end of the scale, a sense of shame and d
isgust. They want to get it over with and get out of there. This is measured, thorough.’

  ‘Calm,’ said Sawyer.

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Why stab Susan in the front but Sam in the back?’

  ‘The inconsistency should interest us,’ said Sawyer. ‘But I want full beams on victimology. Connect these two people. What’s the killer’s beef with an ex-TV star who enjoys gardening, walking and reading, and a low league football manager? We know a lot about Susan Bishop. Tell me more about Sam Palmer. Find the links. Get everything into HOLMES. We’ll have deeper forensics later, but there’s no immediate evidence of sexual assault. As I’ve said before, I don’t see any of the big three here. Domination, manipulation, control. He needs these people to be dead, and I need to know why.’

  Myers spoke up. ‘What do we know about Palmer’s last movements?’

  Shepherd looked through his notes. ‘FLOs spoke to his girlfriend, Judy. He took a session at the Chesterfield training ground on Monday evening. ANPR caught his car at a temporary light near Baslow at around 8:50pm. He called Judy around half an hour later, from the Angler’s Rest in Bamford. She says he seemed fine, optimistic. After that, ANPR catches him on the northern edge of Bamford at around 10:30. His car is parked outside his house, so we assume he drove straight home from the pub. Timings fit. Nothing at the house. Forensics are all over the car as we speak.’

  Sawyer turned to Walker. ‘Focus on Palmer. I want a full bio. Anything stand out from his football connections? Any link to Susan or Ronald Bishop? Go to the Angler’s Rest. Anything unusual? Was he acting strange? Did he meet anyone?’

  Karl Rhodes, the station’s digital media advisor, crept in at the back of the room and walked along the line of offices. He was skinny and elvish, with a tidy moustache and a flat, pitted nose. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Got a plate match for a van we caught on a shop camera in Tideswell on the night Susan Bishop was murdered.’ He handed Sawyer a grainy printout that showed a small, dark-coloured van, turning into a side street. ‘It’s a Peugeot Partner. Nice little mover.’