The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘We also own a rental cottage up near Chatsworth,’ says Sophie. ‘Andrew’s parents’ old home.’

  ‘You’ve lived here in Leek for some time?’ said Sawyer.

  Andrew nodded. ‘Almost thirty years.’

  ‘We wanted to talk to you about something that happened quite some time ago. We think it might be related to an ongoing case.’

  Shepherd sat forward. ‘It’s about your sister, Mrs Dawson. Faye.’

  Her shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they seemed glazed and remote. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘I’m very sorry about what happened to Faye and Tony,’ said Sawyer. ‘But I need to find out a bit more about Joseph. Her son.’

  Sophie dropped her head. Andrew got up and perched on the edge of her armchair. He wrapped an arm around his wife. ‘How is he? Is he in trouble?’

  ‘We’d like answers to those questions ourselves, Mr Dawson.’

  Sophie raised her head again. Her gaze had hardened. ‘We gave him his father’s middle name. Joseph. They told us that Faye had already gone, by the time they got her to A&E. Tony died at the scene. It was a terrible, terrible crash. The man wasn’t paying attention. Joseph had to have CPR when he first came out, and he was on a ventilator. Spent the first three months of his life alone, in hospital.’

  ‘Controlled environment,’ said Andrew.

  Shepherd glanced at Sawyer. ‘Can you tell us a bit about your life with Joseph? Are you still in touch?’

  Andrew took over, his tone harsher. ‘No, we’re not. He chose to go his own way.’

  ‘We became his guardians,’ said Sophie. ‘After what happened.’ She grimaced. ‘He was so small. Hard to believe that he could have survived. Joseph had a special diet. Nutritional support. Health visitors in and out. I was grieving for my sister and we had two young daughters to look after.’

  ‘Nicola and Grace,’ said Sawyer.

  Sophie looked up and smiled. ‘Yes. They have their own lives now.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Grandchildren?’

  She laughed and shook her head. ‘Oh, now you are ageing us!’

  Andrew reached for Sophie’s hand. He squeezed and patted her wrist. ‘We had a bit of Empty Nest Syndrome, didn’t we? But life is good now. Why are you interested in Joseph?’

  ‘Tell me more about him,’ said Sawyer. ‘What happened in the years after the crash?’

  Sophie gulped in a breath, steeling herself. ‘We did what we had to. Legally adopted him as guardians. The girls were delighted to have a little brother.’

  ‘A new toy,’ said Andrew, with a faint smile.

  Sophie nodded. ‘We got through it. Joseph was a little sickly in those early years, but he filled out. He was always the smallest boy in the group, though. Toddler, juniors, big school. Still. Joseph was clever, wasn’t he?’ She looked up to Andrew; his smile broadened for her benefit. ‘He used to love the library. He would get out so many books.’

  ‘I never believed he actually read them,’ said Andrew.

  ‘He did! He used to talk to me about them, on the way to school.’ She drifted, reaching for her memories. A sadness flashed across her eyes. ‘He loved science fiction, and real science. He started to read lots of true crime when he was a teenager. He bought a few of his favourite books when he started to get his own money. We still have them. Top shelf over there. All books that Joseph bought for himself.’

  Sawyer stood up and walked over to the bookcase.

  ‘What was he like as a person?’ said Shepherd. ‘Was he kind? Funny?’

  ‘Of course!’ Sophie was adamant, almost outraged. ‘He was a delight. He was a little obsessive about his routines. Always concerned if things changed too much, or the rules of a situation weren’t clear. I would imagine, these days, he might be diagnosed with something or other. But, yes. He was a lively young boy. A pleasure to live with.’

  Sawyer ran his finger across the spines on the top shelf. Philip K. Dick. Isaac Asimov. Heinlein. Vonnegut. The Stainless Steel Rat. The majority were books by JG Ballard: a short story anthology, plus a run of his early novels. Concrete Island, The Unlimited Dream Company, High-Rise, Crash.

  ‘When did you tell him about his real parents?’ said Sawyer.

  Sophie dropped her head.

  Andrew sighed. ‘We left it rather late, I’m afraid. When he was sixteen, we gave him some money that we’d kept aside from Faye and Tony’s will, and told him that he wasn’t our biological son. He took it very badly. Said he felt his life had been a lie, that he was going to “start again”. We were shocked. There was a lot of resentment and rage flying around.’

  ‘What about the crash?’ said Sawyer. ‘Did you tell him the details?’

  Sophie looked up. ‘No. We just said that they’d died in a car accident. He refused to listen to anything else. We tried. The girls were graduating. Grace was going through tough times herself, trying to find a job, a way in the world. Joseph withdrew and he left home not soon after. He said he would be in touch, but… nothing since.’

  ‘My God,’ said Andrew. ‘That was over ten years ago.’

  Sophie pulled a tissue from a box on the table and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Grace moved back in for a year or so. Nicola came back for a while, too. Everything moved on. We still look at the news, fearful that we’re going to see that something’s happened to him.’

  ‘Do you have any photos of Joseph?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘We have a few things from his school days,’ said Andrew. ‘Family holidays. He stopped going away with us when he was around fourteen, though.’

  In the kitchen, the dog scrabbled and whined. Andrew hauled himself to his feet and waddled to the door. He paused, but didn’t turn, resting against the dining table. ‘So, go on. What’s happened to him? Just tell us. We would like to know. He was a part of our lives for so long.’

  ‘We’re pretty sure he’s alive and well,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Oh, that’s good to hear,’ said Sophie. ‘It would be lovely to see him again. To try and heal those old wounds. I would give anything to speak to him.’

  ‘So would we,’ said Sawyer.

  43

  Sawyer dodged the press conference and gave Myers and a group of DCs the job of finding Joseph Dawson. The name was broad, and they would need to trawl through the electoral roll, social networks, arrest records. Refine by age, location. Trace and eliminate. The clearest photograph was a shot of Joseph on a beach with Grace and Nicola; he stood astride an elaborate sandcastle in red-and-black striped trunks, holding a blue spade aloft, mouth open in triumph. The girls stood either side, smiling for the camera. Joseph was the shorter of the three by some distance, and skinny to the point of skeletal, with a mop of dark hair swept aside by the sea breeze. Andrew Dawson had said he was twelve, maybe thirteen in the picture, but he looked much younger.

  Sawyer closed the window blind, shutting out the gloomy afternoon, already agitating for nightfall. He slumped into his office chair and flipped open his laptop. Among his new emails was a PDF of Rebecca Morton’s case file from the Met. On the opening page, there was an arrest photograph clipped to the corner, taken a few months before her death. Possession, Offering to Supply. Rebecca was gaunt and long-necked, with a tangle of gravy-brown hair. She stared out at him, bored and dubious.

  From the forensic report, the killer had subdued her, silenced her with gaffer tape and stripped her. He had then cut off her hand. The cut had been clean and singular, probably executed with a cleaver or heavy knife. The wound had been fully cauterised, which would have taken some time. The killer had waited for her to die, and removed the tape. But she had not been wrapped in polythene, and, according to the FOA account, the garage floor was saturated with blood. Forensics also discovered splinters of bone, presumably from the force of the amputation. The severed hand wasn’t found.

  The anger and logic resonated with the case: attack the cause of the accident, the source of Tyler’s distraction. But th
e scene was messier. He had left no direct forensic links, but he had been less focused on cleaning up and, unlike the others, the body had been left at the murder site. He may have been disturbed or worried that he was about to be disturbed. But it felt more like a first attack, to be refined and perfected with subsequent victims.

  Two taps on the door. Sawyer nodded at Shepherd through the glass, and he walked in.

  He closed the laptop. ‘Pretty quick for a conference. Keating lose his voice or something?’

  Shepherd took a seat. ‘Sunday. No new revelations. Just a dry appeal for information. No victim relatives to gawp at.’

  ‘How’s Myers doing with the Joseph Dawson search?’

  Shepherd took out a banana and unpeeled it. He took a bite, offered it to Sawyer, who scowled and shook his head. ‘Hundreds of hits. Trace and eliminate will take days, maybe weeks. He had money. He could be anywhere.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘And anyone. Anything from the OPs?’

  ‘Give them time. He’s hardly likely to attack in broad daylight. They’re good. They won’t miss anything. Kim Lyons is low maintenance, but Ingram is a pain. It’s almost as if he’s relishing the chance for a fight.’

  ‘He’s an idiot. Unlike the killer. My old instructor once told me that you can spend all day at the gym, refine your techniques, hone your reflexes. But the best weapon is always the mind.’

  Shepherd finished the banana and curled the peel into a ball. ‘We have the jump on him. He doesn’t know what we know. Three possible targets, all covered. If there’s any sign of him approaching or staking out, we’ll pick him up. The attacks have been frequent so far. There’s every chance he’ll come out of the woodwork in the next day or two.’

  ‘Was Logan at the conference?’

  Shepherd nodded.

  ‘He’s doing a story on me.’

  ‘You mean your history? Your mum?’

  ‘As he sees it, yes.’

  ‘Is that why you’re avoiding the conferences? He’ll see that. He’s like the Eye of fucking Sauron.’

  Sawyer stared him out for a second. ‘Has he spoken to you?’

  ‘About your story? No. Do you seriously think I’d tell him anything?’

  ‘No. Just curious about his angles.’

  Shepherd stood up. ‘Leave him to it.’ He lingered, prompting a response. But Sawyer stayed silent. ‘I’ll stay in touch with the OPs, keep grinding at the leads. Don’t worry about me. Seriously. I live to work.’ Sawyer finally gave up a half-smile. ‘Plans for the evening?’

  Sawyer tilted his head. ‘The usual. Staring at the walls. Paralysing existential dread.’

  Shepherd raised his eyebrows.

  Sawyer sighed and shook himself alert. He beamed at Shepherd. ‘Not really. Going to a party.’

  44

  Sawyer drove his forearms into the stubby poles of the wooden man dummy. He ramped up the exercise steadily: from slow and methodical strikes to hone technique, to quick flurries which would improve co-ordination, rhythm, hand speed. He rested, then settled himself in front of the new full-length mirror and worked through the third Wing Chun form, biu jee (darting fingers). Sharp, efficient finger and elbow strikes to develop power. Emergency techniques to escape grapples and defend against weapons. Agility, turning, footwork.

  He showered, and dressed in his best civilian-looking clothes: jeans, weathered old Vans, grey Sherpa jacket. He fed himself (spaghetti) and Bruce (ghastly sachet of glutinous meat) and climbed into the Mini for the journey to Bonsall: solo this time.

  He cued up a night drive album—Second Toughest In The Infants by Underworld—and checked his phone messages. Still nothing from Eva. Was this their relationship rules being established? Random dangerous liaisons with radio silence to follow until the coast cleared?

  At the farm in Slaley, Sawyer left the car on the verge in the adjoining lane and walked along the dirt track towards the main house. He squinted through a fine mist of rain, and his nose twitched at the savoury waft of barbecued meat.

  Little had changed since his visit with Klein two days earlier: music from the woodland at the farm fringes; firelight flashing across the white caravans. This time, though, as he reached the farmhouse porch, two men stood up from a table and approached. They were tall and wide, with better suits than the Friday night guard. The shorter of the two carried a walkie-talkie.

  ‘Evening, fellas,’ said Sawyer. ‘I was here a couple of nights back. Ryan invited me.’

  They glanced at each other. ‘Did he?’ said the tall one. ‘Who the fuck are ya?’

  ‘Lloyd Robbins. I’m a writer.’

  The short one grimaced, then laughed. ‘Covering the show for The Times, eh?’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘Not that kind of writer.’

  The short one turned away and muttered something into the walkie talkie. He listened to the response and nodded to the tall one.

  They glared at Sawyer, holding the moment.

  The tall one stepped forward. ‘Twenty-five to get in.’

  Sawyer shook his head. ‘Strange to invite someone to a party and then charge them an entry fee.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said the short one. ‘That’s just how it fuckin’ works.’

  ‘Even for potential business partners of your boss?’

  The short one edged forward, in line with his colleague. ‘Twenty-five quid, big man. Whoever you are. There’s no fuckin’ VIP area, okay?’

  The front door opened behind the men, and Ronan Casey emerged, also suited. He had cut his red hair short, and Sawyer could smell his spicy cologne almost at the moment he opened the door. He took his time walking over, then stopped between them and laid a stare on Sawyer. ‘What’s the beef, boys?’

  They shuffled aside, giving Ronan space.

  ‘No beef, Ronan,’ said the tall one. ‘Just coddin’ the man. Says he’s a writer. Says Ryan invited him.’

  Ronan smiled. ‘He’s not a writer. He’s a fighter.’

  Sawyer followed Ronan around the back of the farmhouse, past the veranda. A group of men were playing Two-Up at the usual spot. Surely not the same ones? They cheered and jeered the results of the coin tosses.

  ‘You missed the fun, Mr Robbins,’ said Ronan. ‘Wesley put the McDonagh cunt down half an hour ago. Barely took him a minute. Left him with a face like a butcher’s block, though.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘Few side fights later, maybe. His family are all phoney-friendly now, but the beef videos will come in tomorrow, demanding a rematch.’ He laughed, wheezy. ‘Big Joe was boasting about his “iron fists”. Said he’d been soaking them in petrol to make them harder.’

  ‘That’s bullshit.’

  Ronan turned, incredulous. ‘Of course, it’s fuckin’ bullshit! Didn’t make any difference in the end, anyway. He barely touched us.’

  They walked along the edge of the pony field, past the bonfire and into the woodland. Groups of white plastic tables had been set up at the far ends of the makeshift boxing ring. Music pounded from a rusted old ghetto blaster: swaggering hip-hop, obnoxious trap, occasional squalls of tinny techno. Ryan Casey—suited—sat at the near end, with Wesley Casey—still topless from the fight—bent forward, in conversation with three seconds, each wearing a dark purple hoodie with the word CASEY gold-embossed in enormous Gothic script. The McDonagh group sat huddled around the tables at the far end. A couple of teenagers play-boxed in the ring.

  Ryan caught sight of Sawyer and turned to face him. He tapped Wesley on the shoulder and he composed himself.

  Sawyer nodded at Wesley. ‘Congratulations. Sorry I missed it.’

  Ryan lit a cigarette and flapped away the smoke. ‘Mr Robbins, you are a cheeky fucker, alright.’

  Sawyer shook his hand. ‘I need your help, Ryan. Mr Klein lost thirty years of his life to a police mistake. Your nephew can help me put that right.’

  Wesley glared up at Sawyer. He was a little puffy round the eyes, but had barely sustained a scratch from the fight. ‘Proper little sup
erhero, aren’t ya?’

  Ryan gestured towards a chair and Sawyer sat down. ‘All this,’ he swept a hand across the ring, ‘it’s all based on beefs, Mr Robbins. Arguments. Feuds between families and clans. Grudges. Some of it goes back so far that nobody can fuckin’ remember the original disagreement. Sometimes it’s as simple as something some fucker said in a pub about some other fucker’s wife or girlfriend or dog. So it gets settled, in a ring, or on some patch of wasteland or down a country lane. Brothers fighting brothers. Cousins fighting cousins. You send your clan man out, you beat their clan man, you move on.’ He slurped at his bottle of beer. ‘Thing is, it never works out that way. It just keeps going and going. It changes form, becomes about something else, gets passed on down the generations. Sometimes, it all breaks out and the fighters get targeted by family “associates”. Proper bad guys. But that’s just the dark side. The thing that keeps it going, the unbreakable bond, that’s also our way of protecting ourselves.’

  ‘Family,’ said Sawyer.

  ‘Deeper than that!’ He took a drag on his cigarette. The tobacco flare lit up his features; he was red-faced, over-refreshed. ‘I’m talking about culture. Our culture. It’s like an invisible thing. A network. The people get old and die, but the beef gets passed on. The culture lives on. It’s bigger than us. We all need something bigger than us, don’t you think? For some, that question of afterlife or no afterlife… it just doesn’t cut it.’

  Sawyer dragged his chair close to Ryan. ‘But this is what I’m trying to do. Two families have suffered terrible pain. One with a man robbed of his freedom for so long, and another robbed of a mother. A young woman in the prime of her life. I believe that Owen is the key. Your family can help me settle this beef.’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘The Caseys settle Casey beefs.’

  Sawyer sat back. ‘Call it business, then. We can pay you.’