The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  Ballard shook his head. ‘I was a nobody. Born to nobody. The judge who sentenced Tyler—’

  ‘Is he next? Are you going to take his tongue?’

  Ballard raised his eyebrows. ‘He died a few years ago. He said that, “No powers possessed by the court can lessen this terrible and devastating loss”.’ He leaned forward, spitting the words across the room. ‘No powers.’ He sat back, resting his head against the wall, keeping the knife pointed at Kim’s neck. ‘They gave him ten years. Ten years for two people. It wasn’t even the maximum allowed at the time, fourteen. He served five, and he was driving again after a two-year ban. That piece of filth killed three human beings with a lorry and they didn’t even ban him from driving for life. So, when the law is impotent, and the sky is empty, when God himself is powerless to prevent the loss of innocents, then what’s left but to take control?’

  ‘Appoint yourself as the higher power?’

  Ballard nodded. ‘When the so-called forces of good fall so far short of the mark, what else can you do but deliver your own justice?’

  ‘And you planned to kill him. But he was already dead. And so you had to wipe him out. You couldn’t stand the mess of it. The fact that the man was gone, but his tissue lived on.’ Sawyer pushed down on the stab wound, ground his teeth through the pain. His phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘You say you were born a nobody, but do you know how unlikely it is that you were born at all? The odds are about one in four-hundred trillion. Your parents meeting in the first place, staying together, the sperm meeting the egg. You could go further back. The probability of all your ancestors reproducing. It’s so unlikely, you could call it a miracle. Life is a wonderful thing. Some people see it as a gift from a divine being. But however you think it all begins, we keep doing it. Creating more people, more life. I’ve been alive for thirty-five years. In that time, three billion people have been added to the global population. Life is what we do. Despite all the horrors in the world, we just keep on bringing people into it. It all comes down to that old saying. Where there’s life, there’s hope. Humans like hope. It keeps us going. Your mother, Faye. She felt that.’

  He shifted position, against the wall. Downstairs, Leo kept up the barking.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Ballard.

  ‘Your father, Tony. He died at the crash scene. But your mother carried a donor card, which was the old way of showing your wishes for your body after death. And because Faye died at the hospital, just before you were delivered, then she could donate her organs. Now that really is an act of higher power. Passing on your precious, unlikely life to someone else. And now, you can make that choice. Show mercy. Follow your mother’s example and give someone the gift of life.’

  Downstairs, Leo had fallen silent.

  Ballard stared at Sawyer. ‘To answer your question, I’m not a monster. I’m not going to stab a woman in the eyes.’

  ‘But you can’t leave the job unfinished, right?’ Sawyer looked at Kim, foetal in the bathtub, eyes staring up and away from Ballard’s knife, breathing through flared nostrils. ‘This woman here. Kim. She’s over. Her cornea transplant has failed. Her eyesight is degenerating. The last spark of the man who killed your mother and father is fading inside her, day by day, regardless of what you do now. Soon, there will be none of his living cells active. He’ll be gone forever. Your work is already done. You’re going to prison for a long time, Ed, I can’t change that. But this woman here is your one source of hope. Spare her, and that decision will come back to you in the future, when you’re looking for leniency. You’ll serve your time and apply for parole, many years from now. You’ll be a different person, desperate to live an independent life, after circling the exercise yard for decades. The choice you make here and now will be the difference between getting a shot at that life and being turned down and left to rot it out. You are the higher power, yes, and you can choose either an act of kindness or an act of pointless cruelty that will end one person’s life and condemn you to a living death.’

  Ballard’s head drooped. He lowered the knife, away from Kim’s throat.

  A noise downstairs. Ballard didn’t react. Sawyer pushed down on the towel, wincing. ‘Your favourite author, Ed. Your namesake. He said that he believed in the “non-existence of the past”, and—’

  ‘“The infinite possibilities of the present”.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘Roy Tyler is the past, Ed. He’s non-existent. And here we all are, in the present. It’s all we have. And here and now, you can make the right choice, out of all those infinite possibilities. Give me the knife. Give this woman her life. Give yourself some hope.’

  Barking again, from downstairs. Ballard raised his eyes, listening.

  More noise on the stairs. Bustle. Another bark. Footsteps.

  Ballard jolted himself alert and looked around, startled. He gripped Kim’s hair harder, forcing her head back, exposing her throat. He raised the knife again.

  Leo scampered up the stairs, barking and growling. Footsteps behind him. Sawyer’s stomach lurched; Myers must have heard the dog, sent him a message and entered the house when he didn’t answer, releasing Leo from the sitting room.

  The dog clattered through the door into the bathroom and leapt for Ballard. He pulled the knife away from Kim and raised it at the dog, but Leo clamped his jaws around his forearm. Ballard tugged his arm back, and dropped the knife in the bathtub. It skittered up the curved surface and settled beside Kim’s body.

  Leo growled and kept his grip on Ballard’s arm, burrowing his paws into his body for purchase. Sawyer lifted his left leg, struggling to raise himself. He looked behind. Myers had reached the top of the stairs. ‘Police!’

  Ballard dug a left hook punch into the side of Leo’s head. The dog whimpered, but kept his grip. An empty wine bottle, streaked with candle wax, sat on a shelf above the bath. Ballard dug his feet into the floor, running on the spot, trying to gain enough height to reach the bottle with his left hand. But Leo pulled at his arm, shaking it left and right, keeping him tethered. Ballard punched the dog again. Leo released the arm and cowered back, howling.

  Sawyer managed to shift onto his left knee. His right leg flared with the pain of the stab wound, and he struggled to unfold it and get himself upright.

  Myers reached the bathroom door. Ballard’s can of incapacitant spray was in his hand. Sawyer snatched it and forced himself to his feet. He turned towards Ballard.

  Kim had pulled up her knees and worked the cuffs around to her front. She gripped the knife in both hands, holding it on Ballard. He had forced his head back into the wall and stared down his nose at the point of the blade, millimetres from his throat. Kim’s eyes were wide, fixed on Ballard. She breathed through her nose in rapid bursts.

  Myers stepped into the room and grabbed Leo. The dog wriggled in his grip, but seemed subdued. Myers pulled Leo away and bundled him out of the room, closing the door and shutting him outside.

  ‘Kim?’ Sawyer reached out to her, palm up. She kept the knife fixed on Ballard’s neck. He closed his eyes, forced his head further into the corner. Sawyer moved his hand towards Kim’s face. She flashed him a wary look, retrained her eyes on Ballard. Sawyer peeled at the edge of the tape across her mouth and lifted it away slowly.

  Kim opened her mouth wide, gulping down air. She licked her lips, spoke to Sawyer. ‘You’re wrong. I am not “over”.’ She pulled herself up, leaned closer to Ballard. ‘You. Complaining about how you were denied love. You don’t deserve love. You don’t deserve life.’

  Sawyer snatched out his arm and held Kim firm by her wrists. She gasped and scowled at him. He paused, then relaxed his grip, opening his fingers. ‘You make the choice, Kim. You have the power now, over life or death.’

  Behind, Sawyer felt Myers make a move forward; he held up a hand to stand him down.

  Ballard opened his eyes. He looked from Kim to Sawyer, weighing his options. Outside, Leo whined and scrabbled at the foot of the door.

  Kim held the knife steady for a
few seconds, then sighed. Sawyer felt her arm go limp. He closed his fingers around her wrist and slid the knife out of her hand, pulling it away from Ballard.

  Myers moved in. He yanked Ballard to his feet and held him in an armlock.

  Ballard tried a half-hearted struggle against the restraint, but soon relaxed. He raised his eyes to Sawyer. ‘Detective, I know what comes next. I know I’m not obliged to say anything. But while we’re still off the record… I hope you find some justice for your mother soon.’

  58

  FIVE DAYS LATER

  Wardlow Mires was a one-street limestone village that sat in the centre of the National Park, on the North/South divide between the High and Dark Peak. Sawyer steered the Mini into the vast car park of the roadside Yondermann Café. It was early, and the morning mist lingered low over the flat farmland towards Eyam. The sky—so open and infinite in his childhood memory—had been sealed over by an opaque veil of grubby white cloud. He parked, and left the engine running for a few seconds, zoning out to the brooding baritone of Nick Cave. Interventionist gods, guiding angels, the power of love. He killed the engine and stepped out into the sodden air.

  Alex sat at the table nearest the door, with a pot of tea and a novel: Morvern Callar by Alan Warner. She wore her standard beige roll-neck, with a brimmed grey beret. A fawn velvet overcoat hung over the back of the chair. She sprang to her feet and embraced him.

  ‘Not stopping?’ Sawyer nodded to her hat.

  ‘It’s cold. You feel it more as you get older. You’ll see.’

  ‘Looking forward to it.’

  She smiled and waited for more. Sawyer dropped his head. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’

  They walked out of the village, along the verge of the main road, and turned left at a Public Footpath sign. The track was unpaved, and they had to navigate around wide puddles and sopping mounds of mud.

  ‘Wardlow is your home town, right?’ said Alex.

  ‘Yeah. This is one of the routes we used to take after my mum picked us up from the old school.’

  Sawyer hung back, limping a little. Alex edged around a crater of folded mud. ‘And have you been back before today? To the lane?’

  Sawyer found a firmer section of path, and edged ahead. ‘Yeah. Few months ago. It was dark, though. Didn’t seem as real.’

  ‘Looks like you’re struggling. With the leg.’

  He shrugged, didn’t turn. ‘I won’t be training for any trail marathons anytime soon.’

  They descended into sparse woodland, which opened out to a straight, paved lane that ran with open fields on one side and a line of trees on the other. Sawyer stopped and looked out across the flattened pastures. He drew the collar of his jacket up around his neck.

  Alex came up behind him. ‘I know the weather is hardly the same, but that shouldn’t matter.’ She took out her digital recorder. ‘How are you feeling, Jake? Is this a good place to start?’ He nodded. ‘Okay. Take your time. Nice and steady.’

  She pressed Play. Sawyer’s voice.

  ‘I am walking down the lane…’

  They moved off, guided by the recording.

  ‘It is warm, but my mouth is still cold from an ice lolly I just finished...’

  Alex stayed behind Sawyer. She rested a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘My mum is telling my brother not to touch something. Litter. Chocolate wrapper. My dog is barking at him. He is running past me now...’

  Alex’s voice. ‘Your brother?’

  ‘The dog. I am chasing him...’

  Sawyer walked faster, into the relative shade of a patch of overhanging branches.

  ‘My dog is stopping and barking. He is running back towards my mother and brother. I am turning and following. I can hear a plane, high in the sky...’

  Sawyer turned. His face was flushed red; eyes darting around, confused. Alex paused the recording. ‘We can slow down if you like, Jake.’

  He shook his head. She started the recorder again.

  ‘I am running back, too fast, tripping over my steps…’

  Sawyer broke into a half-run. He was compromised by his leg injury, but Alex still had to shift to keep up with him; her long blue coat flapping in the frosty wind.

  ‘I can hear my mother’s voice and my dog, barking…’

  Sawyer hobbled off the side of the road, over the verge, into the edge of a field. He stopped, hung his head. Alex waited, watching him. Sawyer dropped to his knees and dug his hands into the grass. His shoulders heaved.

  Alex’s voice. ‘How is that making you feel?’

  ‘The sound makes me feel scared, and sick.’

  Alex startled at the sound of a shout, rising up from Sawyer. A roar of anguish, frustration. She stepped over the verge and followed him to the edge of the field.

  ‘I can feel the heat of the sun.’

  He looked up at her, eyes shining with tears. ‘Turn it off.’

  ‘What can you see, Jake?’

  ‘I can see the green—’

  ‘Turn it OFF!’

  She stopped the recording. Sawyer tried to get up, stumbled, stayed on his knees. He had turned his head away, but Alex could tell from his movement that he was sobbing.

  He sucked in a deep, ragged breath, and swiped at his cheeks with both hands. ‘I can’t.’

  She rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Can’t what?’

  He shrugged her away. ‘This. I can feel it, but I can’t see it. I can’t see anything that helps. There’s nothing here. Just a field and some trees. Why does it hurt so much?’

  ‘Why does what hurt?’

  ‘Love.’ He turned to her, his face warped with rage.

  Alex sighed. ‘The fact that you’re feeling it shows that you can heal. That you will heal. It’s not the love itself that hurts, Jake. It’s the loss. The longing. The denial of the urge to express love.’ She crouched down beside him. ‘But that’s all life is, really. A fight between love and death. Death always wins in the end, of course. But it’s love that makes it a hollow victory.’

  59

  In the Nut Tree, Maggie Spark sipped her black coffee. She reached over and snapped an edge off Sawyer’s pastry.

  Sawyer looked up at her. ‘Do try some yourself. Don’t be shy.’

  Maggie squinted at the flaky crust and grimaced.

  He smiled. ‘Not for you?’

  ‘It looks so dry.’

  ‘It’s a palmier. Traditional French pastry. And you call me a food philistine.’

  She sat back. ‘I don’t know where to start, really. I was going to ask what you’ve been up to. But I should probably ask about what you haven’t been up to.’

  He shrugged, bit into the pastry. ‘I got a cat.’

  ‘That’s the highlight of the past few weeks?’

  ‘Well, I suppose he got me.’

  ‘Name?’

  He slurped his tea. ‘Bruce.’

  Maggie rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve been shot, stabbed, god knows what else. You’ve solved a difficult case, apprehended an appalling multiple murderer.’

  ‘Saved the life of a colleague. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘How is Walker?’

  ‘Awake. Still in hospital. Shepherd went to see him. They need to do tests to measure his brain function. But he’ll live.’

  She nodded. ‘We used to think that the brain couldn’t repair itself, that cells don’t regenerate. But now we know it’s possible to regain function.’

  A moment’s silence. They held eye contact.

  ‘How about me?’ said Sawyer. ‘Do you still think I’m having a breakdown? Shall I give you an update so you can report back to Keating?’

  She scowled. ‘You’re being mean again. Would you rather people didn’t care about you?’ He shrugged. ‘Have you felt what you experienced in the cave again? Panic? Fear?’

  ‘No. Whatever it was, it’s keeping its head down.’

  ‘And Alex?’

  ‘She’s good.’ He nodded. ‘Thank yo
u, Mags.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘It’ll take time. But I’m so pleased you’ve started—’

  He waved a hand. ‘Please. Don’t say anything about “journeys”.’

  She laughed, pushed her hands across the table and covered Sawyer’s. ‘Clichés are clichés for a reason. Sometimes they’re full of truth.’

  ‘Which is in itself a cliché.’

  ‘It is a journey. And it might be a bumpy one.’

  Sawyer laughed. ‘There might be potholes. I might run out of petrol a few times. My ticket might not be valid.’

  A group of fluoro-jacketed hikers bustled into the café, chased by a whistle of wind.

  Maggie hugged herself. ‘Jesus, it’s getting cold. I’m thinking of moving, you know.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere warmer.’

  ‘Serious?’

  She stood up. ‘More tea?’ Sawyer nodded. ‘I’ll get it. Going for a wee. Then you can tell me about the case. And I can tell you about my separation.’

  Maggie smiled at his shock and swished away. She ordered another coffee and tea from the counter and sidestepped into the poky unisex toilet.

  As she washed her hands, her phone vibrated in her bag.

  Outside, she picked up the drinks and walked back to the table.

  Sawyer had gone.

  She looked at her phone message.

  Had to go. Emergency. x

  60

  Sawyer called Klein’s number and set the phone on speaker in the dashboard mount. He pulled the Mini away from the Nut Tree and headed east, towards Matlock.

  The call connected. ‘Mr Robbins?’

  ‘Can you get to the Barley Mow? It’s a pub, only a few minutes from the Casey farm.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Soon as you can. Ryan Casey called. He says that Owen is willing to meet. I’m about ten minutes away.’

  Klein was silent. Sawyer thought they might have lost connection. ‘You still there?’