The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘How are you, Luka?’

  ‘Okay. Just playing PS4. FIFA.’ He shrugged, took a slurp from a can of Fanta Zero. ‘It’s awesome.’

  ‘I heard Pro Evo was the better football game.’

  Luka gave a theatrical scoff and scowled at Sawyer. ‘No way! All the teams are wrong. Chelsea are, like, “London Utd”.’

  ‘You support Chelsea?’

  He scowled again. ‘No. Just saying why it’s rubbish. I support Man Utd, like my dad.’

  ‘I’m Liverpool. So you’re supposed to hate me.’

  Luka shrugged. ‘Not bothered.’

  Eva brought Sawyer a glass of Coke. ‘I’m glazing over at the football talk. Brought some work home, so I’ll leave you to it.’ She trotted out.

  Sawyer watched her leave, his gaze lingering. He snapped his eyes away and ran straight into Luka’s. ‘I’ve got FIFA. Don’t play it much, though. I think it’s a bit old. Most of the players in my version have retired.’

  ‘You have to get the new one every year. It’s a rip-off.’

  Sawyer took a drink. ‘They should just update it with the new players. Downloadable content.’

  Luka frowned, shocked at the idea. ‘But they wouldn’t be able to charge as much money for it then.’

  ‘Exactly. As you said, it’s a rip-off.’

  Luka nodded. He drank some of his Fanta, avoiding eye contact.

  Sawyer took a pair of handcuffs out of his jacket pocket and laid them on the table. Luka brightened and sat forward. ‘Have you heard of Harry Houdini, Luka?’ He shook his head. ‘He was a magician. A very clever man. He became famous for escaping from special traps, jackets, cases.’ Sawyer took out an oblong black case. ‘He said that his brain was the key that set his mind free. It’s a good line, but he was just a showman who knew how to make things seem more complicated and dangerous than they really were.’

  Luka took out his phone. ‘Hey, Siri. Harry Houdini.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Yeah. Wow. He was Hungarian. My friend Tamas is from Hungary.’ He looked up. ‘Did he get out of handcuffs like these?’

  ‘Much harder than this. But he probably used other tricks. It’s pretty easy to get out of these, though. Or to get into basic locks. You just need the right tools for the job.’

  Sawyer opened the case and took out a pair of kirby grips. ‘Your mum will have plenty of these hairpins lying round.’ He opened up one of the pins until the ends sat at a ninety-degree angle. ‘You just have to practise the technique. Takes a while, but you get used to it.’ He slotted the bent pin into the keyhole and turned it to the side, creating a kink. He coiled the other part around the kinked section, until it functioned like a makeshift handle. Luka leaned in close. ‘See? Now you push in the other pin just above it, and you use one to feel out the tension, and the other as a pick.’ He slid the second hairpin into the keyhole above the first. ‘You’re trying to feel your way through to the tiny pins, like jaws, that keep the lock closed. Then, when you feel the plug that holds the pins move, you push harder with the wrench. Have a try.’

  He pushed the handcuffs over to Luka, who held on to the wrench pin and twisted at the pick.

  Luka frowned. ‘What does it feel like when the plug moves?’

  ‘It takes practice. You get to know it. Keep trying. You’re looking for the plugs that aren’t loose. The ones that have seized. You can keep the handcuffs and pins. I’ve got spares of both. I’ll give your mum a key, just in case.’ Luka worked with the hairpins, twisting and pushing.

  Sawyer held the handcuffs firm. ‘How are things with your counsellor? Last time I saw you, you said he was alright. Didn’t shout.’

  Luka glanced up. ‘He’s fine. We talk about the same stuff all the time, though. Gets a bit boring.’

  ‘Do you talk about other stuff with mates?’

  ‘You mean online? Gaming?’

  ‘Sometimes. You know. Social media. Stuff like Facebook.’

  Luka laughed. ‘Facebook is for old people.’

  ‘Snapchat?’

  He shrugged. ‘Yeah. Instagram, too. Some people use the chat in games. And there’s a few other networks. MEETUPZ, uChat.’ He raised his head, eyes wide. ‘Oh! I’ve got one that’s not moving.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘That’s one of the seized plugs. Now maintain the tension with the wrench pin and push up with the pick pin. Slowly.’

  ‘I felt a click!’

  ‘Now find the next one that’s seized. You’re trying to line them all up. That’s when the lock will open. Tell me more about the networks.’

  Luka continued to work on the lock. ‘We had a presentation at school, about online safety. There was a policeman there. He told us about the dangers of the chat apps and a few other things. Most of the kids just made notes about the apps. They hadn’t heard of some of them.’

  Sawyer sighed. ‘Do you always know who you’re talking to?’

  Luka shook his head. ‘Course not. But everyone can tell if there’s someone trying to pretend they’re older or a boy pretending to be a girl. They try the same things. I know what it is. At the school they called it “grooming”. They make you trust them, ask if you want to meet.’

  ‘Does anyone you know ever go to meet people they talk to on the apps?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone who does that. But nobody bothers about the age rules or whatever. My friend, Jaden. His brother is older. He just uses his password.’ Luka shoved the handcuffs back across the table and tossed the pins aside. ‘This is so hard.’

  ‘Nothing good is easy. Keep practising. Watch the YouTube videos.’

  ‘When you got me out of the cave, you did it so quick.’ Luka finished his Fanta, looked back at his phone. ‘I don’t think my dad would be happy about you showing me this.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about your dad. I think he’s busy with his work at the moment.’

  23

  Sawyer stood before his bedroom mirror and worked through the first of the Wing Chun Kung Fu forms: Sil Lum Tao (‘Little Idea’). The controlled, meticulous movement was designed to strengthen the core principles of economy and efficiency, but it was also meditative: to fade out the chatter and improve focus.

  He hooked a towel around his neck, just above his tattoo: a series of Greek characters that ran across his back, dipping into the valley between his shoulder blades. Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού (‘True to his own spirit’).

  He showered and changed into jeans, T-shirt, hoodie. It was early evening, but he made himself a milky coffee and settled in to resume an episode of Life on Earth. Bruce curled in his usual spot at the foot of the TV stand, regarding Sawyer with a dubious stare.

  On-screen, David Attenborough explained how a species of stinging ant defends an acacia tree and in return gets nectar and thorns for nesting. Symbiosis.

  He lowered the volume and activated the subtitles, then phoned Walker on the burner. The call connected instantly. ‘Did you find the bolt?’

  Walker paused. ‘Of course. Hold on.’ Movement, as he took the phone into another room.

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Just about. Sir. Yes. Found the bolt.’

  ‘And did you look into other crossbow murders?’

  A sigh. ‘There were two earlier in the year. Stations up in the Dales.’

  ‘Yorkshire? Similar age? Men?’

  ‘Yeah.’ A slight hesitation. ‘One in his late thirties. Brendan Manning. Another, fifty-one. Cecil Boyd. Couple of weeks apart.’

  Bruce had settled his head down between his paws. Sawyer stared at the TV screen: translucent ants swarming over a flailing beetle. ‘What about the symbol?’

  ‘Symbol?’

  ‘There’s a little sketch engraved into a collar around the bolt. Looks like an eye. Circle in the centre with sun rays around it. Did you get to it before Sally’s team?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s with her now. Didn’t see the symbol.’

  Sawyer closed his eyes. ‘Check t
he first bolt. Is the symbol on it, too? Could just be a brand or something, but you might get a hit on where the bolt was bought. If not, reproduce the symbol. Blow it up. But don’t get it out to the public yet. We don’t want just anyone knowing that it’s a line of enquiry.’

  Bruce’s ear flicked. Sawyer looked around, alert. No car noise. Animals?

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Now, what’s the thing you’re not sure you should tell me?’

  ‘What thing?’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘You hesitated before you told me about the Yorkshire vics.’

  Walker cleared his throat. ‘Sir, I can’t… You should be on your own case. Clearing your—’

  ‘People keep telling me this, as if I’m not doing that. I am. I can multitask.’ He stood up and walked to the front door. ‘You’ve got two missing children. No trace. Given the press conference, I’m sure Keating has put most of his resources on it, with Shepherd leading. He’s got Moran keeping tabs on me. That means you’re on the crossbow murders, probably under DS Myers. I’ve just gifted you a major find. You’re teacher’s pet right now. Give me a bit more.’ Silence at the other end. ‘I won’t tell.’

  Walker sniffed, lowered his voice. ‘One of the Yorkshire victims was on the registry.’

  ‘Sex offender?’

  ‘Yeah. Boyd. Not at the time of his murder, but he had been on it for five years due to an offence against a child committed just over ten years ago.’

  Sawyer peered out of the gap between the blind and the front window. Nothing but the moonlit front porch. ‘What about the other one? Manning?’

  ‘Nothing. But they found some underage stuff on his computer.’

  Sawyer held a few seconds of silence and listened. A slight shuffle from the porch. A footfall? He turned away from the window and kept his voice low. ‘And what about the two here? Cunningham and Little.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Walker’s voice was flat, resigned now to giving away more. ‘Cunningham wasn’t on the register, but Little was. Coach driver. He was under a Sexual Harm Prevention Order. Something on a school trip.’

  ‘Has Rhodes looked at their computers? Anything on Cunningham’s?’

  ‘Some imagery. Nothing hardcore.’

  ‘He was exploring. Early stages.’ Sawyer’s nose wrinkled. An unfamiliar smell? On-screen, Attenborough crouched in the jungle. The subtitles spoke of how humans have tried many techniques to conquer insects but haven’t managed to kill a single species. ‘Anything on Cunningham and Little’s computers that links to the Yorkshire murders?’

  Walker hesitated again, but continued. ‘Nothing we can see so far. The usual social networks. Good hygiene with browser history. No obvious chat logs, although Rhodes is still rooting around. Definitely a link, right?’

  ‘I think it’s fairly clear that we’re looking for a guy who’s killing child sex offenders. But what does the connection with the Yorkshire murders tell you?’

  ‘He travels a lot?’

  Sawyer slipped on his jacket. He opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. The smell was more acrid out here; it tickled the back of his throat. Tobacco.

  ‘It tells us that the murders aren’t impulsive. He’s meticulous. A planner. I’m thinking that the Yorkshire killings might be practice, away from home. We also know that he missed his shot at Hassop Station. So he’s not a professional. He’s still learning. And now he’s up and running, he’s not going to stop. He missed, but he still finished the job.’ Sawyer closed the door and went back inside. ‘But what’s really interesting is his method.’

  ‘Hunting?’

  He flopped back down on the sofa. ‘More than that. There’s no sport, no pleasure. It’s more like a cull.’

  24

  A dense swirl of snow settled over Buxton High Street. Robbie Carling stepped out of the clinic side door and turned down the alley, away from the street. He walked with a simian slump, head listing from side to side as if scanning the ground for danger. He was in his mid-twenties, but with the stature of a child: coltish and curious.

  He cut through a suburb of uniform semis and headed for the Ecclesborough Road Community Centre: a brutalist two-storey block of grey and beige concrete, with the upper floor propped on columns. A group of men had gathered outside the building, by the low railings near the entrance: three small, one large. Robbie tossed his head, shifting his long, greasy hair out of his eyes. He squinted at the men, but didn’t slow. He would just breeze past and rest for a while in his flat, giving them time to leave before venturing back out.

  To Robbie’s horror, the largest of the men—thickset, in a black leather jacket—called to him as he passed. ‘Give us a sec, mate.’

  Robbie kept walking.

  ‘Oi, oi!’

  He glanced back. The men had moved away from the building entrance and were following close behind. The large one loitered, as the other three caught up, led by a chubby white teenager with ratty dreadlocks and a pristine but cheap-looking red-and-white puffer jacket.

  ‘Slow it down, bruv. We come in peace.’ The boy clapped a hand on Robbie’s shoulder and squeezed, forcing him to stop and turn. ‘Just lookin’ for a bit of advice, y’get me?’ He released Robbie’s shoulder and held out his hand to shake. ‘My name’s Ash, yeah?’

  Ash was flabby and leering, with dirty teeth. His dreadlocks looked matted, and he had scrunched them together at the roots, rather than restyle. When he didn’t get his handshake, he leaned down, trying to make eye contact, without success.

  ‘Got your dollies, Robbie?’ The large man sauntered over and nodded to the paper pharmacy bag in Robbie’s hand.

  Robbie flashed his eyes up. ‘Methadone.’

  The big man laughed. ‘That’s what I said.’ The other two gathered round; both teenagers, both uniformed in sportswear. One sucked on a pipe and puffed out a sweet-smelling cloud of vapour. ‘Listen. My name’s Shaun. You live round here, right? I’m trying to find a place for meself and friends. Nice and cheap. Out of the way.’

  Robbie hesitated. He looked at Ash, then Shaun. ‘You have to get on the list. It’s hard. How do you know my—’

  Shaun laughed and shook his head. ‘I’m not a fan of waiting, Robbie.’

  Ash nodded. ‘Life’s short, innit?’ He clapped his hand back on Robbie’s shoulder. ‘Let’s take a look at your place, yeah? Show us round and we’ll sort you with a fix.’

  Robbie led the way to a shabby estate of social housing: repurposed flat blocks, bordered by untamed edgeland. They walked down a long, uneven path towards the largest block: five storeys. Robbie paused at the front door, in front of a card lock.

  Shaun stepped up beside him. ‘Don’t worry, Robbie. We just want a look round. This is perfect for me. Do us a favour and I’ll get you a proper taste. Never mind that substitute crap.’ He took out a white plastic bag, filled with a grainy tan powder. ‘No fuckin’ fentanyl, either. This is decent.’

  Robbie looked around. It was approaching dusk, and the street lamps were sparking up. The snow was heavier now, tumbling through the pools of light. ‘I’m on a programme.’

  Shaun stepped closer. ‘That’s no problem, Robbie. Really. This is just a little treat. It won’t blow your progress. It’s like if you’re on a diet: having a doughnut from time to time won’t kill you. Trust me, we just want a quick look round the place.’

  Robbie pocketed the bag and swiped his card to release the door. He led them up a staircase to the second floor. Stale bleach, fresh urine.

  The corridor was lined with the entrances to six flats; three on each side. Robbie unlocked the door at the end and entered, followed by Shaun, Ash and friends.

  It was surprisingly large, with a spacious central living room, bathroom and kitchen, and, at the end of a short corridor, an open door revealing the bedroom. Shaun stepped into the kitchen, looking the place up and down. ‘I’m fuckin’ gaspin’ for a cup of tea, Robbie. Please tell me you’ve got fresh milk.’

  Robbie brightened. He sidestepped Shau
n and checked the fridge. ‘Yeah. No problem. See? Got biscuits and that.’

  ‘Nice! Tell you what. Ash here can make us all a nice cup of tea. You can cook up if you like. Where’s yer works?’

  Robbie frowned; he was breathing fast. ‘Bedroom.’ He stood there, staring up at Shaun, caught between hunger and suspicion.

  Shaun smiled and nodded. ‘You’re a bit simple, aren’t you, mate?’

  Robbie turned and slouched into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  Shaun fell back into the sofa and spread his arms across the back. ‘Kettle on. And coats off.’ He nodded to the snow at the window. ‘Not going out again in that.’

  25

  The woman reclined in a broad, padded chair at the back of the playroom. Her black woollen hat and yellow gloves sat on a side table next to the chair. She had taken off her black sensor bracelet and rested it on top of the hat.

  She held her head on her shoulder, eyes trained on her book: Michelle Obama’s autobiography, Becoming. She had slotted a remote handheld into the groove between the seat cushion and side of the chair.

  The room was vast and bright, with foam patchwork flooring and educational wallcharts: geography, human anatomy, kings and queens. The far wall was lined with shelves full of books, DVDs and Blu-rays. A widescreen TV was mounted on the corner of a recessed wall, beaming down on a central sofa with a high backrest.

  Joshua Maitland and Holly Chilton sat side by side, gazing up at an animated movie: Chicken Little. Joshua was dressed in light paisley pyjamas, while Holly remained in her day clothes: jeans, jumper. Despite the snow outside, the room was cosy; perhaps too warm. Earlier, despite her clothing, Holly had asked the woman to turn up the heating and dim the lights so she could see the screen better.