The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘Mr Robbins?’

  Sawyer looked up, took out the headphones. A man was leaning down to his table, holding out a hand. He was vast—borderline obese—with a grey beanie hat pulled low over his brow.

  Sawyer disconnected the app and shook the hand: puffy, but with a strong grip. ‘Yes. You Craig? Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m alright, thanks.’ Craig Bailey stripped off the beanie and squeezed himself into the booth seat opposite. ‘Sorry I’m early. Bad habit.’ He scratched at his thinning ginger hair. ‘Doing a bit of work, eh? Dunno how you can concentrate in these places. D’ya work for the papers, then?’

  Sawyer had to strain to tune in to Bailey’s thick Sheffield accent. ‘Yeah, sometimes. Mostly online, these days, though.’

  ‘Y’said you were working on a book? Give us a shout and I’m happy to help. We don’t really want to give too much away, mind. Keeps us ahead of the predators.’

  ‘No, no. It’s just research at the moment. I’m thinking more of a guide for parents. How to spot the danger signs that their children are vulnerable or being groomed. I thought groups like yours would be able to help. How long have you been running Justice For Kids?’

  Bailey tilted his head left to right, cracking the muscles in his neck. ‘I’ve been leading it for about five years now. The previous lad died. He used to take me on stings. I loved it.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Just… seeing their faces change. When they realise they’ve been done. Feeling like you’re doing something, making a difference. It’s easy to post comments on Facebook or Twitter or whatever. Not many people actually get up off their arse and do something about it. I got into it when my partner told me she’d been abused as a child.’

  ‘What do you do? For a living?’

  Bailey laughed. ‘This. I’m a postman, but it sometimes feels like that’s my part-time job and hunting paedophiles is what I actually do.’

  ‘Are there many hunter groups in this area? Derbyshire? South Yorkshire?’

  ‘There’s a few, but most are amateurs or #MeToo types. Some just do the exposing. Not all do stings. And hardly any do the live streaming. We do that because it helps us get support. We get contributions from all over. JFK is definitely the biggest round here.’

  Sawyer sipped his coffee. ‘By contributions, you mean money?’

  Bailey smiled, curious. ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘How do the predators groom the kids online?’

  ‘Loads of ways. Apps, social media, YouTube comments. Plenty of routes in. A lot of ’em share leads to YouTube channels. Kids who stream themselves live, in their bedrooms or whatever. They download the videos and screenshot any bits where the kids show some underwear or something. Share ’em round. That’s the low-level stuff. You often see that with the ones who haven’t plucked up the courage for live contact. It’s a grey area. Low risk. Then they go further, to the live streaming channels and apps. Direct the action, pretend to be kids themselves.’ Bailey scrubbed at his stubble. ‘It’s the adults that make this possible, Mr Robbins. The parents. They use the apps as babysitters. They haven’t got a clue how deep it all goes, or how easy it is for their kids to get drawn in. Some parents think they’re sharp by keeping an eye on WhatsApp or whatever, but there are apps that masquerade as games, and have live chat features. They flatter the kids, talk them up, slowly make it sexual. Send pictures, ask for pictures. Arrange to meet.’

  ‘Kids are sharp, though, right? They know the score about this kind of thing.’

  Bailey shrugged. ‘Most are, yeah. But attention is seductive. The kids who are most vulnerable are the ones who aren’t getting attention at home. Domestic troubles, distant parents. They feel unloved, ignored. So, some stranger starts to pay them compliments… Feels good.’ He shuffled his hands together, over and over, in and out, as if washing them.

  ‘How do the groups work? How do you work?’

  ‘First, we identify the predators. We sometimes use Sarah’s Law to get disclosure on someone we suspect. Then we use the apps, with decoys, to try and get them to suggest meetings. Places and times.’

  ‘Decoys? Kids?’

  ‘Yeah. Relatives of group members, volunteers. They don’t get involved themselves. We just use their pictures. Whatever makes the profile authentic.’

  Sawyer had a general understanding of how the groups worked, but he wanted to play dumb to work down to the deeper details. ‘How do the police feel about all this?’

  Bailey grimaced. ‘I think they have to publicly disapprove, but as long as we’re legally careful, they tolerate us. There are so many of these… people out there. The police just don’t have the resources to deal with them. It’s the internet. It’s given the predators so much easy access, and it’s made it almost impossible to keep track.’ He held up his head, jutted out his chin. ‘We can’t stop them all. But for every one we take out of circulation, that’s one kid who isn’t getting abused. Better than doing nothing.’ He leaned forward. ‘The law does fuck all, really. The sex offender registry system. They find ways to get round it. It’s stronger in the US, with Megan’s Law. Harder for them to hide.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, the registry itself doesn’t have any impact on sexual offences. It’s seen as too broad, and an invitation to vigilantes.’

  Bailey narrowed his eyes. Had he sounded too official? Police-like?

  ‘We’re not vigilantes, Mr Robbins. We are voluntary assistants to an overstretched and underfunded police force.’

  Sawyer forced a smile. ‘Have you ever had to knock someone back? Kick them out? Because of their behaviour?’

  ‘There’s been one or two who’ve pushed it at the live stings, but nothing scary. Like I say, not everyone gets involved in the confrontations. Most just help with the online stuff, provide child pics for decoys, do the profile set-ups on the networks. I have to be careful how I dish out the work. Not everyone can cope with the real-time contact. They get sent pictures. It stays in their heads.’

  Sawyer took out his phone and navigated to the photo of the eye symbol. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  Bailey studied the image and raised his eyes. ‘I do, yeah. That looks a lot like the avatar for a profile from one of the networks, MEETUPZ. We get a lot of information from it. We’ve also received a few anonymous donations, and I think they’re coming from this profile. I might be able to dig out a few chat logs, but, assuming it’s a bloke, he never gives us any more than names and other profiles, sometimes addresses. Where did you get the pic?’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘A source. Could you trace him from an IP address or whatever?’

  Bailey shook his head. ‘They use masking software. Rock solid VPNs.’

  ‘Is there any more detail in the profile ID itself? Is it named?’

  Bailey took out his phone. He swiped through a few screens and turned it to face Sawyer. ‘This is the ID from the MEETUPZ app.’

  Sawyer leaned in close. Black background, with an ‘MTZ’ tab and menu access bar in the top corner. The avatar image was a perfect match: a rough sketch of two curved lines, forming the shape of a human eye; crude circle in the centre, surrounded by seven short rays. The only other info was the profile name, directly under the image: HOLDEN82.

  46

  Back home, Sawyer worked out on the wooden man, watched by Bruce. He flopped down on his bed, opened his laptop, and logged in to the web version of the micro camera viewer. He had set the camera to non-motion sensitive, because of its outside location. The image opened in a small window and Sawyer switched it to full screen; it was clear enough, with the occasional wobble from a blast of wind.

  The garage sat just off to the left of the picture, with his father’s studio and adjoining outbuilding in the centre. He assumed that the door by the sofa in the studio was the only access into the outbuilding. All was quiet, apart from the odd leaf flitting across the screen.

  He called Walker on the burner.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You s
till haven’t asked me.’

  ‘Asked you what?’

  ‘How I have access to what’s being said at the briefings.’

  Walker paused at the other end. ‘Do I want to know?’

  ‘No. It’s just plain, old-fashioned second sight. You wouldn’t understand. How’s the mood there? How are you coping?’

  ‘Fine.’ He hesitated. ‘Not sleeping well.’

  Sawyer watched the camera feed. The ground by the studio side window was illuminated by a faint glow; his father must have entered the room and turned on the light. ‘You seeing it all again?’

  ‘Not the attack itself. Just you, wrapping your shirt sleeve around my neck, stopping the bleeding. And I remember you saying something about how I had to take myself away, somewhere happy.’

  Sawyer winced. ‘I thought you were done. I was trying to send you off with a positive memory.’

  On-screen, the high window in the adjoining outbuilding lit up. Harold had moved in there from the studio.

  ‘Got something for you. The MEETUPZ network. I think the crossbow killer is using it to pick his victims. Maybe other sites, too. But there’s a profile on there using the illustration of the eye as its avatar pic.’

  Walker sighed. ‘It’s a nightmare, sir. We can’t get to any metadata or IP addresses. The companies that own the apps are all based abroad, and we just keep hitting brick walls when we request access.’

  ‘The profile with the picture has connections to a local paedophile hunter group, Justice For Kids. JFK. I spoke to the leader. He says he thinks whoever is behind the profile has been sending anonymous donations. Look into the profile name. HOLDEN82.’

  ‘Look into?’

  Sawyer leaned in closer to the screen. The light from the small window in the outbuilding flickered as a shadow passed over it. ‘Holden. First name and second name. Cross-check. Convictions, arrests, crossbow sales, everything. And maybe the ‘82’ is 1982. Focus on that as his year of birth. We might get a hit that links him to the killings, gets us closer to who he is, or what the symbol is all about.’

  ‘Okay. Great work.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘You’ll never make DCI giving easy praise like that.’

  Walker laughed. ‘DS Shepherd gave me an evil stare for checking my phone during the last briefing.’

  ‘Stay out of his eyeline. Shepherd’s sharp. He’ll have logged that.’

  ‘So how do you know what’s happening at the briefings?’

  The light from the outbuilding window dimmed, as a darker shadow blocked it from the other side. His father must have been passing by, or standing in front of it, moving. It didn’t make sense; the window was too high in the wall.

  Sawyer leaned in close to the screen, as the shadow disappeared. ‘I’m just being creative.’ He glanced at Bruce, curled into a ball by the pillows. ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

  47

  Shaun Brooks closed the tin box and locked it in the top drawer of his desk. He unlocked the drawer below, took out a second tin, and patted it with a meaty palm.

  Ash sat in the chair facing the desk: elbows on knees, dreadlocks hanging down. Clem hovered in the corner. It was a tiny storeroom, with a whiff of blocked drains. Shaun had strong-armed the fitters into clearing the room for use as an office, but it was barely big enough for the three of them.

  Shaun leaned back in his Formica chair, falling into the light from a frosted window that faced out to the Fairfield golf course. ‘The start-up has started.’ He pointed to the locked drawer. ‘Official takings.’ He swung his finger to the second tin and grinned. ‘Petty cash. How’s our new host?’

  Ash nodded. ‘Spaz Boy? He’s good. He’s cool. Keeping him well supplied, you get me?’

  ‘Any visitors? Nosy neighbours?’

  ‘No. Don’t think he’s much of a social animal. Gets his rent paid, so no landlord visits. He’s had the speech. He knows what’s good for him, what’d be bad for him.’

  Shaun frowned. ‘Make sure he attends meetings. Doesn’t get missed. No surprises. Not now we’ve got product there. You get me?’ Ash nodded. Shaun looked over to the corner. ‘This place turning over?’

  Clem sniffed, phoney tough. ‘Good enough. Better if we could get some fruities.’

  ‘That’ll come. Booze in the snooker room will do for now.’

  A knock on the door. Shaun glanced at Clem and Ash. He tucked the second tin box into the bottom drawer. ‘Yeah?’

  The door opened. A huge, shaven-headed bouncer in an undersized suit stepped into the room; he was so tall he had to duck under the door frame. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Fella to see you, boss.’

  ‘Tell him I’m in a meeting.’

  Austin Fletcher walked in; the bouncer barred his way to the desk.

  Shaun sat back in his chair. ‘I’m in a meeting.’

  Fletcher dropped his head, bored. ‘Money. For Dale.’

  Shaun laughed. ‘Fucked up your one job, so the boss has demoted you to courier, eh?’ Fletcher took a step forward. The bouncer held up a hand to warn him off. Shaun grinned and spread his arms out wide. ‘We’re all friends here. But, like I say, I’m in a meeting. I know you’re at a loose end, mate, but I don’t need babysitting. So, fuck off and make yourself useful somewhere else. In fact…’ He sat forward. ‘Here’s a suggestion. You could fuck off back to Amsterdam. Go to the Red Light District. Get yourself a girlfriend for the night.’

  Fletcher shouldered into the bouncer, knocking him off balance. The man crouched, stumbling to steady himself. There was a crisp crack as Fletcher landed a headbutt square into the middle of his face. The bouncer roared and fell back against the bare wall, blood spilling down over his white shirt. Clem pushed himself into the corner; Ash sprang up and backed away, towards the window. The bouncer scrambled to his feet, cursing, holding a handkerchief to his nose. Fletcher stood square to him, tracking him all the way as he hobbled out of the room.

  Shaun reached for another drawer, but Fletcher grabbed the corner of the cheap desk and swept it aside. He held Shaun by the neck and drove him into the wall by the window, forcing Ash to scurry past and watch from the door.

  Fletcher took out a short-bladed hunting knife and pressed the point into Shaun’s ample stomach. He held the moment: red faced, eyes closed, slowing his breathing. He opened his eyes, and leaned in close, face to face. Shaun looked up to the ceiling, denying Fletcher the satisfaction of eye contact.

  Fletcher raised his voice, but kept it clear and steady. ‘If you ever tell me to fuck off again, I will cut out your intestines and feed them to you. Now. Money.’

  48

  Eva Gregory climbed into the Corsa. She was dressed down—old jeans, walking boots, violet quilted jacket—and only lightly made up.

  She tossed a compact backpack onto the rear seat and pivoted to regard Sawyer for a second. He leaned forward, hoping for a kiss. Eva smiled and fitted her seatbelt. She turned away, and yanked open the glovebox. ‘Have you got any chewing gum?’

  Sawyer moved off, onto the Monyash road. ‘There’s eclairs. Chocolate.’

  She gave him a look. ‘You really are such a boy. I bet you’ve got a catapult in here somewhere.’

  He smiled. ‘Peashooter.’

  Eva sat back and swept her glossy black hair over one shoulder. ‘Is this technically a date, then? A trip to a cave?’

  ‘I think so. We could sit in a touristy café and have jacket potatoes and beans, or we could eat artisan sandwiches in the shelter of a limestone crag.’

  She gazed out of the window. Foggy grey sky, backlit by sun glow. ‘Might be a nice day.’ Sawyer paused at a red light, turned on the music. Arpeggiated piano sequence, mournful synth. Eva turned her head. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Moby. Everything Is Wrong.’

  ‘You do like your nineties music.’

  The light turned green; he sped away. ‘I’m a bit stuck there, I suppose. Formative teenage years.’

  She nodded. ‘So, we’ve got some catching up
to do. You’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘I didn’t do it. I’m on bail.’

  ‘Trying to find who did do it?’

  Weak smile. ‘Amongst other things, yes.’

  ‘And you think my husband is trying to kill you?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you that. I need to investigate more.’

  She turned and stared at him, shaking her head. ‘I won’t say anything to him. I’m clever like that.’

  He nodded. ‘Your “husband”? Are you still separating or going for his idea of taking a break?’

  ‘We had a talk. He wants to change. Swears he is changing. I don’t think it’ll work.’

  ‘People don’t change. They just get better at showing what they want to show and hiding what they want to hide.’

  ‘That is so cynical. And what exactly is Dale hiding?’ Sawyer started to speak; she interrupted. ‘Oh, wait. You’re investigating, yes?’

  He glanced at her. ‘Do you like the car?’

  ‘No. Should have brought my Mazda. Where’s the other one?’

  ‘Garage.’

  Eva took out her phone, scrolled through Instagram. ‘You drive too fast.’

  ‘I’m just keen to get you into the dark cave.’

  ‘So, what else are you investigating?’

  He had a sudden ache to talk to Maggie. He’d tried to call, left messages. No replies. ‘Not on active duty. I’m not allowed to officially work. Until they lift the suspension.’

  ‘“Officially”?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m keeping my hand in. Bit of freelance.’

  ‘And when will they lift the suspension?’

  ‘Soon. They don’t have much. Circumstantial.’

  He turned off, passing through Hartington. A large sign had been tethered to a post in the town square.

  HARTINGTON CHRISTMAS MARKET

  CHRISTMAS LIGHT SWITCH ON AND LANTERN PARADE