The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘Terrorism?’

  ‘Could be. Lots of references to “the glory”.’

  Sawyer did his best to look confused. ‘And what about the crossbow killings?’

  ‘The guy was doing those himself. Computer history shows he was reverse-grooming the predators, using the same social networks he first used to groom the kids. Tempting them to meeting spots, taking them out. There was a symbol on the crossbow bolts that linked back to his murdered sister.’ He sucked in a breath, puffed it out; the vapour swirled around the car. ‘Walker put it together.’

  ‘The press will be all over him. Back from the dead to save the innocents.’

  ‘Might take some of the attention away from you.’

  Sawyer snorted. ‘You were his boss. You know how it works. The praise trickles upwards. You might get DI.’

  ‘Too soon.’

  ‘How’s Maggie?’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘Born-again happy. It was Keating who told her not to contact you.’

  ‘It was a good decision. Too much emotion.’

  ‘No history between her and Walker.’

  Sawyer raised his eyebrows. He took an open packet of chocolate limes out of the glovebox and waggled it at Shepherd. He grimaced and shook his head.

  Sawyer unwrapped a sweet and slid it into his mouth. ‘Signing in today. I was hoping it would all be over by Christmas.’

  Shepherd took a breath, hesitated, let it out. ‘I haven’t heard anything. Not sure if that’s good or bad.’ He looked away. ‘Be nice to have you back soon, sir.’

  Sawyer laughed. ‘Doesn’t look like you need me. You want to be careful. The brass might see it as an excuse for a budget cut.’

  ‘I’ve got to move. Lots of wrap-up stuff.’

  ‘You interviewed the guy yet? The mother?’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘Later today. Sally’s team have been at the house overnight. The guy was submissive, but the mother had to be restrained. Ranting and raving about the intrusion. At the moment, she looks like the crazy one. He’s said nothing.’

  ‘You’ll get the charge. He’ll probably confess.’

  Shepherd opened the door. He lingered, nodding. ‘Walker definitely smashed it. For a junior detective recovering from a life-threatening assault, it was incredible solo work. Although…’ He paused. ‘The woman’s insisting there was someone else in the house, before Walker’s team got there. Some bloke with a mask who restrained her, fought with the guy. None of the team recognise the description or saw anyone.’

  ‘As you say, ranting and raving. Any hard evidence of the mystery man?’

  ‘Not yet. Snow will have covered any prints around the house. Might get a few impressions, but I doubt it.’

  Sawyer nodded, chewed his lip. ‘Those community support officers can get pretty zealous.’

  Shepherd got out, glanced over his shoulder, shot Sawyer a wry smile. He picked his way back down to the Range Rover, climbed inside, and pulled away, not looking over as he drove past.

  Sawyer sat there for a while. He turned up the music, switched on the engine and heating.

  As he pulled away, his phone vibrated in his pocket. And again.

  He checked the screen. Call from Dean Logan.

  He killed the music, mounted the phone in the dashboard dock and connected the call.

  ‘Paedo killer in custody!’ Logan spluttered, took a sip of something. ‘The county’s sex offenders are free to walk the lanes. You must be delighted, DI Sawyer. And the children back, too. Was this guy responsible for both?’

  Sawyer turned onto the Hope Road, towards Buxton. ‘Are you seriously trying to pump me for information?’

  Logan laughed. ‘It’s fine. There’s a conference later today. It’s a good win. Justice for all. In other news…’ He paused, teasing. ‘The burgundy BMW. I went to see Dr Kelly’s widow. Turns out…’ Another pause. ‘Your dear old dad was at his place a lot.’

  Sawyer sighed. ‘He was our family GP. They were friends.’

  ‘Yeah, but she said he was there a lot, four or five years ago, not too long before Kelly died. She’s sure she saw Harold drive away in the BMW, and she doesn’t remember seeing it again. Like I said, Sawyer, it sounds to me like your old man was a few steps ahead of you. And I’m wondering why he was using a car with dodgy paperwork, handed on by his dear old mate, to keep a close eye on Klein after his release. And you.’

  66

  Sawyer crossed the car park at Buxton station; head low, hands dug deep into his pockets. The snow had been shovelled into grubby mounds up on the verges, but he had to take short, cautious steps around the patches of black ice that had gathered by the walkway.

  As he headed for the main entrance, a silver Ford Fiesta parked at the roadside across from the station.

  Sawyer strode down the corridor, past the yellow-panelled doors. Uniforms and detectives milled around, smiling and laughing. The air crackled with triumph and relief.

  Sergeant Gerry Sherman clocked Sawyer’s approach and made a phone call, stern faced. Sawyer waited at the custody and charge desk as Sherman finished the call.

  His mind wandered. He would see his father later: confront him about the car, demand to see inside the locked garage by the studio. Better still, he could check the camera and cross reference the timings with the Sheffield art festival that evening.

  Sherman turned, forced a smile. ‘DI Sawyer.’

  ‘Gerry.’

  Sawyer moved around to the privacy barrier. Sherman hesitated for a second, then produced the bail document. Sawyer eyed Sherman as he countersigned. He was normally chatty and welcoming, but he’d kept his eyes down, at odds with the mood along the corridor.

  At the far end of reception, the lift doors opened. DCI Ivan Keating stepped out, fitting his cap over his cropped white hair. Two taller male uniforms followed him out of the lift. The group made straight for Sawyer. Keating moved in close, while the two detectives dropped off, blocking the corridor back to the entrance.

  Sherman typed at his keyboard. ‘Mr Sawyer. The decision has been made to charge you on one count of murder. You have the right to inform someone that you’re here, the right to a copy of the police code of practice, and the right to speak to a solicitor free of charge.’ He looked up from the screen, glanced at Keating. ‘Umm… A few welfare questions. We’ve got these on the system from before, but since this is effectively a re-arrest… Do you have any known allergies?’

  Sawyer let his head tip back. He gazed up at the ceiling. Off-white, a dark patch in the far corner. ‘No to all the welfares, Gerry.’ He turned to Keating. ‘Congratulations.’

  Keating fixed him with an icy stare. ‘Is that sarcasm?’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘On solving the child abduction and crossbow murder cases.’

  Keating nodded. ‘Jake Sawyer. You are charged that on the 6th of November 2018, in Castleton, in the county of Derbyshire, you murdered Marcus James Klein, contrary to common law. In answer to this charge, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court, and anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the charge as it has been read to you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Is there anything you wish to say in reply?’

  Sawyer shook his head, turned to the uniforms. ‘Guards. Take me away.’

  ‘It’s early. So you’ll be detained for the day and taken to South Sheffield Magistrate’s Court later this afternoon.’

  ‘Not keeping me overnight?’

  Keating shook his head. ‘No room.’

  One of the uniforms stepped around Sawyer and opened the side door that led to the back of the station.

  Sawyer turned to Sherman. ‘I’d love a lasagne for lunch, Gerry. If that’s okay.’

  He walked through the door, down to the cells.

  67

  Sawyer lay on his side, eyes open, facing the scratch-marked wall by his cell bed. They would probably build a case aro
und his mental state. Point to the bare-knuckle fight, the clash with Viktor Beck’s bodyguard, the reckless solo journey into the old mine to apprehend Dennis Crawley. Maybe they knew more about his covert involvement in the Briggs case. Surely Shepherd hadn’t reported his discovery of the listening device? The multiple examples of insubordination would support the case that he was unstable enough to force the transfer from London, befriend his mother’s killer, then finish him off in the same way he had murdered her.

  He refused breakfast, but got his lasagne: Tesco own brand, but at least fully defrosted. They had taken his phones, tactical pen, wallet and belt. He was allowed to keep his jacket, and since his boots were slip-on, he was spared the indignity of having his shoelaces confiscated.

  A couple of hours later, the uniforms escorted him back to the custody desk and Sherman booked him out for the journey to Sheffield. Keating appeared, and followed Sawyer and the uniforms back down the corridor past the cells.

  The uniforms paused at the door leading out to the private car park. Sawyer turned and held out his hands, wrists a few inches apart.

  Keating sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’ He clicked the handcuffs into place. ‘It’s just for the journey to the transport.’

  Sawyer nodded, smiled. ‘No comment.’

  Another prisoner stepped into the corridor near the external door, escorted by a burly uniformed officer. He was young, maybe teenage, black, and wore baggy tracksuit trousers and a shabby hoodie with a stain near the collar. The uniform cuffed him and he shuffled into the space behind Sawyer, bringing a reek of sour sweat and cheap deodorant.

  The burly officer opened the door, and led Sawyer and the other prisoner outside. It was a freezing afternoon, close to dusk, and Sawyer hunched his shoulders as he walked across the car park and climbed into the side door of a tall, white G4S secure transport van. The vehicle was effectively a portable prison: a detachable semi-trailer of individual containment cages bolted to the tractor unit. Another large man, an escort officer in a black G4S gilet with shirt and tie, waited by an open side door at the centre of the semi-trailer. The station uniform and escort officer signed the handover, and the escort officer took the other prisoner inside, then climbed back out and nodded to Sawyer.

  He ducked inside, and the officer followed. There were six cages, all empty, apart from the one on the left near the back, which contained the other prisoner, slumped forward on the narrow flip-down seat. It smelt dank and metallic.

  The officer put a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. ‘First on the right.’ Sawyer sidestepped into the cell. ‘Face me.’ He turned and squeezed out a smile. The officer closed and locked the finely meshed metal door. He opened a square, letterbox-style flap in the centre. Sawyer fed his hands through. The officer unlocked and removed his cuffs, then closed and secured the flap.

  Sawyer lowered himself onto the flip-down seat. The officer closed the van side door and stepped into the cab, alongside the driver, who was just out of Sawyer’s sight. Both men sat in front of a transparent security screen. The officer looked back and checked on the two prisoners. He nodded, and the van moved off.

  They made slow, steady progress. There were no side windows, and Sawyer could only navigate by the view from the windscreen. He guessed they would stick to the gritted roads, but would need to pass through a few minor routes to take the most direct path out of the National Park, up near Hollow Meadows. He closed his eyes, and dropped his head, resting his elbows on his knees.

  Around half an hour into the journey, the other prisoner made a grunting noise and Sawyer raised his eyes. He was standing, stretching, puffing out his chest.

  He saw Sawyer watching and narrowed his eyes. ‘What you do?’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘I didn’t do it.’

  The man guffawed and pointed at him. ‘You’ll fit right in. In prison. That’s where all the innocent men go. All the guilty ones are still out there, getting away with it.’

  The van lurched to the side, aquaplaning on a patch of ice. The driver corrected it, spinning the wheels.

  ‘These fuckers!’ The prisoner raised his voice. The man in the passenger seat looked over his shoulder. ‘They’re as bad as the coppers, innit? Fucking worse.’ He smiled, making sure the driver and assistant heard every word. ‘At least the coppers are doing proper work. These fuckers are their little bitches.’ His shoulders heaved as he chugged out a baritone burst of laughter. ‘They do this cos they can’t get a job on the bins.’

  The assistant rapped on the screen. ‘Keep it down back there.’

  ‘Fuck you, man. You can’t silence me. I know my rights. I’m not under caution here. I’m “in transit”, innit? I can say what I want.’

  Sawyer sighed and tipped his head back against the van wall. ‘Take it easy. Your behaviour will be noted. The judge will take it into account.’

  The prisoner sneered at him. ‘The fuck do you know so much about it?’

  The van picked up speed. Sawyer guessed they would have reached the A57 and turned up into the single-track roads that twisted through the Bradfield dales.

  Sawyer smiled. ‘I know so much about it because I’m a copper. A Detective Inspector. As for you, you’re what we call a “toerag”.’

  ‘You what?’ The prisoner barged forward into the mesh of the cage, gripping it with both hands. The clattering sound alerted the assistant driver, who turned his head again and raised off his seat. ‘Sit down back there.’

  The van slowed, and the driver said something to the assistant. They turned off, taking a left, and picked up speed again.

  ‘Hey!’ The prisoner shouted. ‘I object to my fellow prisoner. I do not wish to be transported with a copper. You are under breach of my human rights, innit.’

  The assistant driver laughed. ‘You can get out and walk if you like, mate. Take you a while, though, in this weather.’

  The snow had started again, and the van’s wipers swept across the windscreen at double time. Sawyer leaned into the right wall of his cage as they crawled up an incline, then hopped over the brow of a hill and picked up speed again. The van drifted slightly on a slippery patch, and the driver corrected it.

  He heard the driver’s voice. ‘Pretty bad.’

  The assistant looked at him. ‘Don’t brake too hard.’

  Sawyer’s stomach lurched as the van fishtailed, and the driver overcorrected, tilting it to the right.

  The other prisoner banged on the cage with his fists. ‘Did you hear me? I demand alternative—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up back there!’ Driver’s voice.

  The assistant turned again, and checked on the two prisoners. Sawyer clocked the emotion in his eyes: irritation, fear?

  He turned back to the driver and leaned forward, squinting through the heavy snow. ‘Take the next right. Get back down to the main A-road. None of these are gritted.’

  ‘There’s a bridge.’

  ‘It’s high enough.’

  The van jolted to the right, fishtailing again. They were still going too fast.

  The assistant looked across to the driver, raised his voice. ‘Steer into the turn.’

  ‘I know what—’

  ‘We won’t get under. It’s too low.’

  ‘Easy.’

  The brakes squealed.

  ‘Fucking wheels are locked.’

  A couple of seconds’ silence, as the car aquaplaned again, then jolted, as the right front wheels bumped up onto something rough.

  Sawyer dropped to the floor, instinctively staying low.

  The other prisoner was thrown against the back of his cage. ‘What the fuck?’

  Sawyer caught a glimpse through the windscreen: the van headlights shone off the yellow-and-black reinforced rim of a low footbridge, smothered in snow. The van had tilted to the left, on the right kerb. The front-right corner crunched into the rim of the bridge, peeling away the cab roof and tearing into the right side of the semi-trailer. The impact spun Sawyer round, bouncing his left shoulder off the front side of the ca
ge. He tumbled to the floor.

  Shouts from the driver. The assistant, ducking down. An almighty roar of splintering glass and collapsing metal.

  The brakes unlocked and the tyres screeched as the driver tried to steer away from the point of impact.

  And in a second, they were still, and silent. No engine. No headlights. Just the feeble glow of a streetlamp at the near side of the bridge.

  Sawyer looked up, checked himself. His shoulder blared with pain, but there were no obvious external injuries.

  He looked over at the other prisoner: he was sprawled at the base of his cage, groaning. The assistant driver lolled forward, breathing hard, forehead sunk into the pillow of a dirty-white airbag. Sawyer couldn’t see the driver, but he would have caught the worst of the collision from the front-right corner.

  Again, he listened to himself. And again, the irritation. The boredom.

  He bowed his head, steadying his breathing, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

  Something cold prickled at the back of his neck. He looked up.

  The impact had hacked through the corner of the van and semi-trailer, and peeled back the bodywork like a sardine can. Almost half of the right side of the trailer’s roof had been scalped, and Sawyer gazed up through the ragged hole to the night sky above, snow falling onto his face.

  68

  Sawyer got to his feet and felt for a hand-grip in the lateral supports at the side of the cage. He shunted himself up, pushing one foot against the door and the other into the near side wall. The rip in the bodywork had caught a few chunks of concrete from the bridge; he pushed them out and raised his elbow through the hole and planted it out onto the roof. He steeled himself and pushed off his leg, reaching up and out with his other arm. The snow had eased, and he puffed away a few eddying flakes as he hauled himself up, out of the van.

  He had to squeeze through a tight gap between the peeled metal and the bridge’s reinforced rim, but he managed to crawl out, flat onto the cold. He slid over to the back of the roof and dropped down onto the road behind.