The DI Jake Sawyer Series Box Set

by Andrew Lowe

  The van had mounted the kerb and rolled up a roadside verge, by a low footbridge that spanned the road. Sawyer scrambled to the top of the verge and looked down on the scene. The van’s front-right corner had caught the bridge rim and the bodywork had been torn away, above the cab and partway through the trailer roof. The snow on the road and lower verge sparkled with broken glass.

  He slid down to the right side of the van and looked into the smashed driver-side window. Both the driver and assistant were slumped forward into their airbags. The driver lolled back and looked around. No obvious injuries. He squinted at Sawyer, confused, then reached down to his door handle. The van shook as the driver tried to open the buckled door.

  Sawyer moved to the back of the van and looked down the road. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but from the featureless sweep of the farmland, and the intended destination in the northern part of Sheffield, he guessed they were somewhere around High Bradfield, with Middlewood Ambulance Station ten minutes away.

  Headlights on the road behind. The van crash had partly blocked the single track road beneath the bridge, leaving just enough room to squeeze past. Sawyer stepped out into the road and waved his arms up high, flagging down the car. It slowed and stopped, at a cautious distance from the van, and sat in the road for a few seconds, engine running. Sawyer walked over, and the driver—a middle-aged man in a chunky work jacket—opened the window a few inches.

  A second car slowed, much further back along the road. It pulled up, keeping its headlights on.

  The man looked up at Sawyer. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Mounted the kerb and hit the bridge. We’ve got a couple of casualties. Could you help us out?’

  The man studied Sawyer for a few seconds. He switched on his full beams to get a better look at the crash. ‘Nasty. What’s in the van?’

  ‘Nothing. Secure transport. We’ve just dropped off some supplies down at Buxton. Heading back up to the depot in Worrall.’

  The man nodded. ‘Anyone hurt? I’m first-aid trained.’ He switched off the engine and stepped out, leaving the lights on. He stood in front of Sawyer and rolled his neck, cracking the muscles.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything serious, but we should get an ambulance here.’ Sawyer held out a hand. ‘I’m Lloyd. The driver.’

  The man shook. ‘Phil. I’m a mechanic.’ He ducked his head and walked over to the van, studying the trailer, assessing the damage. ‘You’ll need more than an ambulance, mate. This is going nowhere.’

  ‘Could you call the ambulance, though? My phone’s out of charge.’

  The man turned. ‘Sure.’ He took a phone out of his inside pocket. ‘You’re going to need a recovery truck with a winch, too. Hold on… is that G4S? Security?’

  Sawyer slipped into the car and inserted the ignition key, lifted from the man’s jacket pocket. He closed the door and started the engine. The man looked back, confused. Sawyer floored it, spinning the tyres on the wet road. The man made a move to block Sawyer’s exit, but he was forced to jump back as Sawyer sped past, through the gap, under the bridge.

  69

  Sawyer stuck to the minor roads and farm tracks, taking care through the fresh snow, staying just inside the northeastern border of the National Park. He crossed over the Midhope Reservoir, approaching his father’s house from the east. He concealed the car in a clump of trees outside the village and joined a steep walking route, which wound up above the banks of the Langsett Reservoir, into the open fields around the back of the house. It was clear that his father had some kind of security device to give warning of an approach from the dirt track at the front, and he might have installed something similar for visitors around the back. But Harold was scheduled to appear at the art festival that evening, and the car’s clock told Sawyer he should have at least an hour’s grace before he was due back home.

  His jacket was light, and the cold gnawed through to his bones, making him shiver. At the top of the hill, he picked his way through the surrounding fields until he spotted the garage and outbuilding at the back of the house. As he moved closer, through the trees, he could see a light on, somewhere round the back. Sawyer moved closer to the outbuildings and matched his position with the view from the security camera. It was still in place: apparently undisturbed. He wrenched it away, and stuffed the device and cable ties into his pocket.

  He moved in, keeping low, and tracked around the side of the house, at the back of the garage. His father’s Volvo wasn’t parked in its usual spot, but it was impossible to say when he might return.

  Sawyer inched around the wall of the garage and peered into the small window on the far wall. It had been covered with something from inside: a tarpaulin or temporary curtain. He looked away, and drove his elbow into the glass, smashing it. He reached in and lifted up the tarpaulin, which hung a few inches below the frame. The burgundy BMW was parked in the centre, taking up most of the floor space.

  He closed his eyes, ran through the explanations. His father had been looking out for him, keeping a check on Klein, both. Maybe he had secretly bought Sawyer’s version, and wanted to confirm it by monitoring Klein’s movements, which just so happened to include Sawyer? But why go to so much trouble to acquire the car from Dr Kelly, and keep it hidden, and hard to monitor?

  He unlocked the latch, pushed the window open and wriggled inside. The interior was damp and smelt of rubber and car polish. The garage was tiny, maybe even purpose-built to house the BMW. He side-stepped around the car and looked along the single shelf bolted to the wall at the back: neatly lined-up bottles of oil, wax, screenwash, and a green plastic box, which folded open to reveal a set of hand tools: screwdrivers, wrenches, and a set of Allen keys held together by a coiled metal ring. Sawyer unhooked the keys and opened the ring out into a wavy length of wire. Digging a small pair of cutters out of the toolbox, he snipped the wire into two sections and stuffed them into his pocket. He pushed up off the car and wriggled back outside, through the window.

  At the front of the house, the light he’d seen earlier filtered through from the passage connecting his father’s reading room to the studio. No noise or movement from inside. If the dogs were in, they would hear him and recognise his scent, but he wanted to stay undetected for as long as possible.

  He took out the pieces of wire and got to work on the front door lock. It was fiddly work, with little light, and the wire was thicker than his usual tools, and barely fit for purpose. But it only took a few minutes to feel out the tension and pick his way his way through the pins. He released the lock and opened the door. Rufus and Cain bounded through from the open door to Harold’s reading room and greeted him, pawing and licking. He petted them and walked through into the reading room. The dogs followed, and when they were safely at the far side of the room, he slipped back out into the connecting passage and closed the door behind him, feeling guilty.

  Sawyer walked through into the studio and turned on a small table lamp by the sofa. He took a breath and looked around. Harold’s work in progress had been removed, probably for the festival, and the room seemed bare without the easel in the centre providing a splash of colour above the chevron pattern tiles. He checked the side door that led through to the outhouse. It was locked, by a new-looking mechanism with a small keyhole: too thin for the strips of wire he’d used on the front door.

  He looked around: blank canvases stacked in the corner, colour-coded shelving, multi-drawered cabinet on the red shelf. As usual, everything was neatly arranged, in its rightful place. Nothing extraneous. Nothing for show. A row of paint pots had been arranged along the yellow shelf, with their swatch labels ordered in colour intensity from left to right: oily black to gleaming white. Sawyer leaned in; the swatches on the right had been ordered into a perfect horizontal line, with the edges of the coloured strips all uniformly aligned. But the third pot along—a deep red, the slightest shade up from black—hadn’t quite been turned to fit; the right-hand edge of the swatch strip was the only one that didn’t connect
to its neighbour.

  Sawyer picked up the pot; it was surprisingly light. Something rattled inside as he shook it. He prised off the lid and took out a small key. He hurried over to the connecting door and tried the key in the slot; it fitted perfectly, and he unlocked the door and walked through into the outbuilding.

  He turned on the overhead light. The building had a stone floor, and contained a single room, around twenty-feet square. The walls were lined with metal shelving units, full of marked boxes with various supplies and accessories. Sawyer browsed through a notepad on the top of a dresser in the corner. It contained a scrupulous audit of materials and household maintenance: groceries, electricals, large and small repairs, building work. The detail was extraordinary, and disturbing. Why would a man who lived alone bother to maintain such a meticulous record?

  Next, Sawyer examined the steel door in the far wall. It had been fitted with a heavy duty lock connected to an electronic security system with a wall panel that showed a vivid red light. He tried the handle, but the door was so solidly fitted, it barely rattled in the frame as he tugged.

  He looked back, and up, to the small, frosted glass window set high into the roof. From the mini camera footage, he had seen Harold enter and turn on the light. Then, after a pause, a shadow had passed over the high window. He pulled a short stepladder out from between the shelving and climbed up to the window. A slim, protective wallet had been wedged into a groove in the brickwork. He took it, and climbed back down.

  The wallet contained a blank white card with a magnetic strip. Sawyer held it against the reader on the panel by the steel door. The red light turned to green. He tried the handle again, and eased the door open.

  70

  Stone steps, leading down. Pale light. Sawyer closed the heavy door behind him and crept forward, crouching, trying to get an early glimpse around the corner to the room below. He paused at the bottom and took in his surroundings.

  The cellar had been converted into a clean, uncluttered basement: tiled floor, white walls. A dark-wood bookcase covered the far wall, below a tiny frosted skylight window in the corner. A television had been mounted to the facing wall, looking down on an armchair with a bed extension. A small table and chair sat in the second corner, before a compact kitchen: cupboard above, work surface with sink and kettle, mini fridge below.

  The ceiling was dotted with dim spotlights. A fan with three slim wooden blades sat in the centre, spinning at a low speed, barely disturbing the mulchy air.

  Sawyer looked around to the near side corner, next to the stairs. A compact treadmill had been pushed against the wall, beside a lidless steel toilet bowl and flushing handle. A ventilation grid was fitted high in the wall above the toilet bowl.

  He moved away from the stairs and stepped around to the side of the sofa bed. An elderly man lay asleep in the chair, turned onto his right side, head resting against the back cushion. He was in his seventies, with a scruffy wisp of white hair and a thick moustache. A book lay flat over his hip, and his knees were raised up and pressed together, protruding from a thick blanket, which had gathered at the foot of the chair. Music played from the slim headphones around the man’s neck: light and classical, low volume.

  Sawyer reached down and eased the blanket away. The man’s legs were restrained by sturdy ankle cuffs. The connecting links were clasped to a long, thin chain, which was locked to a thick, U-shaped anchor, riveted to a metal panel in the floor. Presumably, the length of chain would allow the man to walk around the room but would not reach the top of the staircase.

  The man stirred in his sleep and shifted position, bringing his left arm up around his neck. He wore a chunky rotary wristwatch.

  Sawyer leaned in, studying the man’s face: thin lips; flat, pock-marked nose. His hair was completely white, but his eyebrows were still hirsute, with a faint tint of grey. The moustache hair was slightly darker, almost black in places.

  He opened his eyes.

  Deep-set. Dark irises, almost black.

  Sawyer startled, and took a step backwards.

  The man raised himself up on his elbow, clearly shocked by his visitor’s presence, but too frail to move quickly. He squinted up at Sawyer, breathing heavily. His head dropped and he drew in a deep, shuddering sigh.

  When he raised his head again, a darkness had seeped in behind his eyes. His stare stabbed into Sawyer. It was the man in his sketch; the man in his nightmare.

  The man who had murdered his mother.

  William Caldwell sat upright in the chair, keeping his black eyes on Sawyer. He reached a hand up to his forehead and wiped away a film of sweat. ‘Hello.’ The voice was cracked but resonant. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Jake Sawyer. Detective Inspector.’

  Caldwell reached down by the side of the chair and took a sip from a glass of water. ‘How long have you been looking for me?’

  Sawyer broke his gaze, eyes darting around the room. ‘All my life.’

  Caldwell sat forward, rattling his chains. ‘I wish I could say I was sorry. But I’m not. The years have washed that out of me.’

  A scalding rush in Sawyer’s stomach; a swell of nausea. He took another step back from Caldwell and steadied himself on the bookcase.

  When he looked up again, Caldwell had perched on the edge of the sofa, staring up at him, arms folded. Sawyer got a flash of the black-and-white photograph: Sheila, on the beach; the shorter man beside her, grinning.

  ‘I saw your wife.’

  ‘Oh, yes? Shacked up again, I expect. Probably days after I went missing. Is she still at the Padley house?’

  Sawyer ignored him. He steadied the breathing, rode the nausea.

  Caldwell rubbed at his eyes. ‘You’ve done well. Not an easy thing, to dig up a dead man.’ He angled his head. ‘And you didn’t follow Jess’s advice, did you? You looked back.’

  Sawyer shuddered at the sound of his mother’s name. He walked to the sink by the toilet bowl, ran the tap, splashed water on his face. ‘How long have you been here?’

  Caldwell turned, watching him. ‘As a guest of your father? Many years. He doesn’t let me see news or newspapers.’ He nodded to the television. ‘Just DVDs from time to time, as a treat. But I have my watch, and I mark the days.’

  ‘Why not just kill yourself? Lots of ways to do it down here.’

  Caldwell sneered. ‘Like I said, I’m already dead, to the world. I stay alive for my captor’s pleasure.’ The sneer stretched into a foul little smile.

  Sawyer nodded. ‘He won’t kill you, and you won’t kill yourself.’

  ‘As Plato said, “Life must be lived as play”. And there’s always hope. Hope that he’ll keel over one day when he’s down here, or when he takes me out for exercise. He thinks he’s made my life a living hell. But he’s also a prisoner, of his choice of revenge.’

  Sawyer walked over to the kitchen and opened the cupboard. Bread. A few packets. He pulled open the drawer. White plastic knives, forks, spoons.

  ‘Looking for a hammer, Jake?’

  A clunking sound from above. Both Sawyer and Caldwell looked up and fell silent.

  The heavy door at the top of the stairs squeaked as it opened.

  Footsteps, descending the stairs.

  Sawyer braced.

  His father peered around the corner, from the bottom of the staircase. He turned his back, and reached up to a high shelf near the bookcase, setting down something heavy, then turned to face them both.

  Harold Sawyer wore a fitted suit and red tie beneath a winter overcoat, and a neutral expression. Down here, Sawyer was struck by his father’s size, his bulk. Caldwell was a waif in comparison.

  Harold met his son’s gaze. ‘Chilly out there.’ He moved into the light, with his back to the bookcase. ‘I heard your voice, son.’

  Caldwell sneered again. ‘Shall we run a little debrief, Harold? All good coppers together.’

  ‘Is this your “commensurate justice”, Dad? He took a life, so you take his away?’

  Harol
d dropped his head. ‘There are fates worse than death.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘I thought only God forgives, or condemns.’

  Caldwell released a quiet laugh. ‘That’s how he’s justified this. Don’t you see? It’s the ultimate God complex. Every villain is the hero in his own mind.’

  Harold looked up, at Sawyer. ‘He was my old boss at the station. They had an affair, Jake.’

  Caldwell waved a hand, enjoying himself. ‘I had sex with her. Your dead mum.’

  Harold kept eye contact with Sawyer. ‘He does this sometimes. Tries to goad me into finishing him off. Ignore him. Focus on me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have sex with her now, obviously. I’m in a bad way, but I’m not that desperate.’

  Harold continued. ‘We had problems. They met at a function. I think Jess realised it was a mistake. She got close to Klein. He couldn’t stand that.’

  Sawyer moved nearer to Caldwell. ‘He saw Klein put the number on his door. He offered Casey a way out of the burglary charge if he’d break in to Klein’s, steal him the hammer.’

  Caldwell stood up, chains clanking. ‘And then I murdered the silly bitch,’ he doubled over, laughing, ‘and the teacher did my time.’ He held out his arms, stepped closer to Sawyer. ‘Come on, Jake. That was clever. You’ve got to give it to me.’ He drew eye contact, and lingered there for a while, glaring at Sawyer, arms by his sides. ‘Listen. If you’re still angry at my hitting you and your brother, and killing your yappy little dog…’ He dropped his head into a childlike pose of mock contrition: bottom lip pouting out. ‘I’m truly sorry. But look at you now. Detective Inspector! I can’t help but feel partially responsible for your success.’

  Sawyer turned back to Harold; his voice was flat. ‘And you’ve had him here, for over twenty years?’

  Caldwell slumped back onto the chair.

  Harold nodded, stepped forward. ‘I kept him in the house for a while. Did all this work myself about ten years ago. The security door, soundproof cladding, air purifier. He’s got the treadmill, but I exercise him outside from time to time, if he’s been civil.’