Chase The Devil: (DI Jake Sawyer series Book 5) Page 17

  ‘Why are you here?’ said Jerome.

  Sawyer smiled. ‘You trained him in basic grammar. I thought he was just a coffee bearer.’

  Jerome folded his stocky arms, and tilted his head to the side.

  ‘None of us needs this. We have to find a way out before something irreversible happens.’

  Dale bowed his head forward, revealing the bald patch on his scalp. ‘You have a unique way with threats, Sawyer. It’s a shame you’re so virtuous. You’d make a decent enforcer for… a strip-club owner.’

  ‘Thing is,’ said Jerome. ‘There’s one of you and two of us. So you’re not really carrying a lot of weight, in negotiation terms.’

  Sawyer looked over his shoulder. Austin Fletcher entered and took a spot just inside the room, his broad frame blocking the door.

  Dale slapped his palms onto the desk. ‘Loving the theatre, Sawyer! Are you two best friends now? Or is there something more?’

  Jerome sniggered. Fletcher fixed his icy blue eyes on him.

  ‘Disengagement,’ said Sawyer. ‘Amicable separation. You get on with your new political career. This is all a bit of a mess started by good old-fashioned sexual jealousy. I’m sure you’ve got the pick of the interns at the mayor’s office, Dale. We all need to access our inner grown-ups and get on with our lives.’

  Dale’s expression darkened. ‘There’s a lot of beef flying around this little office, Sawyer. Hard to see how we can limit the damage completely. There’s just so much still unresolved.’

  Sawyer glanced at Fletcher: he still had Jerome in the full beam of his glare, and Jerome returned the look with interest. Fletcher’s forehead had reddened, the colour seething beneath his scraped-back blond hair.

  ‘For one,’ continued Dale, ‘Austin. I was hoping to speak to you about the fates of Marco and Hector.’

  Fletcher ignored Dale, kept his eyes on Jerome.

  A faint smile flickered at the edge of Jerome’s lips. ‘How’s your daughter, Fletcher? How’s little Emma?’ He took a step forward. ‘All grown-up now. Although she’s been that way for quite a while, hasn’t she? Thanks to Marla’s friend, Mr Wagner. Although who’s to say she wasn’t broken in by someone else before then?’

  Fletcher’s breathing accelerated. His shoulders rose higher, fell further. Sawyer tried to catch his eye, but he couldn’t be diverted.

  Jerome stepped closer to Fletcher. He was the taller man, but Fletcher’s boot heels raised him close to eye level. ‘Thing is, Fletcher. Maybe you don’t care about the consequences of your executive decisions. But not-so-little Emma might soon bear the cost on your behalf.’

  Fletcher let fly a bludgeoning right hook. Jerome tried to swing his head away, but Fletcher’s fist crunched into his cheek, sending him crashing into the back wall by the window. Dale pushed his chair away and opened the desk drawer.

  Jerome slipped out a dark-bladed dagger. Fletcher reached into his jacket and produced his serrated hunting knife. Jerome passed the dagger into his left hand, lunged forward and slashed at Fletcher, forcing him to jerk his head away. As Fletcher corrected himself, Jerome caught him with a punch to the jaw that dropped him onto the rug. Fletcher reached out a hand to push himself back upright, but the fabric slipped against the floor and he sprawled onto his side, momentarily helpless. Jerome stepped in and wrapped one hand around Fletcher’s jaw, pushing his head back, exposing the soft flesh of his neck for the dagger.

  Sawyer shifted around close to the desk and, with rigid fingers, flashed out a biu gee strike to Jerome’s throat. The big man staggered back into the desk, choking, but keeping a grip on the dagger. Sawyer covered the distance in an instant, grappling and immobilising Jerome’s knife arm beneath his own forearm, and snapping back his face with a palm strike to the chin. As Jerome forced his head back around to face his attacker, Sawyer raised himself and crashed the top of his head into the bridge of Jerome’s nose, forcing him to drop the dagger to the floor. Jerome bellowed in fury, and shook his head, spattering the glass-topped desk with blood.

  Fletcher was on his feet now, moving in on Jerome.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Dale had taken a boxy black Glock handgun from his desk drawer. He aimed the weapon at Fletcher, pushing himself into the far wall. Jerome doubled over, groaning, holding his hands over his crumpled nose. Dale grinned, pointed the gun at Sawyer. ‘Let’s save this for pay-per-view sometime.’ Fletcher staggered backwards and made off down the corridor. Dale cocked the gun. ‘I don’t advise a sideline in conflict resolution, Sawyer. I appreciate your time, though. We’ll be in touch.’

  Fletcher had disappeared by the time Sawyer made it down to the club entrance. Head whirling, he charged out across the back streets, past the glass-fronted Podium building and under the rusted iron bridge, to the small car park.

  Dale had taken the gun, not Fletcher; it had probably been acquired by his new sidekick. Sawyer had lost all security over his knowledge of Dale’s involvement in Shaun’s death. And what of Fletcher’s motive? The scene in Dale’s office had looked planned, but Sawyer had been just as surprised by Fletcher’s arrival as Dale.

  He took out his phone. Text message from Walker, sent a few minutes earlier.

  GOT SOME INFO

  Sawyer climbed into the Mini and called Walker; he answered instantly.

  ‘Are you ever not available?’ Sawyer opened the glovebox and dug a lemon bon-bon from a paper packet.

  ‘Late shift, sir,’ said Walker. ‘But I do have a life, too.’

  Sawyer slid the sweet into his mouth. ‘What have you got?’

  Again, the sound of Walker closing a door. He lowered his voice. ‘A few names clicked with your criteria, but one really sticks out. Scott Walton. Past violence, meat industry connection. It’s colourful stuff. Released from HMP Doncaster in 2002, after three years. Aged twenty-one.’

  ‘Crime?’

  ‘Involuntary manslaughter. Killed his father in a domestic incident. I haven’t had a chance to go further back. I wanted to see if you thought it fit.’

  Sawyer gazed out at the lamplit car park, keeping his eyes away from the rear-view mirror. ‘What’s the animal angle?’

  ‘Walton stayed at a place called Norfolk Park Probation Hospital in Sheffield. It’s an AP. Approved Premise.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘They used to call them probation hostels.’

  ‘Yeah. Run by social workers. But then Walton was assigned a job at ProPak Foods in North Yorkshire. Ready meal factory, basically. He was supervised for a while until they believed he wasn’t a risk. I’ve lost the work paper trail there, but the ProPak place was warned by Food Hygiene about meat-handling practices. I cross-reffed Walton with animal charities, like you said. At the time of his stay at Norfolk Park, he was a member of PETA, and a donor to something called Blue Cross.’

  ‘Abandoned pets.’

  ‘As far as I can tell, he hasn’t renewed his memberships since 2004. He had a public order D&D caution in 2006. Gave the address of his mother’s house in Crookesmoor. Doesn’t look like he’s there any more.’

  Sawyer chewed on the sweet. ‘Who signed off his psychiatric report from the probation hospital?’

  ‘Dr Edgar Bullmore. He left there when he retired five years ago, at sixty-seven. Stayed on quite late. I’ll send you his address if you think he’s worth talking to.’

  ‘Please, yes. I’d like to know more about Walton’s past. But… I suppose you’ll need to feed this work back through official channels.’

  Walker hesitated. ‘Yeah. Sooner or later.’

  ‘Let me talk to Bullmore first. If it doesn’t go anywhere, it doesn’t matter. If it’s interesting, you can take it to Keating. How about Stuart Sutton?’

  ‘No addresses. But he has been to the Hathersage SIS as recently as three weeks ago. I could push a bit further, see if he has another appointment coming up.’

  Sawyer started the engine. ‘Great work, Matt.’

  ‘How’s Maggie, sir?’

  A second flush of guilt. ‘I�
��m sure she’s fine.’

  38

  MARCH 2014

  Sawyer set down Maggie’s glass of red wine and slid into the booth. ‘And now, the end is near.’

  Maggie forced a smile, sipped the wine. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Are they really so short of Detective Inspectors down in London?’

  Sawyer took a slurp of Diet Coke. ‘They probably have plenty of bad ones.’

  She gave him a look. ‘Will the Drummond thing stay on your record?’

  ‘Thing? I didn’t lift a finger.’

  ‘It still held up your transfer.’

  He pulled open a packet of smoky bacon crisps and spread them across the flattened wrapper. ‘It’s gone. I’ve already met my new colleagues. Moving into the future, remember? Informed by the past but not defined by it.’

  ‘It’s all about the day by day when you have young kids. The hour to hour, sometimes. Mia is six going on twelve. Freddy has skipped crawling and cruising and is concentrating on breaking things. I’m hoping Mia will be able to dress them both for me soon. I’m all set up for the private therapy side now. Bit more work from home. Easier to give them attention.’ She sloshed the wine around her glass. ‘Just looking for my first client.’

  Sawyer crunched on a few crisps, smiled. ‘No way. You’re too close to me. You couldn’t be objective.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I have a few potentials lined up.’

  ‘You might be needed by Keating even more. He’s setting up the Buxton MIT soon.’

  Maggie tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘Well, this is the thing. You’re leaving at such an exciting time.’

  He held her eye contact. ‘I need to get away, find a bit of distance. But don’t worry. I’m like The Terminator.’

  She smiled. ‘You’ll be back.’

  They shared a silence. Sawyer licked his finger and dabbed at a few crisp fragments. ‘Klein’s up for release in less than five years.’

  Maggie rested her fingertips on the back of his hand. ‘That shouldn’t be your concern.’

  He looked up at the chalkboard food menu. Welcome to the Prince of Wales, Baslow. Pie of the Week, Soup of the Day. ‘How can it not be my concern? He didn’t kill my mother. Somebody else did. And maybe they’re still busy, killing other people’s mothers.’

  ‘Is this you moving into the future?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll investigate it myself one day.’

  She shook her head. ‘Excellent idea. Focus on cases that don’t resonate too deeply.’

  Sawyer took his time over another mouthful of crisps, kept his eyes on her. ‘I thought I was pretty good at sarcasm. But you taught me all I know.’

  ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

  He laughed, took another sip of Coke. Maggie squeezed his hand, then withdrew her fingers and picked up her wine.

  Sawyer looked away. ‘So, have you completed all your work for Keating?’

  ‘Almost. I was helping with the case of a local lad from Matlock who’s been missing for a while now. Darren Coleman.’

  ‘I think Pittman mentioned that.’

  She nodded. ‘He was SIO. I worked with the family. His mother. Jesus Christ, Jake. It must be like a living death.’

  ‘Any other kids?’

  ‘No. Father a bit hands-off, too.’

  Sawyer finished his drink. ‘Most people’s lives don’t work out the way they hope. Because you build your fantasy when you’re young. And nobody adds shade to the light. They all focus on the things that they want to go well, but don’t factor in the unexpected. And that’s what makes up most of life.’

  ‘The unexpected?’

  ‘Yeah. Partly because we can’t see inside each other’s heads, and we’re good at only showing the version of ourselves we want people to see. But you don’t know what people are going through. You can never know the full picture. In fact, you sometimes have to avoid listening to people who claim to know someone well. Their viewpoint is too clouded with emotion. How long has he been gone for?’

  ‘Just over a year.’

  He dropped his gaze to the table. ‘Yeah. Living death. She’s in limbo. Neither one thing nor another. And after all this time, you and I both know he’s probably gone for good, and his mother will probably go to her grave with the mystery unsolved. But there’s no shelf life when it comes to love. The best thing his mother could get would be to have her son alive and well, back in her loving arms. The second best thing would be for her to know what happened to him, good or bad.’

  39

  PRESENT DAY

  Sawyer hung the heavy bag chain over a rafter in the corner of the sitting room. He secured the straps and pulled on his padded sparring gloves. Topless, he worked around the bag, sidestepping, pummelling it from multiple angles—jabs, hooks, combinations—all to his angry playlist (Nine Inch Nails, Suicide, KMFDM). As the blows landed, his mind flicked through the worst of his embedded horror show: his brother, crawling, hands leaving smears of blood across the grass; his mother’s shouts of shock, of panic, of pain; the terrible peace in his father’s eyes as he raised the shotgun on himself. Perhaps it was faulty logic, to try and soothe it or smother it; instead, he would take it on directly, punch it all out, force it into the fabric of the bag.

  He groaned and roared with each impact, squinting into the early morning sunshine as it broke through the blinds. He collapsed to his knees, muscles screaming, hair matted with sweat. Shower, then smoke. Only then, out into the world. Purged, fortified.

  His phone vibrated on the coffee table. Sawyer draped a towel over his shoulders and took the call.

  ‘Okay,’ said Sally. ‘It’s morning. Heavy breathing. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

  ‘Just been working out.’

  ‘Disappointing. I thought it might at least be aimed at the thought of me. I’m calling about your rag.’

  ‘Anything on it?’

  She lowered her voice. ‘Well. Unlike your mysterious cigarette end, yes. There is something on it. Only one set of prints. I cross-reffed them with our Virginia Mendez file. They’re hers. The blood is also hers. DNA match. And there’s the teeniest, tiniest hint of someone else. I got a hit from NDNAD. Male. He was swabbed for a minor offence well over ten years ago. Fella called—’

  ‘Scott Walton,’ said Sawyer.

  Sally sighed. ‘If you already know all this, Sawyer, why disrupt my beauty sleep? And don’t say I don’t need it.’

  Sawyer towelled his face. ‘He let her go.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Virginia.’

  ‘She’s still unconscious, Sawyer. We don’t know what happened to her, why she went missing for two weeks. But the hard part of that one is over.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s another thing heating up.’

  Bruce poured himself through the cat-flap; Sawyer watched him prowl over to his food bowl. ‘Why not kill her?’

  ‘Kill who? Virginia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sally clicked her teeth. ‘I guess we’ll find out when she’s well enough to talk.’

  Sawyer stood up. ‘I think I can find out sooner than that.’

  ‘You’re most welcome, Detective Sawyer.’ Dr Edgar Bullmore groped his way across the two basic chairs facing his desk, and eased himself into a large padded armchair on the other side. ‘I warn you, though. I fear my obsolescence is now so established, face-to-face visitors find it difficult to shut me up once I get going.’

  Sawyer stepped into the office. Bullmore had designed his workspace in sitting-room comfort at the back of his roomy bungalow in suburban Dronfield. A large window looked out on a tidy garden with a closely shorn lawn and miniature potting shed.

  Bullmore rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He was seventy-odd: slight and wizened, with a scruffy crop of thick white hair. But he dressed like a wedding guest: grey tweed suit, spotted blue-and-white tie. He took an overstuffed folder out of a drawer and thunked it down on the desk. ‘You’ve caught me at a goo
d time, in that I’m still alive. I was recently diagnosed with some ghastly tumour or other. Something beyond the remit of modern science, anyway.’ He opened the folder.

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Sawyer. ‘We all have our compromises.’

  Bullmore jerked his head up. ‘Oh, no cause for sorrow. My wife… died earlier this year. I almost said “passed”, but she is still very present for me. We thoroughly enjoyed our life together, but all good things come to an end. If they didn’t, they would soon cease to be good things.’

  ‘The pleasure principle,’ said Sawyer.

  Bullmore brightened. ‘Absolutely. I’m just grateful that I might expire in the space we shared together. I can’t bear the idea of fading away in some desolate care home.’ He smiled. ‘But you’re not here for my life story.’

  ‘As I mentioned on the phone, I’m interested in a man named Scott Walton. I believe you treated him when he was at Norfolk Park Probation Hospital.’

  ‘I did indeed. Many years ago. Psychiatrists are always advised to retain an emotional distance from patients, particularly those who have committed aberrative acts. But it was difficult not to empathise with Scott, given the horrendous circumstances that brought him under my care.’

  ‘Empathise?’

  ‘Well, yes. His experiences were so vivid. With some patients, my response can go beyond sympathy.’ Bullmore shuffled through some papers. ‘He’d come from HMP Doncaster. I signed him off his licence when he was twenty-one, I believe. There was a scheme connecting new releases to the ProPak Foods factory. Not pleasant work, so they struggled with recruitment.’

  Sawyer leaned forward. ‘And Norfolk was an Approved Premise.’

  Bullmore scoffed. ‘Approved Premise, Probation Hospital. Forgive my unreconstructed side, but there’s a lack of robustness. They tend to be run by very young people, and the labels change with the current sensitivities.’

  ‘Did you carry on seeing him after his release?’