Chase The Devil: (DI Jake Sawyer series Book 5) Page 3

  Burns sighed. ‘A psycho who’d murdered four women and was about to murder another.’

  Farrell bristled. ‘Mr Burns. Please. I need to hear Stephanie’s view.’

  Stephanie turned side-on to Farrell, facing the window. ‘Bowman tried to strangle Detective Sawyer. He beat him. Punched him. Detective Sawyer broke free and struck Bowman. He then grabbed the axe, they struggled again… And I looked away. Then I heard the impact, and saw Bowman with a wound in his neck. His throat.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I screamed when I saw it. There was so much blood.’

  Farrell glanced at Jordan Burns. ‘And did Detective Sawyer attempt to help David Bowman with the injury? Staunch the bleeding?’

  Stephanie looked at her husband, then Farrell. ‘I don’t… No. He didn’t. He came to me, checking I was okay. Comforting me. Bowman… He was done for. It was obvious.’

  Farrell made a note. ‘Why do you think Detective Sawyer struck Bowman with the axe, Stephanie? Why not try to subdue him with a non-lethal method?’

  Stephanie glared at Farrell. ‘Have you asked him? How would I know? Bowman was big and strong. I remember he said something about Detective Sawyer already being possibly concussed.’

  Farrell nodded. ‘He had been struck unconscious by Newton.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephanie. ‘So, he had to put a stop to it. He wasn’t strong enough to finish him off with fists. The axe was self-defence. I suppose he thought that Bowman would survive, with medical attention.’

  ‘And yet Detective Sawyer made no effort to assist Bowman medically, in even the most basic manner.’

  ‘He knew the other police were coming. He was checking on me.’

  Farrell frowned. ‘The innocent victim took precedence over the “psycho”.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephanie. ‘Look. Can I be honest with you? I was glad to see Bowman dying. I wish I could get the sight of him out of my head now, but at the time it’s what I wanted. Detective Sawyer is a good man. He was defending himself against a… monster, and he saved my life.’ She leaned forward. ‘And I think it’s a disgrace that you’re treating him like some criminal.’

  Jordan led Farrell out of the living room, down the hall. ‘I’m sorry about the hostility.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Steph has suffered a lot. She has some… physical compromises, as a result of her captivity. And there’s the psychological impact.’ He opened the front door.

  Farrell stepped forward, then paused. ‘I imagine there’s been an impact on your business. Quality Cottages, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Steph runs the admin. It’s all on hold. I can’t see her getting back to it anytime soon.’

  Farrell bowed his head, nodding. He kept his eyes on the floor. ‘Is Stephanie receiving any treatment for the “physical compromises” and the emotional fallout?’

  ‘She’s been told she’ll need physiotherapy. And counselling. The waiting lists are long, though. We can’t afford private at the moment.’

  Farrell looked up. ‘From what you say about your business, it seems you can’t afford not to.’ He moved to the door and eased it shut. ‘Jordan. You’re both victims here. There is more to the story. And if you can get the full picture, then there may be an opportunity for you to right this terrible wrong. Stephanie is correct. Detective Sawyer is a good man. But he’s the one who is free to carry on, financially secure, while you both suffer.’ He stepped closer. ‘It doesn’t seem fair to me. Stephanie says that Detective Sawyer saved her life, but he’s also risked your livelihood. Is that something you’re willing to accept?’

  When Farrell had left, Jordan made Stephanie a cup of tea and settled on the sofa with his laptop. He googled ‘IOPC’ and read about the processes for internal police investigations.

  When he looked up, Stephanie was still staring out at the garden, tea untouched on the coffee table. ‘Shall we head out later, babe? Bit of fresh air might help.’

  She sighed and forced a smile. ‘Yeah. I need to get back to work soon. Can’t face it yet, though.’

  Jordan nodded, turning back to his screen. ‘Strange, isn’t it? How they seem to be so keen on investigating what happened?’

  She looked at him. ‘I suppose they’re getting all sides of the story.’

  ‘I suppose. But there’s only one true version. And only two people who really know for sure.’ He glanced up. ‘Did you really not hear this gunshot? What’s that all about?’

  Stephanie sipped her tea. ‘No. I didn’t hear anything like that. I was a mess.’

  He closed the laptop. ‘How long have we known each other?’

  Stephanie raised her eyes to the ceiling, calculating. ‘Almost ten years now. Why?’

  ‘When you’ve been with someone for that long, you know them really well, don’t you? It’s almost like, what do you call it? Telepathy.’

  ‘Like a connection.’

  ‘Yeah. I think the policeman was satisfied with your account, don’t you?’

  She watched him over the top of the mug. ‘My account?’

  ‘But he only really spoke to you for ten minutes. And there’s a big difference between ten minutes and ten years.’

  Stephanie set the mug down. ‘You’re saying you don’t believe me?’

  Jordan shook his head. ‘I’m not saying that. I’m just concerned that you’re not giving… the full picture. I know you feel grateful towards Detective Sawyer, and so do I. But the police wouldn’t be digging like this if they didn’t think there was more to it.’ He got up from the sofa and took her hand. ‘Steph. For your own sake, for our sake, the truth is important. If you don’t feel you can tell the police, you could at least share the full story with me. Make it three people who know the one true version.’

  5

  Sawyer dug his way out of central Manchester and settled into a crawl of early evening traffic on Wilmslow Road, heading south. He played the third episode of the Mendez podcast again, turning up the volume at the sign-off section and Virginia’s teasing trailer for Episode Four.

  Her voice flooded the Mini: soft, lightly accented. ‘It’s clear that Darren was a typical teenager, working out his friends, reassessing his family relationships, learning his place in the world. But all teenagers have secrets.’

  A male voice: young, local sounding. ‘Yeah, you can’t just share all the hot places. There are rules.’

  Virginia again. ‘Next episode, in an exclusive interview, I’ll be speaking to an interesting character who I believe was close to Darren.’

  The young male voice again. ‘Some people are dumb, though. They stick up their hero shots. Bragging, yeah? But you’re not supposed to say anything, reveal the location.’

  Virginia. ‘Perhaps he can help us to… explore Darren’s inner world.’ The music faded up. ‘Join me next time on Finding Darren Coleman.’

  Sawyer jumped a red light and sped away, past the budget barbershops of inner-city Rusholme. He set his phone on speaker and made a call. It connected immediately.

  ‘Jake.’ Male voice, London accent.

  ‘Max. You well?’

  The clunk of a Zippo lighter. ‘Smalltalk answer? Fine. Detailed version? Broke my wrist playing squash.’ He puffed out smoke. ‘And, yes. It was squash. I hear you’re teacher’s pet again, then.’

  Sawyer turned into a broad driveway and passed through a small estate of three-storey flat blocks. ‘Just making new friends. Doing a bit of freelance while they make their case.’

  DI Max Reeves laughed. ‘PI Sawyer. So what do you need me to pretend I’m not doing?’

  Sawyer parked by a neatly trimmed lawn at the base of one of the buildings: temporary accommodation serving the nearby university. A few students were sprawled out on the grass, drinking and chatting. ‘Austin Fletcher.’

  Reeves coughed. ‘The geezer you called about last year? Ex-Marine.’

  ‘Can you dig a bit deeper for me? I know about the SAS thing, the sexual assault allegations, the attack on his commanding officer. This time it’s personal, though. Family
connections, anything in his earlier background. Biography stuff.’

  ‘I’ll have a go. But this doesn’t sound healthy, Jake.’

  Sawyer looked up at the flat block. ‘I’ll survive. But I can’t just sit on the naughty step while other people decide what to do with me.’

  Lewis Vaughan led Sawyer past the yellow-and-white kitchenette and waved a hand at a grey sofa and armchair facing a wall-mounted TV. ‘Have a seat. I could do you a tea?’

  Sawyer took the sofa; it was skeletal and uncomfortable, with scratchy cushion fabric. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ He looked around. ‘This is a lot more luxurious than my old student digs.’

  Vaughan smiled and flopped into the armchair. He wore a black-and-white Breton T-shirt, and was tall and angular, with quiffed blond hair. ‘This is a “Deluxe Studio”. My parents were pushy enough to get in early. It’s not that different from the others. Just a bit more space. Don’t have to share the kitchen.’

  Sawyer watched Lewis as he fiddled with his phone. ‘I’m investigating the Darren Coleman case, and obviously I’m also interested in Virginia, who was making a podcast about it. How long had you been seeing her?’

  Lewis kept his eyes on the phone, typing a message as he spoke. ‘A few months. We met towards the end of last year at a party. We were on the same media course.’

  ‘Was her podcast part of a project?’

  Lewis paused, finishing his message, then looked up. ‘Project?’

  ‘For the course.’

  ‘Ah. Yeah. We all had to do something. She read about Darren Coleman and was planning to make it a one-off thing, focusing on media coverage. But she really got into it and it grew into a kind of investigation.’

  Sawyer gazed out of the window at the ochre brickwork of the adjoining buildings, a sliver of blue sky between. ‘When did you last see her?’

  Lewis looked back down at his phone. ‘I told the police all this. About a week before she…’ He sighed. ‘She lived in a shared house but spent a lot of time here as it’s closer to the campus. I can show you the stuff she left if you like. She kept a few things here. Toiletries, a few clothes, bits and pieces. The police spoke to her housemates, but she only had clothes and books there. Do you think she might have gone back home? To Venezuela?’

  ‘There’s no record of her leaving the country. Her passport was retrieved by police from the shared house. Were you on good terms?’

  Lewis scowled. ‘Yeah. Never had a row or anything. She was normally pretty good at staying in touch so I was shocked when she went quiet. I have her mother’s number in Venezuela. Called a couple of times but never got through. I can let you have the number, if you like.’

  ‘Did she talk to you about the podcast project?’

  ‘A bit. We were out a lot, though. Parties.’

  ‘Clubs? Bars? Gigs?’

  ‘Bars, yeah. I don’t really go to clubs and I hate live music. Ginny dragged me out to some jazz thing once.’ Lewis screwed up his face and shook his head.

  ‘I’ve listened to the three published episodes of the podcast. Did she mention what she was working on for the other episodes? Someone she’d interviewed who might have been close to Darren? She calls him an “interesting character”.’

  ‘Not that I know. She was always well prepared. Meticulous. She recorded the episodes in the same way. Setting one in draft a week ahead of the broadcast date, and putting it live manually on the day.’ He tapped something into his phone. ‘The police checked the host, though. The next episode wasn’t uploaded.’

  ‘But it’s possible she might have recorded and edited it?’

  Lewis finished typing. ‘Yeah. She kept a laptop here, edited on it. I gave it to the police.’

  ‘And did she keep manual notes?’

  ‘She used her phone for that. It hasn’t been found. She did make some paper notes, though. There’s some stuff in a folder here. The police looked at it but didn’t take it away.’ Lewis kept his eyes on his phone, scrolling.

  Sawyer sat forward. ‘Have you heard of the phrase “you protest too much”?’

  He looked up. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You helped the police a lot, didn’t you, Lewis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re keen to let me know that. You’ve told me several times.’

  ‘Yes. It’s true.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. But you’ve told me about it so often it almost feels like you’re telling yourself..’

  Lewis set down the phone beside him. ‘I don’t know what—’

  ‘You’ve cooperated with the police. I already know that. You know it. But you keep telling me. It doesn’t sound like you’re proud of the fact, though. Almost the opposite. You’re protesting too much. It makes you sound guilty.’

  Lewis scoffed. ‘You think I had something to do with Ginny’s disappearance?’

  Sawyer sat back. ‘No, I don’t. I mean guilty in the sense that you haven’t done enough. There’s something more you think you could have done. There’s something you’re holding back. It’s like a burden. You’re thinking of offloading it onto me, but you probably don’t know how to do that without making it look like you intentionally withheld it from the police, even if you didn’t.’

  Lewis raised his head and glared at Sawyer. ‘I’m not holding anything back.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘Yes, you are.’

  Lewis sighed. ‘Look. The only thing I didn’t say was that Ginny spoke to me about the podcast a few days before… She said she felt like it was getting a bit “heavy”.’

  ‘As in, serious?’

  ‘Yeah. She said she was thinking of going to the police. She didn’t say what about, though. I just got the feeling that she was—’

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Not… Well, yeah, maybe. Just a bit freaked out.’

  Sawyer ran the back of a hand across his brow. ‘I’d like to see the folder you mentioned.’

  6

  Sawyer headed back to Edale with all the windows wide open, music pounding. Underworld, Leftfield, Aphex Twin. He stopped at the Peak View Tea Rooms and took a window seat, gazing out at the scorched moors as he sipped tea and demolished a hefty chunk of carrot cake.

  He called the number for Virginia Mendez’s mother, and got a generic-sounding answerphone message in Spanish. He hung up and opened Virginia’s project folder. It was slim and tidy, with the structure for each of the three podcast episodes mapped out on separate sheets of custom paper, with handwritten sections of narration script marked “VO”, voice-over. She had given each episode a production title: 1. The Case, 2. The Boy, 3. The Mother. A piece of paper torn from a notepad had been tucked into a side pocket on the inside back cover. It was messy, with scrawled notes, connecting lines, and bullet-pointed lists that seemed to relate to the first three episodes.

  On the back of the notepad sheet, Virginia had written a title: 4. The Explorer. Beneath this, she had listed names, some with ticks next to them (Samantha), others with crosses (Greg, Adam).

  At the bottom of the paper, she had written two names stacked above each other (Price, Sutton), with a curly bracket connecting them to the word Urbex. Beneath this, she had written a question mark next to a single underlined word.

  Devil.

  His phone rang; Sawyer sighed at the Caller ID: LOGAN.

  He took it, waiting for the caller to speak first, listening to the wheeze in his breath.

  ‘Is it a bad time?’ Male, Estuary accent.

  ‘Yes. But a call from you, Dean, it’s always a tonic.’

  Logan made a rattling noise, halfway between a laugh and a cough. ‘So what are you doing with yourself, Sawyer? How loose have they cut you?’

  ‘Forty-eight-hour notice. Full pay. Don’t have to sign in.’ Sawyer stirred his tea. ‘I’m sure you know all this, Logan. You could probably argue it’s in the public interest.’

  ‘You are quite the star, Sawyer. A walking op-ed piece.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you working on those, these days. T
he Derbyshire Times is a long way from Wapping.’

  Logan scoffed. ‘I got out at the right time. The liquid lunches were out of favour. After the phone hacking business you couldn’t scratch your balls without getting it signed off by a senior editor.’

  ‘You want my take,’ said Sawyer.

  ‘Oh. Are we done with the pleasantries, then?’

  ‘You want my side of the story. An exclusive. JAKE SAWYER SPEAKS: HOW I TOOK DOWN THE RIPPER. Your editor has told you to wait until the resolution of the investigation, but this is you getting your flag in the sand.’

  ‘We’ve all got to eat.’

  Sawyer slurped the tea. ‘That hurts. First I’m a walking op-ed, and then a lunch ticket. You’re talking to a human being, you know.’

  Logan let the moment hang. ‘Got something for you.’

  ‘In return for the exclusive?’

  Logan sniffed. ‘A bit of lubrication, maybe.’

  ‘Be gentle with me.’

  ‘You do have this habit of going off-grid just as interesting things start to happen.’

  Sawyer mopped up some cake crumbs with a finger. ‘Is this the part where I say, “meaning?”’

  ‘A CI tells me—’

  Sawyer spluttered. ‘CI? Have you been watching Chicago PD?’

  ‘Okay. A source tells me that your fine colleagues are looking into a nasty bit of litter found by a couple of wild campers in woodland. Just up the road from you. Near Hayfield.’

  ‘Litter?’

  ‘Body. Male. Found a couple of days ago.’

  Sawyer sliced the cream cheese icing from the surface of his cake and pushed it to the side of the plate. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Not well.’

  Sawyer drove across the private driveway bridge and parked the Mini by the side of the cottage. Across the road, the fields that rose to form the lower slopes of Kinder Scout had been yellowed by weeks of pitiless sunshine, and the ditch beneath the bridge had long since dried up.

  He slid his key into the front door lock. Fletcher was hardly likely to telegraph his presence with an obliging chair scrape or door slam, but he let himself in slowly and silently.