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

  Samantha Coleman set down two glasses of water. ‘My ex-husband. Didn’t I mention his name last time you were here?’

  Sawyer took a sip, shook his head. ‘It was on Virginia’s notes. Maybe she went to see him?’

  Samantha retied her ponytail. ‘He’s an architect.’

  Sawyer waited for more, but didn’t get it. ‘Are you still in contact?’

  She scoffed. ‘No. I can give you his number, though.’

  ‘Were he and Darren close?’

  ‘They were, in the early years. I hear that men usually get more interested in their sons as they get older. With Greg it was the opposite. He was good with nappies and nose-wiping. Not so sharp at the emotional stuff later on.’

  The hefty tabby prowled past; Sawyer reached out a hand and ran his fingertips across her fur. ‘Teenagers reach a point where they need to escape their parents’ influence. I know I did.’

  ‘Jesus. Me, too. And didn’t they know it!’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘Do you know who Adam might be?’

  Samantha shook her head. ‘Could be Adam Grayson, Darren’s form tutor at Cedar Mount. He was decent. Supportive when Darren started the school. Not sure if he’s still there, though. Virginia asked about him, too.’

  Sawyer checked the Notes app on his phone. ‘Two more. Sutton?’ Samantha frowned, shook her head. ‘Price?’

  She scowled. ‘Probably Ricky Price. Darren hung round with him a bit. Parents were loaded. I wasn’t crazy about him, though. Off with the fairies. In trouble with the police a lot. So are we just playing a naming game today, Mr Sawyer?’

  ‘One more thing.’

  ‘You sound like Columbo.’ She took a drink, forced a smile. ‘Don’t look like him, though.’

  ‘You should see me when I’m on duty. I wanted to ask you about urbex.’

  ‘Is that a cereal?’

  ‘Urban exploration. A fascination with abandoned places, buildings. Usually factories, hospitals, that kind of thing. Places with a spook factor because of their past.’

  Samantha brightened. ‘Oh. I saw something on Channel Four about that. Don’t they find old houses, too? Sometimes all the furniture is still there, and the owner’s bits and pieces. Weird.’

  ‘Was Darren into it?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. I suppose all teenagers have secrets, though.’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘Virginia used that line. In the podcast.’

  ‘Probably stole it from me. I repeat myself a lot, these days. Sometimes to myself.’ She sighed. ‘No. Don’t remember him mentioning anything about the exploring thing. And I can’t think of who Sutton might be.’ She closed her eyes, tipped her head back. ‘Can I ask you a personal question, Mr Sawyer?’

  ‘Of course. But I might exercise the right to silence.’

  ‘Do you talk to them?’

  Sawyer placed his glass down on the table. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your parents. They’ve… gone, of course. But do you still…’

  He blinked. ‘I used to talk to my mum, when I was younger. Just out-loud stuff. Things I was confused about. I’d ask her about something and speak her imagined reply out loud.’ He sat back. ‘My dad… That wasn’t so long ago. I imagine him commenting on my actions, though. Chiding me, usually.’

  ‘Did you argue?’

  Sawyer angled his head. ‘We had our disagreements.’

  ‘I talk to Darren all the time. I imagine his opinions on things. Music, TV shows. They say that missing someone is a way of spending time with them.’

  ‘In the present, yes. I have a friend who wants me to spend more time in the present. My mum told me not to look back, too.’ He picked up the glass, peered into it. ‘I’m not so sure about that. You can’t discard your past. You just have to find a way to carry it into the future without it weighing you down.’

  Samantha reached across the table. For a moment, it seemed she was aiming to take Sawyer’s hand, but she picked up her glass and took a drink. ‘How can you spend time with someone “in the present” who isn’t around any more?’

  ‘There’s a version of the… missing person in many different states, across their whole life. The present version might not be in good condition, but it’s fine in the other moments. The difference is that those versions are frozen, unchanging. That’s what makes grief so hard. You’re denied the version that can still change, grow, develop.’ Sawyer leaned forward, gathering himself to stand.

  Samantha raised an eyebrow. ‘Escape the parents’ influence… I saw your mother’s grave in the newspaper. What a beautiful inscription. Was that you?’

  ‘What will survive of us is love. It’s a Philip Larkin quote, yes. He’s my favourite poet.’

  Samantha laughed. ‘I haven’t met many men who confess their favourite poet.’ She held her hand down low, beckoning the cat, who slunk over and turned a circle as Samantha stroked her back. ‘I’m sure you know this, but Darren will soon be considered legally dead. I got an email from a digital artist who said she could do an e-fit to see what he might look like now.’

  ‘Aged progression.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t want it, though. I don’t want another version of him that’s frozen, that won’t change.’ Tears welled at the base of her eyes. ‘Where’s my boy, Mr Sawyer? Why isn’t he with me?’

  Sawyer kept his eyes on the cat. ‘You shouldn’t assume the worst. Young people go missing for lots of reasons. Problems at school, mental health, relationship breakdowns, outside influences like gang affiliation.’

  ‘Let’s assume my son is still alive. Do you think I’ll see him again?’

  He looked up. ‘Do you want me to tell you what I think or tell you what I think you want to hear?’

  ‘Give it to me straight.’

  Sawyer pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘If he’s still alive after seven years, either he doesn’t want to be found or someone else doesn’t want him to be found.’

  Sawyer slotted the phone back in its cradle and set it on speaker. He tapped in a number and drove out of the town centre. Almost half a minute later, as he crossed the bridge over the River Derwent, the call connected.

  Throat clearance from the other end. ‘DI Sawyer.’

  ‘DS Shepherd.’

  ‘Should we be talking?’

  ‘You tell me. Spoken to Farrell?’

  Deep sigh. ‘Ears burning, are they? Of course I’ve spoken to Farrell. Well. He’s spoken at me.’

  ‘He knows you were with me. On the Bowman raid.’

  ‘No. He doesn’t.’

  Sawyer steered onto the Bakewell Road and veered around a cyclist, a little too close. ‘Did you deny it?’

  ‘He didn’t ask.’

  ‘And what would you say if he did ask?’

  Another sigh. ‘Sir…’

  Sawyer screwed his eyes shut for a moment, glanced up towards the mirror, but didn’t look into it. ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Still above water?’

  ‘Are you enquiring about my mental health?’

  ‘We can get it out of the way quickly, then I’ll change the subject.’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘It’s better than it was last year.’

  ‘I think I have a touch of what you had.’

  ‘I’d be more worried if you weren’t feeling any effects. You mean panic attacks?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Sawyer slowed to ease past a farm truck at the entrance to a single-track road. The engine was quiet enough for him to hear Shepherd’s breathing.

  ‘Sir, if he asks—’

  ‘Ricky Price.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Had any dealings with him? Anything recent? Before I came back from the Met?’

  ‘He’s a minor name. Nothing big, though. Possession. Public order. Parents sell farm machinery and vehicles, don’t they? Big house up near Padley. So what’s this? Bit of extra-curricular? I can’t imagine the likes of Ricky Price as a candidate for your social circle.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘You kn
ow me. I’m more about acquaintances than friends.’

  A flare of sunlight rolled across the windscreen. The angle and intensity seemed familiar, oddly caustic. Sawyer caught his breath and raised his eyes to the rear-view mirror.

  The back seat was empty.

  11

  Sawyer parked up alongside Fairfield golf course and strolled through the Buxton side streets. The portable sign for Dale Strickland’s Players club was still propped up outside its retrofitted pub premises. He ducked inside and nodded to the quiffed thirtysomething behind the raised desk at the entrance.

  ‘Clem, isn’t it?’

  A musky, back-bedroom fug hung in the air. Cliques of young men crowded around wall-mounted consoles and old-school arcade games. At the back of the room, a group wearing headphones sat around a connected hub of laptops near a serving hatch and café area. An abrasive techno track segued awkwardly into hectoring trap hip-hop, and Clem looked up from his laptop DJ software, squinting at Sawyer.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sawyer. ‘It’s the copper. Don’t worry. I’m off duty. Just wanted to check my Robotron high score was still standing.’

  Clem nodded, blank faced. He turned his attention back to his laptop. ‘Tenner for all you can play. No food or drink of your own.’

  He paid and headed for the retro arcade section, with a rack of ten bulky cabinets, restored with original bezel artwork and control panels. A portly teenager in top-to-toe branded sportswear stood before the Missile Command machine, swiping and rolling the giant trackball, painting the digital sky with explosions that neutralised a cascade of incoming rockets. As his final base was destroyed, the screen filled with a fiery sign-off: THE END, and he lurched away from the cabinet in theatrical disgust, grubby dreadlocks whipping back over his shoulders.

  ‘Fuck this shit!’

  ‘Ashley Becker,’ said Sawyer.

  The teenager turned, rolled his eyes.

  ‘You were shooting at the targets. You have to aim ahead, at where they’re going to be.’

  ‘Ash, yeah? Even my nan don’t call me Ashley. The fuck are you doing here again?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what’s in my bag? Sorry, Miami Vice. Just a few eggs. Temazepam.’

  Sawyer stepped up to the machine and started a new game. ‘Not sleeping?’

  ‘Brain won’t turn off, you get me?’ Ash watched as Sawyer took out the first attack wave with precise and efficient rolls of the trackball, each shot timed to destroy multiple enemies.

  Sawyer eyed him. ‘More than you can imagine. Are you still working with the upstanding Mr Strickland?’

  Ash gave an exaggerated shake of the head. ‘Nah. I’m done with all that shit. Taking a course. Computers.’ Sawyer raised an eyebrow. ‘Hey. I’m decent at maths. And I know games.’

  ‘Dale’s moved into politics anyway, now.’

  ‘True that.’

  Sawyer tore into the second wave. ‘I’m working on something. I hoped you might help.’

  Ash laughed, wheezy. ‘If you need me to go and say hello to some old woman again, I’m down. For a fee, yeah?’

  ‘Have you heard of a lad called Ricky Price?’

  Ash ran a hand across the folds in the back of his neck. ‘Too right. Scary. Not as scary as he thinks, but still scary. Workout freak. Went to a party at his place once. Saw his gym. Crazy. He’s well got Budgie Syndrome. Y’know, strutting around, preening and chirping at his own reflection. Thinks he’s on Muscle fucking Beach.’

  ‘Did you have any dealings with him?’ Sawyer glanced over. ‘Off the record.’

  Ash scoffed. ‘I told Shaun to tell Dale that he might be an issue, like. Dale wasn’t bothered, though.’

  Sawyer finished the wave and stepped back from the machine. He nodded, and Ash took over. Sawyer held up his phone. ‘Do you recognise this voice?’

  As Ash struggled to fend off the faster rockets in the second wave, Sawyer played a bookmarked section of Episode Three of the Virginia Mendez podcast.

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

  Ash shook his head. ‘No way. This guy is rougher. Price is proper posh. For this dump, anyway.’ He sighed, as the missiles overwhelmed his bases, again ending the level, and the game.

  ‘Tell me more about the party.’

  Ash snatched up an open bottle of Tango Tropical from a nearby table and took a long swig. ‘Dunno. Just… a party. Lots of dope. Shit music. I think his folks are away a lot. The house is well massive, up by the gorge. He usually opens the place up every Friday and Saturday. I heard there’s a thing tonight.’

  ‘How do I get an invite?’

  Ash waved a hand. ‘Ain’t no invites. You go, and you either get in or you don’t. And let me tell you now. No offence, yeah, but you are at least ten years over the age limit. They’ll think you’re a friend of his parents or something.’ He smirked, took another drink.

  Sawyer stared him out. ‘I’ll dress young. Borrow one of your hoodies.’

  Ash spluttered and wiped his mouth.

  ‘Not really. I am going, though. And you’re coming with me.’

  12

  Sawyer strode along the corridor and stopped outside the last door on the right. While the lower levels of Buxton’s Cavendish Hospital were NHS only, the Benedict Ward was a private patient aftercare unit, designed for comfort not crisis: tinted windows, wood panelling, the acidic tang of frequently used cleaning products.

  He tapped twice on the ajar door and entered. The occupant was a hefty man sitting on the edge of his bed, facing a wide but narrow window that looked out across the sun-baked heather of the Goyt Valley. He cast a look over his shoulder as Sawyer took a seat on a cushioned chair near the door.

  ‘Mike.’

  The man nodded but didn’t turn. ‘Hello’.

  Sawyer leaned to the left and saw that his brother was peering down into the screen of his handheld gaming device. His grey hair had grown out, emphasising a broad bald patch at the back of his scalp. He wore a standard hospital gown, which looked fresh and laundered, but Sawyer’s nostrils wrinkled at the waft of stale sweat.

  ‘What’s the game?’

  ‘Zelda.’

  Michael angled his body away from the window and found Sawyer’s green eyes with his own. The scars along his arm seemed redder, angrier, and he looked drawn and distant: drooping eyelids, callow skin.

  ‘How are they treating you?’

  Sawyer held the gaze for a moment, but Michael flinched and shifted back to his screen. He shrugged. ‘Alright.’

  ‘Trying to find a young lad. Fifteen. He’s been gone for a long time, though. Seven years. Do you remember being fifteen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We went to a place in Wales. Saundersfoot. Caravan park. Dad let us have our own caravan.’ Michael turned and peered at Sawyer, before returning to the game. ‘It was the nineties. You were in a Pink Floyd phase. I was listening to Britpop. Lots of Underworld, too. Tricky, Massive Attack.’

  A musical fanfare from the game. Michael lifted his head and looked out of the window. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You know why you’re here, right?’

  Head down again. ‘Yeah. I shouldn’t be here at all.’

  ‘One of the attendants found you, saved you. Victoria. Do you know her?’ Michael nodded. ‘I’m glad you’re still here. If you don’t want to go back to Rosemary House, you could stay with me.’

  A fortysomething man with a staff badge on his lapel entered the room and hovered near the door.

  Sawyer leaned forward towards Michael. ‘Life can be good again, Mike. I promised you I’d help you get it back. Do you remember?’

  Michael looked up again and thought for a second. ‘No.’

  The hospital branch of Costa was busy with staff and patients, but Sawyer found a spare corner and huddled in with an unseasonal hot chocolate. He dialled a number; the call connected insta
ntly.

  ‘The Kraken awakes.’

  ‘Mags.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  He sipped the froth from his drink. ‘Coffee shop. Cavendish.’

  A pause. ‘Michael?’

  ‘He’s better. Sort of. Conscious, at least.’

  ‘He’ll need time.’

  Sawyer exhaled. ‘He’ll need more than that.’

  ‘What does his doctor say?’

  ‘That he’ll need time.’

  Keyboard clatter. ‘He’s the patient—’

  ‘But I need to have patience.’

  She sighed. ‘Yes. Are you paying for the care?’

  ‘Out of my late father’s trust fund, yes. I don’t…’ He took a drink. ‘I’m not sure he knew who I was.’

  ‘Mike? Of course he did, Jake. Be careful not to catastrophise. I’m sure that came up with Alex.’

  ‘Not really.’

  More keyboard. ‘Well, you know how I feel about you dropping out of therapy. Are you staying busy? Did you take the missing boy case?’

  ‘Yes. What are you typing?’

  ‘Emails. You’re on speaker. It’s called multitasking. Mia says that demanding undivided attention is “old-fashioned”. I’m sure I wasn’t that precocious at her age.’

  ‘I’m sure you were. Has Keating got you on FLO with the Hardwick case?’

  A deeper sigh. ‘Dare I ask, why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s ringing bells.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not supposed to know, but yes. Not a nice way to go.’

  ‘Is there a “nice” way?’

  ‘Drowning in chocolate?’

  He took a slug of his drink, checked the time. ‘Me and Mike had this thing we used to say to each other, in the bad old days when Dad was struggling, after Mum had gone. “There’s always death to fall back on.”’

  She laughed. ‘How lovely. Jake…’

  Here it comes.

  ‘You should resume your therapy. Take the opportunity, now the day job has calmed down. It’s a bad idea to just walk away. It’s a form of self-medication.’