by Wes Markin
Jake flushed. He was immediately grateful that it was dark, and her back was to him. He faked laughter. ‘Not sure I’ve got the time for any of that.’
Sheila turned over and put her arms round him. She nuzzled his wide neck and kissed his large face. ‘Maybe tomorrow you could get back early? Frank was asking for you.’
Jake felt sick. He kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll try. I promise.’
‘You smell like you’ve had a shower.’
‘I had one at work,’ Jake lied.
Sheila started to kiss his chin. She worked her way up and started to nibble on his bottom lip. Her hand slipped from his back and worked its way under the sheets. ‘I like it when you smell fresh.’
He felt her hand on the front of his boxer shorts.
He reached under the sheets and took her hand in both of his. ‘Sorry, Sheila. I’m so tired. This case too, it’s tearing us all up.’
Sheila backed away and sighed. ‘I understand … goodnight then.’
After Sheila had fallen asleep, Jake lay awake for hours. He crossed his large arms behind his head and listened to the rain on his window.
Why had she started to be so nice to him now? After all these years of treating him with contempt when he’d only tried to do his best by her and Frank? Now, after driving him into someone else’s arms, then she starts to behave like the loving wife … was she sensing that she was losing him?
Jake sighed. What the hell am I doing?
Instead of counting sheep, he asked himself this question over and over until he passed out.
On his way to bed, Yorke decided to stop by Beatrice’s room.
This is madness, he thought as he scooped her up.
Waking her would almost certainly condemn the Yorke household to a sleepless night. Right now, however, the risk felt worth it for the warmth she exuded and the contentedness she imparted to him.
There was an old armchair in the corner where Patricia often sat to breastfeed Beatrice during the more unsociable hours. With his tiny bundle, he settled back in the chair.
He looked down at her tiny face.
Baby Bea.
He stroked her cheek and she sucked in her lips. Yorke smiled. She was probably preparing to feed.
What he adored most about Beatrice, and what made him feel so content, was the absolute innocence, and the fact that she knew of nothing bad in this world around her.
Tears came to his eyes. With that button nose, and narrow cheekbones, Beatrice so resembled Danielle. The sister who’d practically raised Yorke when his mother hadn’t wanted to know. Supporting him, influencing him, shaping him into the man he became. Danielle had been his everything. Until her drug addiction, and eventual murder by a drug dealer called William Proud.
Nine months ago, on the night that Beatrice was born, Yorke had confronted Proud. This had been the moment that Yorke had craved for so long. A chance for closure.
But instead of closure, the confrontation had cracked open a chasm of further questions, suspicions, and tragedy.
Proud had told Yorke that he wasn’t the only one responsible for the death of his sister. ‘I’m just the blunt instrument … there’s a bent bastard shitting in the same toilet as you…’
Proud had died that night. Accidently. He’d been backing away from an angry Yorke and had fallen down a ladder shaft. He’d broken his neck and died instantly.
Yorke didn’t regret his death. The bastard had still executed his sister regardless of whether it was ordered by someone else or not.
But the death had repercussions. A suspension for Yorke while the fatality was investigated. It was found to be accidental, but Yorke had been acting alone when he should have called for back-up. His suspension was lifted but he was dropped a rank to DI.
He wasn’t ready yet to work and, fortunately, the doctor had agreed. It hadn’t taken much to convince him. He just told him the truth. That the thought of returning to work made him physically sick.
He was currently considering a career change. He’d probably have embarked on it already if it wasn’t for one nagging question. Who were these people who had ordered the death of his sister? And why?
He had a painful feeling that he would have to remain in this job for an answer to that question.
DI Mark Topham rolled off Bobby.
With his back to the young man, catching his breath, he reached up to smother his sweat and tears.
‘That was quicker than I expected,’ Bobby said, stroking Topham’s back.
Topham didn’t respond. He wasn’t interested in small talk. Bobby wouldn’t be this man’s real name anyway.
This whole situation wasn’t real.
Hadn’t been for months.
‘I mean, I knew there was something there. Electricity, sparks, but wow, we flew there. You really flew—’
‘You can go now.’
Bobby snorted. ‘Shit! You are blunt! Most people at least chat for a few minutes afterwards.’
‘You’re a prostitute.’
A snort didn’t suffice this time; he went all out with a gasp of surprise. ‘So, it’s okay to fuck me but not to talk to me?’
Topham wondered if it was even worth gracing this with a reply. He decided not. He felt the bed move as Bobby sat up.
‘You know, you didn’t seem to mind talking to me in the bar all night. But I guess it was all about the endgame.’
‘The money is on the side.’ Topham continued to face away. ‘Please don’t make a fuss on the way out of the hotel. I’ve paid you enough for your discretion.’
‘My discretion?’ He raised his voice. ‘What do you want me to be discreet about? About the fact that you wouldn’t fuck me with a condom?’
‘Good night.’ Topham closed his eyes. He listened to Bobby get dressed beside the bed and the door closed.
With his eyes still shut, he reached over to the floor beside him for the bottle of vodka. He sat up in bed and started to gulp.
As the spirit burned his throat he saw, in his mind, the words written on a card by a mute man who had seen Neil’s corpse: There were bits of him everywhere, Mark. He’d been stabbed thousands of times.
His partner. His lover. His everything.
He gulped back more vodka.
Dead. Gone. Never to return.
Yorke still hadn’t made it to bed.
He wished he had because then he wouldn’t have been sitting here watching the news. With wide eyes, he watched the burning farmhouse on the Ray pig farm.
As if the memory of William Proud’s death nine months ago hadn’t been enough this evening, now Yorke was faced with the memory of finding Thomas Ray’s mangled body strung up in one of the old barns.
On the news broadcast, the firefighters were trying, and failing, to save the old farmhouse. Not that they had much of a chance; the place was old, wooden and very combustible. The fact that it was still standing at this point was a miracle.
‘Police neither confirm nor deny foul play,’ rolled across the info bar.
Yorke guffawed. It couldn’t be anything but foul play! The property was abandoned, and in the middle of nowhere. It was unlikely to be a piece of faulty electrical equipment!
Add to that the fact that this property was owned by the most notorious family ever seen in Wiltshire. One that had terrorised the local community for several generations until Yorke and his team put a stop to it five years ago.
Police neither confirm nor deny foul play.
He laughed out loud.
He turned off the television.
Not his problem anyway.
Under the gaze of the burning farmhouse, an abandoned white Volvo V40 shimmered.
DCI Emma Gardner took a step away from it, leaned against the old tree and rustled in her pocket. A new officer noticed her searching and came over holding out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you want one, ma’am?’
Gardner smiled. ‘No thanks, Peter. Never smoked in my life.’ She withdrew the packet of tic-tacs and turned to surve
y the scene.
It was busy, and not just with firefighters. Familiar faces, including that of Superintendent Joan Madden, were in abundance.
Gardner and several other colleagues had been pulled away from a missing person’s case because this incident warranted immediate and serious investigation. This wasn’t any old fire. This was the Ray farmhouse. Once a beating heart of evil.
‘You’d expect fire in hell,’ Gardner said, ‘but it’s been quiet for so long.’
‘Too long,’ DC Collette Willows said, approaching. ‘It was only a matter of time.’
Gardner took a deep breath. She felt a twinge in her chest and coughed. A sharp reminder of the near-fatal injury she sustained almost a year ago.
‘You okay, ma’am?’ Willows said.
‘Yes, Collette. You’ve got news on the car, haven’t you?’
‘I’m afraid so. It belongs to Sarah Ray.’
This wasn’t any old fire.
She emptied the tic-tacs into her mouth and leaned back against the infamous tree on which Reginald Ray was executed.
From one of the twisted branches, the eyes of a black bird glowed.
In bed, Patricia turned to him.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,’ Yorke said.
‘Don’t believe you! You’re over the moon I’m awake … there’s something on your mind.’
He lifted his arm, and she edged in closer, so she was lying against his shoulder. ‘You can read me like a book.’
She reached up and ran her fingers over his beard. ‘Good … still there.’
‘Almost wasn’t. I spent some time in the bathroom eyeing up the razor.’
‘I guessed that’s what you were doing.’
‘Then I spent some time with Bea…’
She grabbed his ear.
‘Ouch. That hurts!’
‘Good. Hopefully, that will make you think twice next time. The milk machine next to you needs some rest.’
‘There was no waking her.’
‘Probably because she drained me an hour ago.’
Yorke considered telling her about the burning Ray farmhouse but decided against it. Despite his suspension being lifted, he was seriously considering his options. Heading back to law enforcement held little appeal right now. ‘Sick to the stomach with it,’ was his usual response to Patricia’s attempts to broach the subject. If it wasn’t for the ridiculous pay cut, he’d already be investigating a teaching qualification. Discussing the fire at this late hour might show he was interested in going back.
And he wasn’t. He just wasn’t.
Without really thinking about it, Yorke said, ‘I noticed Ewan looked miserable, so I grabbed his phone for a look. He’s been getting some horrible messages. On one, they called him an orphan—’
Patricia sat up. ‘You did what?’
‘Shit. I took his phone and read his messages.’ He felt the colour drain from his face. ‘You’re about to tell me that was the wrong thing to do?’
‘Yes! What were you thinking?’
‘I was worried …’
‘He’s a thirteen-year-old boy, you can’t read his messages!’
‘But surely it’s okay if you think there is a problem?’
‘Are you serious, Mike?’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not me you need to apologise to. You can’t police someone’s life, Mike. That’s not how it works.’
He ran his hand over his own beard. ‘Even if the intention comes from a good place?’
‘Even if.’ She lay back down next to him. ‘Talk to him tomorrow. Explain what you’ve done. I’m sure he’ll understand.’ She sighed and turned away from him.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Yorke said. ‘What about the fact that he’s been called an orphan? Does that not shock you?’
‘Of course, but I already knew.’
‘How?’
‘He showed me the messages.’
It was Yorke’s turn to sit up. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’
‘He didn’t want me to.’
He felt as if he’d been punched and winded. ‘Why?’
‘For exactly this reason. Because he knew you’d go overboard!’
‘Overboard? They’re calling him an orphan! There’s bullying and then there’s full-on verbal assault!’
Patricia sat up and faced him. ‘Behave.’
‘So, that’s it?’ Yorke said. ‘He tells you that and you write it off as nothing important?’
‘Anything but. I contacted the school. It is being dealt with.’
‘With what? A detention?’
‘I don’t know yet. But these are kids. Yes, they are bullying. Yes, it has to be stopped. But it won’t be stopped with you marching in all gung-ho. That is the reason Ewan didn’t tell you.’
There was a knock at the front door.
They both looked at each other and then looked at the clock by the bedside table.
‘Wait here,’ Yorke said and threw on his dressing gown.
He headed downstairs, quietly and quickly, not wanting to allow enough time for another disruptive knock at the door which could wake the children.
He looked through the peephole and felt a rush of adrenaline.
Sarah Ray.
Gardner noticed Topham’s car pulling up behind the other police vehicles. She left the infamous tree and jogged over to meet him. Along the way, she felt sharp reminders in her chest of the knife wound from nine months ago.
She wasn’t going over to greet Topham. He’d spent the previous few months bashing the self-destruct button, so she wanted to see what state he was in before he ended up in the logbook.
It had been a wise decision.
Topham steadied himself against the roof of his car. His white buttoned shirt was untucked, his trousers were scuffed, and his hair was dishevelled.
Rewind one year and you would have a man who valued his appearance above everything else in the world. Except, maybe, Neil Solomon. His now dead partner.
‘Tell me you didn’t just drive here in this state.’
‘I could tell you that if you want but would you believe me? You just saw me getting out of the car.’ He smiled at her.
‘Get back in the car, I’ll take you back when I’m done. If Madden sees you, you’ll be suspended … probably wouldn’t be a bad thing … but I need to think. Get in the car. Sleep it off if you must. We will just have to make up some excuse about you and your car in the morning. Say you started throwing up or something.’
‘I keep seeing him, Emma … everywhere I look.’
‘Neil?’
There were tears streaming down his face. ‘God, no. I wish! I keep seeing the bastard who killed him.’
Gardner clutched his arm. ‘Get in the car, and bloody well stay there.’
Sarah Ray looked considerably better than she had done five years ago.
Gone was the shoulder-length jet black hair, badly parted in the middle. Instead was a short bob, carefully styled, and tinged with red. She was a tall, broad woman and had replaced her loose-fitting, worn-out clothing with a close-fitting, fashionable outfit.
Unsurprisingly, the only way was up after a life freed from a serial cheater.
Yorke recognised the distress in her, and it brought all the memories crashing back. In fact, even before she told him, Yorke knew that her son was missing again.
It had taken several minutes for Yorke to untangle himself from Sarah’s embrace. She’d cried uncontrollably on his shoulder. Little of what she’d said through mouthfuls of tears had made sense.
With a tray of steaming hot tea, Patricia had also come to his aid, and together, they had managed to get her onto the sofa.
When Patricia had placed the cups down on the wooden coffee table, Sarah sprang to her feet again. ‘Coasters?’
‘Of course,’ Patricia said.
As Patricia went back to the kitchen, Yorke recalled Sarah’s OCDs; her obsession with tidiness and cleanliness. I
n her current state of anxiety, they were bound to manifest.
‘I knew it was him. Immediately.’ Sarah sat back down. ‘As soon as I saw the fire on the news, I just knew.’
‘And you’ve tried phoning him?’
‘Hundreds of times.’
‘So, he’s taken the car? No chance of it being stolen?’
‘The keys are gone from the kitchen drawer. No one has been in my house – I’m certain.’
‘Drink some tea, Mrs Ray.’
They all took a mouthful of tea, including Patricia, who had just returned with the coasters.
‘But, ultimately, we’ve got a sixteen-year-old boy and a missing car. How long has it been?’
‘Less than two hours.’
‘So, if you went to the station now, they are unlikely to jump straight on this as a missing person…’
‘Which is why I’m coming straight to you.’
Yorke put his cup down and stared at Sarah, uncertain of how to respond.
Patricia responded instead. ‘Mrs Ray, I genuinely share your concerns. I really do. But my husband is not currently working. Michael has not been well—’
‘And why did you think that I would respond any differently to my colleagues at the station?’ Yorke said.
Sarah put her cup down and fixed Yorke with a stare. ‘Because you were there, Detective Yorke. You saw what we saw. You saw evil that night. My god, have you seen anything like that since? If you have, I pray for your soul. You think a boy forgets what we saw that night? You think I forget? You think anyone can?’
Yorke did not respond.
‘Did you forget, detective?’
‘Of course not.’
Patricia jumped in again. ‘Mrs Ray, I really think we should just contact—’
‘Patricia, please,’ Yorke said. ‘Okay, Mrs Ray, you have my attention. But tell me, why now? Why did Paul get up today and burn the farmhouse down?’
‘Because they came to him again … and again.’
Yorke’s heart beat faster. ‘Who did?’
‘The bastards he’s descended from.’
