by Wes Markin
But as Lacey had pointed out: ‘Do you really have time to confirm everything I’ve said while you and your family are in grave danger?’
Her proposal had been simple. ‘I’ve been dancing for a long time now, and Simon Young is moving too close to my dancefloor. I’m going to end this and, lucky for you, Jakey, that means an end to David Hewitt. But I need your help.’
Jake had scoffed. ‘Or I could just take you down to the station and get my colleagues involved?’
‘You could, Jakey, but it’s not a gamble I would advise. If Simon has even half the power and influence he has over the constabulary back in Southampton, I’d say you might find things moving a little too slowly for our tastes – especially when we have loved ones in danger.’
‘So, what would you expect me to do?’
‘The easy part. Kick back. I want you and Sheila to take care of Tobias while I trap the spiders.’
At this point, Jake had looked at Tobias. ‘Easy? Kick back? He looks as dangerous as you are.’
‘He is.’ Lacey had smiled. ‘Don’t you just love him for it?’
Jake had shaken his head, clueless of how to respond.
‘But you’ll be safe. Believe me. In fact, he may even protect you. Imagine that, a five-year-old child looking after an alpha male like you?’
At first, he’d been in disbelief that as a policeman he’d actually listened to the proposal. Now, as he turned his car into the driveway, looking at a five-year-old boy who was dead behind the eyes, he was in complete disbelief that he’d actually accepted it.
Yet, his choices had been limited. If he’d refused, and marched into the station with her, he’d have alerted the big dogs of Wiltshire Constabulary. Yorke had already filled him in on his suspicions that there was corruption in the police following his recent experiences. What if he came up against that corruption now? Was it a risk worth taking?
His second phone, the one he hid from Sheila, was ringing again. Caroline. She was the only one who used this number. She’d called three times since his meeting with Lacey, and he was yet to answer any of them.
He couldn’t really ignore her a fourth time. It might start to raise suspicions. He checked first that Sheila wasn’t looking out of the kitchen window, and then answered. ‘Hello, Caroline. I’m at home, so I can’t talk long.’
There was a pause before she replied. ‘That was a rather abrasive way of answering the phone!’
Shit … ‘Sorry, I just get a little bit jumpy when I’m so close to home.’
‘I see … I’m not surprised after everything you’ve told me about Sheila.’
Jake felt a wave of guilt crash over him. This was his wife. The woman he was supposed to love. Did love. And he was criticising her to someone he was having an affair with.
‘Well, you best go and play househusband, I just wanted to hear your voice before I turned in. Will I see you tomorrow?’
‘I’ll ring when I get chance.’
‘Okay, goodnight lover.’
‘Goodnight.’
And then he knew. Lacey had been telling the truth.
To Caroline, he was nothing more than a plaything, a welcome escape for the trial-laden life of being married to a bad man. If he wasn’t, how would she be able to stomach him going home to his wife every night? After all this time, wouldn’t she be demanded that he ended the marriage and come to be with her? The subject had never even been broached.
Before, at the park, Jake had demanded that Caroline not be harmed by Lacey. Lacey had nodded in agreement, but she’d not passed comment, as she so liked to do. So, Jake had suspected she may have been lying. Part of him had wanted to warn Caroline, but now he was so glad he hadn’t made that mistake.
If Caroline had had an affair before, and sat back as a family were murdered, only to go out and do it all over again, didn’t that make her evil too?
Jake ran his hand over his shaved head. He suddenly felt like he was surrounded by monsters, and he suddenly felt used.
Yorke sat with the file open on his lap and looked at the photograph of Reginald Ray hanging from a tree.
In 1918, the party line had been that Reginald had hanged himself. No longer able to cope with a skin disease and a murderous appetite, he’d opted for suicide. Yorke was surprised that the police had managed to get the theory of suicide to stick. Reginald hung a fair distance from the ground. He must have had some help. Yet, all those involved sold the same story; the police, his wife Gladys, the farm boy that worked for them. And it was bought, despite everyone in Wiltshire suspecting the truth that Reginald had been executed by six soldiers.
Different times. It was amazing to think that these lawmakers of Wiltshire could opt to avoid justice because these soldiers had already been to hell and back. Not just in the trenches but in Little Horton where their children had been stolen and eaten by the Ray family.
So, despite everyone in Wiltshire suspecting, knowing even, that the parents of the murdered children had killed Reginald, nobody questioned it. Public enemy number one had gone, and these soldiers had suffered enough for King and country and deserved to be left in peace.
In fact, the only information pertaining to the actual events was at the back of the file. It came from the last remaining soldier, William Walsh. On his death bed in 1960, he described in detail the events of that evening in 1918.
William hadn’t wanted to die with the knowledge ‘that the evil bastard, Reginald Ray, wasn’t given an easy exit from God’s green earth.’
Yorke read the statement William had dictated to his wife.
The events were written into local history and had been even before this statement came to light, but in a more modern era, where the world had seen its fair share of monsters with murderous desire, some of this information took on a new clarity. After his own experiences, Yorke felt he could read it with fresh eyes.
After looking at the photograph and reading William’s reference to the moment Reginald called his own face ‘a piece of rotten fruit,’ Yorke reasoned that Reginald, too, suffered from PVS. The same condition that Robert Bennett, who looked like Reginald’s twin, suffered from. Robert was a descendent. Of that, there was no longer any doubt.
But it was the other things Reginald said that resonated with Yorke right now. He’d bemoaned to William, and the other soldiers, that he wasn’t able to find sexual partners when he was a young man. Despite not remembering Reginald’s exact words, William had said that ‘he talked about sex like an animal. He even licked his lips at one point.’ Modern thinking considered sexual deviancy, and sexual motivation, large triggers in serial killing. According to William, he also showed no remorse and was flippant with his admissions of murder. More trademarks.
To Yorke and his colleagues, Robert had, so far, not revealed any of this. Not that this was conclusive. Another trademark of the sociopath is how well they lie and mask desires.
According to William, Gladys had known nothing. Yorke believed this. Reginald had possessed this much younger woman like an object. Abused her. Controlled her. Her ignorance was certainly believable.
He compared this to Robert’s marital situation. His wife had upped and left him. Another sharp contrast. Unless he’d murdered her, of course.
But it was the twisted, maladaptive thinking which really struck a chord with Yorke. He’d seen it before in Terrence Lock and Christian Severance. Reginald had eaten the children because he wanted ‘their youth, their freshness, their health’ inside him.
Yorke wasn’t surprised that William could remember this part word for word. Who could forget such an utterance?
Had that been Reginald’s motive? The belief that eating children would regenerate a decaying appearance?
William had told Reginald that it hadn’t worked. Reginald had disagreed.
Looking at the photographs, Yorke leaned more towards William’s viewpoint.
Was Robert Bennett now doing the same thing? Did he also harbour the delusional belief that he could someho
w improve his appearance by preying on young victims? The victims weren’t as young as Reginald’s had been, but they were young, nonetheless.
Yorke heard the front door open.
Patricia.
He put the file down.
She came into the lounge. ‘Part-time, my backside. How many times they going to murder my day off?’
‘It’s your fault for being so good at your job. Surely, they could have pulled someone else in for an emergency?’
‘No. Apparently there’s stuff going on in Southampton, and the other full-time option was busy. And what a scene to have dropped on me! I’ve got a strong constitution, but tonight was something else.’
Yorke nodded.
‘They were still pulling pieces of him out of the septic tank when I left.’
Yorke sighed.
‘Yes, sorry.’ They had strong guidelines for avoiding discussions about work in the house. The sigh was the cue to change the subject.
Unfortunately, the subject they changed to came loaded with its own fair share of anxiety.
Ewan.
Sheila was onto her third menthol cigarette. Her blood was boiling, and she was trying to cool herself down.
She smoked out of an open window, so as not to put at risk the lungs of Frank, who was upstairs in bed, and Tobias, who was in the lounge probably staring at a wall. Although, Jake thought, smoking was the least of that poor boy’s worries.
Jake realised his lie was elaborate and understood that Sheila may see through it at any point. But what was the alternative? Okay, Sheila, I am having an affair with someone who is married to a killer who works for the Al Capone of Southampton. Said killer is on their way to Salisbury for a reunion with his wife, who currently has one of my suits hanging in her wardrobe. Did I mention that this killer doesn’t mind murdering the children of those who sleep with his wife? Yes, I know. Staggering, isn’t it? Anyway, not to worry, as Lacey is back. You just bumped into her in the park dressed like Marilyn Manson and speaking with a South Carolina accent. Well, her son, you know the one who doesn’t do facial expressions? Yes, him in the lounge! Lacey has said that if we babysit him for a few days, she will execute all the bad men, and life can return to normal …
If he told her the truth, then she would be out the door, and at her mother’s house within the hour. She would also call the police, and then put everyone at risk.
Earlier, when Jake had arrived at the front door with Tobias, Sheila’s eyes had widened and she’d said, ‘I don’t understand … this boy, Tobias, I met him earlier.’ She then explained her experience with Millie at the park.
Jake let her talk. He’d learned about this encounter from Lacey already, but he acted like this was the first he’d heard about it.
‘Millie,’ Jake said, ‘kidnapped this young boy. She’s a dangerous woman.’ At least that bit was true …
‘We picked Millie up. Turns out that not only is she dangerous but the people she took the boy from are dangerous too.’ Sort of true too … but the next bit? Not so much … ‘You know I can’t explain the ins and outs of an operation we’re on, Sheila, but I can tell you this: the young boy, Tobias, is in danger. I have volunteered to keep this boy safe, until we can take into custody those who want this boy back.’
Sheila creased her face. ‘That doesn’t sound like any kind of procedure I’ve ever heard of.’
And she was right, of course.
‘Yes, but sometimes situations require creative thinking, and this was the best we could come up with.’ Or the best lie I could come up with in next to no time.
‘It’s bollocks.’
Jake shrugged. Yes, I know.
‘Why you? Why couldn’t someone else do it? Why couldn’t the great Michael Yorke have stepped in?’
‘Come on, Sheila. It’s his first day back …’
‘Emma, then?’
‘Her husband has flu.’ Jake pictured himself as half-spider, spinning a web around himself.
The conversation bounced back and forth like this for quite some time, until they put CBeebies on for Tobias in the lounge and retreated into the kitchen to continue the discussion.
Sheila dropped her third menthol cigarette into the sink. It sizzled. ‘You’ve put us in danger.’
It’s kind of the opposite, Jake thought. I’ve given us the best shot. ‘Not at all, the dangerous person, her husband, has no idea Millie is in custody. We need to keep the pretence that she is still at large with Tobias to draw him back out. As soon as he arrives, we’ll collar him, and poor Tobias will go into the system. With that in mind, maybe we should offer Tobias a happy couple of days? He won’t be allowed back with his real parents for similar reasons. The poor lad hasn’t got long left before he ends up in care.’
‘Why couldn’t he have gone into the system now? His father wouldn’t have known?’
‘I can’t answer that question.’ Which was true. He had no idea of how to justify this. ‘I’m really not allowed to. You are going to have to trust me, you really are.’
And that is the final word on the matter, Jake thought.
Fortunately, for once, Sheila seemed to agree. Although, she did have this to say on the way out of the room. ‘Two days. Any longer and I’ll drive him back to the station myself. I understand he’s a young boy and I’m not a monster, but you have brought work home with you. It isn’t safe. You’re not safe. You and Tobias can sleep wherever you want. I’m taking Frank into our room with me and moving a table in front of the door. Good night.’
With that, she stormed out, leaving Jake to feel like shit.
After they discussed Ewan for half an hour, Yorke and Patricia decided that they were still none the wiser about what to do next and so made love instead.
They moved slowly, and compassionately, with each other. They were both emotionally fragile following Ewan’s exclusion and a particularly horrific working day, and just needed affection and tenderness, rather than frenetic passion.
Afterwards, Patricia laid her head on Yorke’s chest and he ran his fingers gently though her hair.
Yorke felt revived by the experience and offered a solution to the Ewan problem. ‘I’ll contact Helen tomorrow.’
Dr Helen Saunders was the child psychologist that Ewan had met with for over a year following the death of his parents. After being discharged, his local doctor had applied for more sessions, but this was proving to be a long waiting game. It was time to go private.
‘Do you think she’ll be able to get him in soon?’ Patricia said.
‘At over a hundred pound a session, I’m sure she’ll give it a go.’
‘Don’t be cynical – she was amazing.’
‘Yes, I know, hence the hundred pounds! It’s not the money I’m bothered about though. It’s Ewan’s reaction to it.’
Patricia turned her head to kiss Yorke’s shoulder. ‘I doubt it’ll be positive.’
When they had applied for more sessions a couple of months ago, Ewan had tried to talk them out of it. He was ready, he said, to put it all behind him and get on with his life. They went ahead and applied anyway, knowing it would be quite some time before the sessions materialised. Now, they were about to hit the fast-forward button.
‘He’ll see it as a setback,’ Yorke said. ‘But we have to make him see that it isn’t. This is part of the whole thing. He’s going to have to learn to deal with the insensitivity of others because that, I’m afraid, will never go away. Are you going into work tomorrow?’
‘Yep. Too many tests to report on. I’ve spoken to Mum; she’ll spend the day here with Ewan.’
‘Okay, we’ll talk to him tomorrow night then.’
After Patricia had drifted off to sleep, and turned her back to him, he stroked the scars on her back, and lay awake most of the night. His thoughts plagued by cannibalistic farmers, troubled teenagers and corrupt police officers.
The only advantage to his insomnia was that he was alert and ready for Beatrice at an ungodly hour, sparing his beloved wi
fe a poor night’s sleep.
8
THIS WASN’T THE first time Mark Topham had been in this situation, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
It was frightening to think that the whole experience had developed its own little routine.
Flirtatious behaviour at a bar; copious amounts of alcohol to mask his depression; unprotected sex available at a higher cost; a sudden comedown from an alcohol-induced sexual frenzy; and an awkward moment when he asked the prostitute to leave the hotel room.
Cue the prostitute’s moment of indignation. Because no one really liked to be used, even if it was in the job description.
‘You know, it’s kind of late. I could stay over. It wouldn’t cost any more,’ James said.
Just like Bobby, the prostitute from the evening before, James was pleading for more time.
And isn’t that bizarre? Topham thought. Shouldn’t it be me, the customer, pleading for more time?
But that just showed how truly malignant this whole situation was. Everyone was lonely. James, in his loveless life, being treated like a piece of meat every day. And Topham, because someone had murdered his fiancé.
Topham wiped tears from his eyes. ‘I’d like you to leave.’ He felt James’s hand on his back, and he jerked away.
‘You opened up to me back at the bar.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I was a good listener then; I can be a good listener now.’
Topham felt the hand on his back again and he flipped over. ‘I won’t ask you again.’
And then came the moment of indignation. James jumped out of the bed, naked, and pointed down at Topham. ‘Please don’t talk to me like this. Show me some respect.’
‘Why?’ Topham grinned, despite not feeling amused in anyway.
‘Because I’m not some object.’
‘Aren’t you?’
Topham could hear himself talking as if he was merely an observer. It shocked him. Horrified him, even. He would be the first to admit that with all the alcohol abuse, and sleepless nights, he wasn’t completely in control of himself. ‘Just leave … please. You really don’t understand.’
