by Wes Markin
‘Janice was the word of warning.’ Wheelhouse ran a hand through grey tufts of hair.
The Youngs were organised and efficient, but that didn’t stop them being barbarians. Yorke knew a reasonable amount about this organisation. More than he cared to. Their previous leader had been killed in Jake’s house last year by Lacey Ray. He looked over at Jake. He did look noticeably paler at this stage in the conversation.
Wheelhouse picked up his polystyrene cup. ‘They’ll kill my sister next, but the jokes on them with that one! I really couldn’t care less if they did.’
Yorke made a note of this in his book. If she wasn’t coming back to the UK, he would have to contact the embassy in Greece and get her some protection. ‘How long ago did you steal this money?’
‘Before I went to jail. Eight years ago.’
Jake snorted. ‘And the Youngs have only just found out about it now?’
Wheelhouse nodded.
‘Any ideas how?’ Yorke said.
‘I bet it was one of the younger lads I used to work with. For years, I gave them boys a cut of the skim. Caught red-handed I reckon, and had the truth tortured out of them. The Youngs are particularly good with torture. Anyone would have squealed. They’d have blamed me until they were blue in the face. It won’t have helped them. If that was really what went down, those are some bodies that you’ll never see again. Probably for the best. You wouldn’t want to come across what’s left of them.’
Jake sat up straight on the stool; his back cracked. ‘I don’t believe the money is all gone.’
‘It is.’
‘We only have your word for that,’ Yorke said. ‘It’s not like it ever ended up in your savings account.’
Wheelhouse shrugged.
‘Your niece’s bank account perhaps?’ Jake said.
‘Check it.’
‘We’ll be doing more than that,’ Yorke said. ‘We will be searching your property too.’
‘You’re welcome to, detective. I doubt I’ll ever be in it again anyway. I’ll die in here.’
‘That’s pessimistic, but probably for the best ...’ Jake rolled his head and his neck cracked this time. ‘Do you ever feel guilty for what you did to those poor kids?’
For over two decades, Herbert Wheelhouse recruited children in smaller towns around Wiltshire on behalf of the Youngs. Having children run the drugs kept Wheelhouse and his employers firmly under the radar of law enforcement. In recent years, this operation had become known as County Lines. These young people were given mobile phones, known as Deal Lines, to take orders directly from drug users, who ordered heroin and crack. These young dealers were often forced to travel far and wide, putting themselves in all kinds of danger.
‘Back then it wasn’t the same,’ Wheelhouse said. ‘It’s evolved into something I don’t recognise. Something monstrous.’
‘Bollocks,’ Jake said. ‘You were exploiting children too.’
‘No,’ Wheelhouse said. ‘These children had nothing. They transported the drugs, and I made sure they earned solid money.’
‘These were vulnerable children!’ Jake rose his voice. ‘Some ended up abused physically, and sexually. What possible justification is there?’
‘Whenever anything happened to any of our runners, we dealt with whoever was responsible—’
‘Dealt with them?’ Jake was on his feet now. ‘You were the ones who put them in harm’s way in the first place! And what happened when you sent them to other towns far from home? How did you monitor it then?’
Yorke stood up and placed a hand on Jake’s arm. ‘DS Pettman?’
Jake turned his angry eyes up to Yorke; then, he turned to the guard. ‘The toilet?’
The guard stood up. ‘I’ll take you.’ He nodded in Wheelhouse’s direction. ‘You alright taking care of him?’
Yorke rose his eyebrows back. ‘Are you actually going to wait for my answer this time?’
The guard sneered and then led Jake out the room.
No then, Yorke thought.
‘Okay, detective, I regret it all. Is that what you want to hear?’ Wheelhouse put his hands on his head and then closed them into fists; he looked as if he was going to tear those grey tufts of hair from his head. ‘I thought it was a win-win at the time. The kids needed money. I needed money. It got worse. It became cancerous. When I started, we knew the runner, took care of them. It changed. Massively. That’s why I took retirement.’
‘Except, like you said before, nobody retires, do they?’ Yorke said.
‘You got that right.’
‘If you were truly sorry, you’d give me everything you have on the Youngs,’ Yorke said.
‘I could, but it’d be useless. I’d never make it alive to a courtroom.’
‘Well, we have to try. It may help me catch the man who did this to your niece.’
‘Don’t worry, detective, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. That twisted family, the Youngs, made a mistake … I’ve nothing left to live for now. My sister means nothing to me, and I’d long given up on my own existence. But I warn you, it won’t be much. It’s all outdated for a start, and each part of the business was kept insulated from all the others. In fact, the whole bloody enterprise is filled with layer upon layer of insulation. But I’ll tell you what I can.’
Yorke readied his pen.
‘He was a nasty piece of work, Simon Young. I enjoyed reading about how he was killed by that woman who stole his child. She sounded like a right vicious creature. I’m so glad he met his match. But his father … the one who has stepped back up to run the business? He is far, far worse. I could tell you some stories about that man …’
Jake paced the prison bathroom like a caged animal. There may have been a door out of this enclosure, but there certainly wasn’t one out of the hole he had dug himself into.
He leaned against the sink and stared at his pale face, then at his twitching eyelids, then at the red streaked whites of his eyes.
Inside those criss-crossed whites, he watched again the moments that defined who he now was.
He swung the back of the axe, missed the centre of Simon Young’s head, and tore an ear loose instead … He watched Young stumbling towards him, before suddenly lurching towards Lacey … He ended Young’s life by burying the axe in his back …
Jake took a deep breath through his nose and straightened himself.
Control yourself, man. Lacey has taken the blame. She’s institutionalised. And rightly so … she set the whole fucking thing up. Simon Young’s father will not know what you have done. Just an innocent policeman and his family in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lacey’s final gift to you. Sparing your life. Why? Maybe she wants to own you. Don’t expect this to be the last you ever hear of her. But …
Again, I say control yourself … there is no immediate danger. Your family have left you. Good. They’re safer because of it. Happier without you. You deserve this emptiness.
He took another deep breath and stepped away from the sink. He felt better. Empty … but better. You could adjust to being empty. You could not adjust to living in terror.
This case has nothing to do with your situation … nothing to do with who you’ve become … what you’re now defined as … it is an assassination as a result of Wheelhouse’s behaviour … follow the case … work with Mike … be what you once were.
Pretend to be what you once were.
His phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen.
Luke Parkinson.
‘And you can fucking wait,’ Jake said.
5
FOLLOWING THE INTERVIEW with Wheelhouse, Yorke headed home to see if his family were okay. Their collective experience back in Dr Helen Saunders’ waiting room had been particularly traumatic. After dropping the agitated Jake off at his bedsit with advice to get a good night’s sleep, he’d phoned Helen to see if she was alright. She assured him she was and had cancelled all her appointments for the next day to spend some time with her husband. She thanked him for
his concern and offered to spend a few sessions with Ewan next week free of charge. Yorke told her that was unnecessary.
Yorke drove well below the speed limit. The pincers of the demonic ash cloud were fixed tightly on Salisbury this evening, and his headlights wouldn’t pry them open.
His infotainment screen indicated that there was a Voicemail message from Willows; he must have missed her while on the phone to Helen. Before he could hit the call-back button on the touchscreen, there was another incoming call. It was Madden.
She didn’t bother with pleasantries. She rarely did, and there was no chance when she’d already seen him today. ‘Herbert Wheelhouse?’
‘Receptive, ma’am,’ Yorke said, and then filled her in on the most salient information.
‘So, you were wrong about him considering himself the Reaper?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Yorke rolled his eyes.
‘Don’t worry about it, Michael. You can’t be right every time, can you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You need to know that the inevitable has happened. I just got off the phone to SEROCU. They are now on board.’
It had been a little while since Yorke had last had dealings with the South East Regional Organised Crime Unit, but he knew them well enough to know that this was no bad thing. They delivered specialist and niche capabilities to all the police in the South Eastern region. As soon as Janice Edward’s uncle, Herbert, had been linked to the Youngs, the bane of SEROCU’s existence, the alert had come out. Unsurprisingly, their response had been quick.
‘When?’ Yorke said.
‘In the morning, Michael. Expect them at your 11 a.m. briefing. For now, though, it remains Operation Tagline. We could probably expect that to change, but until it does, it’s still yours. I’ve sent them over preliminary crime scene reports, sequence of events, and all other relevant information. Have you heard anything from DS Willows?’
‘Not since before my interview with Wheelhouse.’
‘I saw her an hour ago. She doesn’t fancy Peacock for the murder. She’s documenting the interview for me. Can you also document your interview with Wheelhouse this evening and send?’
‘Of course, ma’am. Shall I send the encryption code for the email to this phone number?’
‘Yes, Michael. I know I can trust you to work well with them. Yes, they can ruffle feathers, especially if they think there’s been sloppy work, but our relationship is strong, and they’ve helped us a lot in the past. Keep an eye on Luke. You know how he can be.’
So, why do you always protect him then?
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Yorke pulled into his driveway.
‘Get some rest, Michael. I suspect tomorrow will be a busy day.’
Yorke decided to spend some time with Patricia, Ewan and Beatrice before writing up the report on his interview with Wheelhouse. He considered phoning Jake to ask him to do some of it, but that ground was shaky. Jake would probably think that Yorke was delegating to him because he didn’t have any family to spend time with. It wasn’t worth the risk. He needed to rebuild the foundations of their friendship, not chip away at them.
He found Patricia in the kitchen staring at a pan of boiling water. He approached from behind and slipped his arms around her waist.
‘Eggs,’ she said. ‘Want some?’
‘Always.’
‘No soldiers, I’m afraid. Out of bread. We’re having them with Ryvitas, unless you want to pop back out?’
‘Nah. Crackers will be fine … weird … but fine.’ Yorke kissed her neck.
‘That’s nice.’ She leaned her head back. ‘Again ...’
He obliged.
She sighed. ‘The best part of the day.’
‘The only good part of the day … Ewan and Beatrice okay?’
‘Beatrice went down easier than she’s done in weeks. She obviously knew tonight wasn’t the night to push Mummy.’
‘Either that or the nursery wore her out. Ewan?’
‘He looked stunned all the way home, so I deliberately gave him some quiet time. And then when we got back, he disappeared up the stairs to phone Lexi. He’s been rattling on ever since! I hope you weren’t expecting to see him anytime soon.’
‘As long as he’s dealing with what happened today.’
‘I think he’s letting his hormones deal with it. His phone bill next month will no doubt show us that.’
‘Better than teenage pregnancy.’
She elbowed him.
‘That hurt.’
‘Good. The only person you should be having those types of conversations with is him. That’s your job. Beatrice is mine. In about thirteen years.’
‘Hmm … thanks, I think,’ Yorke said. ‘And you? How are you coping with what happened today?’
The clock beeped. ‘Six minutes.’ Patricia took the pan off the stove.
‘Too long for eggs, no matter how large. How many times do I have to tell you this?’
‘And how many times do I have to tell you? No bacteria, no matter how insignificant and harmless, are surviving in my egg. Besides, it doesn’t need to be runny. You can spread it like butter on your Ryvita.’
‘Appetising.’
She turned around. Yorke saw that her eyes were puffy. They embraced. ‘And to answer your question, Mike, no, I’m not fine, but neither are you, so we’re not going to make this about you looking after me. Tonight, we look after each other. And, just for this one meal, we can abandon the don’t-talk-shop rule because you know I’m desperate to hear what happened after you left us.’
Yorke’s phone rang. ‘Sorry, Pat.’ He took a step back and pulled it out of his jacket pocket. ‘It’s Collette. She’ll just be reporting back to me on Peacock, the writer Janice interviewed earlier tonight. Give me a second.’
Patricia nodded and Yorke took the phone call at the kitchen dining table.
‘Sir, I need to talk to you,’ Willows said.
‘Of course, Collette. If it’s about Peacock, Madden already contacted me to tell me it was a no-go.’ He watched Patricia spoon the eggs from the boiling water. ‘It was predictable—’
‘Sir, it’s not about Peacock. And Madden does not know about what I’m going to tell you. No one does. Well, apart from Pemberton. But she was there when I found—’
‘Collette. You’re doing it again. Keeping me in suspense.’
Patricia laid a plate in the middle of the table with a pack of Ryvitas on it. He smiled up at her.
‘We came across the name of one of Wheelhouse’s old associates. Someone he used to run with back in his youth … someone called Douglas Firth.’
Patricia laid a plate in front of Yorke, complete with three boiled eggs in eggcups, a teaspoon, and a knob of butter to loosen up those Ryvitas a little first.
‘Douglas Firth is currently in HMP Hancock with Wheelhouse,’ Willows said.
‘Okay, same area, similar crimes, identical prison? The point?’
‘Some of his crimes are similar, but not all, and he certainly shouldn’t be in a low-risk facility. It shows you how overcrowded the maximum-security facilities must be—’
‘To the point, Collette, what did he do?’
Patricia smashed the top of her hard-boiled egg. ‘He pinned someone’s head to the back of a fairground stall with a bayonet.’
‘Yes, that’ll do it … why?’
‘Geoff Stirling, the victim, had killed Firth’s son in a traffic accident a few years prior. The kid was five, and this Stirling, a young gangster, was showing off in his shiny new Capri and just ploughed right into him.’
Yorke took a deep breath. ‘So, Stirling was a revenge killing … HMP obviously don’t think he’s a risk to the public. Figures. How old is he?’
‘Sixty-six.’
‘Apparently less dangerous at retirement age … anyway, I’m struggling to make the connection.’
Patricia smudged her egg yolk on her Ryvita and then smiled at him. He smiled back.
‘Sir,’ Will
ows said. ‘This connection may not be what you want to hear.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
‘Okay … I may not even be telling you something you don’t already know, so …’
‘For pity’s sake, Collette! Everyone else gets it acerbic from you, and with me, you are always dancing around a bloody tree—’
‘Douglas Firth is Patricia’s father.’
‘Who?’ Yorke said, only realising afterwards how ridiculous the question. ‘My Patricia?’
Patricia met his eyes.
‘Yes sir.’
Borya Turgenev pressed the weight for the eighth time. His pectorals, deltoids and triceps all burned.
He lowered the barbell to chest level and went for a ninth repetition. This time he grunted as he breathed out. The bar moved slower this time, and his muscles trembled, but he maintained focus and the weight reached the summit.
His body was telling him to stop, and he was now in position to relinquish the bar; deposit it onto its rack. The bar could beat him if he went again. Probably would beat him.
He brought the bar to chest level again. It came faster this time. He was unable to slow it; his power was waning. He felt the pressure of the weight on his chest.
It could crush him. It would almost certainly do him some damage … unless he maintained the tension in his muscles.
He could feel his body burn.
Was this what it felt like to be beaten?
He took a deep breath and felt the moment.
Everything was quiet. Still.
Peace.
He roared and thrust. The bar moved slowly and with control.
Perfectly.
He deposited the barbell on to its rack, sat up, took three deep breaths and stood to look in a full-length mirror. His shimmering muscles were taut after the workout.
He ran a hand over his head, his face and then his genitalia. He felt the vile beginnings of hair. It was time for his second close shave of the day.
As he walked naked to his bathroom, he heard the ping of an email from his office. He looked at the clock on his landing wall. Never a minute before, or a minute too late. Those emails always came at the same time.
