by Wes Markin
‘Again, I don’t know. I don’t look in the envelope.’
‘I’m going to need the name of your boss.’
She went pale. ‘You promised.’
‘I know. And I promise that I’m not going to go after him.’
‘My boss is a woman.’
Yorke raised his eyebrows. ‘Her name?’
‘Shit … Amy.’
‘Surname?’
‘I honestly don’t know. She comes here. Calls herself Amy.’
Shit.
‘When does she come?’
‘Most mornings.’
Yorke realised he’d have to get in touch with Vice to identify and find the pimp known as Amy. Then, he could get full clarification of what he thought he knew already.
Parkinson was on the payroll of organised crime.
Article SE?
Nothing would surprise Yorke at this moment in time.
Leaning down from his sofa, Parkinson put his bottle of beer on the floor. He then counted out the money three times. There could be no margin of error. Lives, most importantly his own, depended on it.
Amy had skimmed two thousand from the reported profits. This envelope was exactly one thousand pounds heavier; his fifty-percent share. As per usual, their employers, hiding away in their greasy offices, would be none the wiser.
He counted off his thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes and laid it to one side. He then pushed the remainder of his employer’s money into an envelope and sealed it.
He picked up his bottle from the floor, tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and drained the remainder in four gulps.
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
There was a naked man standing in his room.
Yorke knew he should have phoned it in immediately. No one would have been more eager to hear of these developments than Madden.
But there were a couple of questions he wanted answering first before giving Luke Parkinson over to an internal investigation; most importantly, who had employed him to play such a pivotal role in framing Tom Davies with Danielle’s murder?
He parked up outside Parkinson’s house and killed the engine.
He closed his eyes and remembered Proud’s warning the night Yorke had confronted him at the brewery.
There’s a bent bastard shitting in the same toilet as you.
Unbelievable. He’d been talking about Parkinson. No wonder the slimy dickhead had been one of the first attenders to the scene that night. He must have breathed an inward sigh of relief when he’d learned of Proud lying dead at the bottom of a ladder with a broken neck.
Yorke knew that he couldn’t allow his confrontation with Parkinson to play out in the same way it had with Proud. Career wise, he wouldn’t come back from it again.
But he had to know. Look him in the eyes, just once, and get the truth, before the worm disappeared into the system forever.
Another thing was bothering him too.
A big, strong-looking man. Marriage problems. Polite.
It couldn’t be Jake. It just couldn’t be. Parkinson could at least put his mind at ease on that one.
He looked at the house. The front room light was on.
Yorke opened the car door.
Parkinson’s heart beat his ribcage.
If he stood, he’d be dead before he was at full stretch. A silenced gun was pointing down at him from barely a metre away.
And while Parkinson shook, Borya ‘The Dancer’ Turgenev was as steady as a rock.
The man from that mugshot handed out earlier by Robinson was unmistakable. The demon’s eyes leached the colour from everything around him.
He didn’t have a hair on his body. He chewed slowly on something.
‘Why are you here?’ Parkinson said.
Borya took a step forward, so he was now only half-a-metre away. He cracked his neck and swallowed whatever he’d been eating.
A Chewit, Parkinson thought, recalling the crime scene at Radio Exodus. The killer eats Chewits.
‘Have you finished your count?’ Borya said. His Russian accent was strong.
‘Yes,’ Parkinson said, trying to keep the fear from his voice. ‘It’s all there. You can take it in with you if you want.’
‘I will do,’ Borya said, raising his other hand. He was holding a lightbulb. ‘After.’
‘I think there’s been a mistake. I’ve been loyal—’
‘No mistake. Only certainty.’
‘Seriously, I’ve done nothing wrong.’ He reached for the envelope. ‘Look count the money. There’s your certainty.’
Borya shook his head. ‘Certainty like your dead child. Certainty like the wife that hates you.’
Parkinson narrowed his eyes. He felt a surge of anger but swallowed it back. ‘Whatever you think you know—’
‘Or you can think of me as certainty. I stand before you, hiding nothing. My intentions are clear.’ He held the lightbulb out. ‘I want you to put this in your mouth.’
Parkinson gulped and then slowly shook his head.
‘Take it and put it into your mouth.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘I will count to three.’
Parkinson shook his head again.
‘One … two …’
‘Okay!’ Parkinson took the bulb. His hand shook as he turned it, so the bayonet cap was facing towards him; then, he slipped it into his mouth.
‘No,’ Borya said. ‘Put it in the other way.’
Parkinson withdrew the bayonet cap. ‘How? I can’t squeeze the bulb in … that’s—’
‘I can help you if you want.’
That certainly wasn’t an option. Shaking hard, Parkinson turned the bulb towards his mouth and started to push. Part way in, he raised his eyebrows to suggest that this was the best he could do. When Borya stepped forward, Parkinson did better. He hammered the bayonet cap several times with the palm of his hand, and the bulb slid home.
Stretched wide, the corners of his mouth burned. They would soon split and sting for days. He stared up at Borya. He must have looked ridiculous. Like a fucking blowfish. The Russian’s expression didn’t change. If he was finding Parkinson’s humiliation amusing, he was doing a great job of hiding it.
What now?
Borya took another step forward, until he was within touching distance. Parkinson noticed that Borya had the beginnings of an erection. He was well endowed, and the lack of pubic hair accentuated the size further.
Was he expecting a blowjob? Impossible with a bulb in his mouth. But it was an interesting idea nonetheless … could he buy his way out of this situation with sex? It was a powerful currency. He wasn’t averse to the idea either. The large Russian had a wonderfully toned physique, and the lack of any hair, including eyebrows, made him look smoother, and shinier, than any person he’d ever seen before.
He could feel Borya’s gun lying flat against the crown of his head. Pinned there by a wide hand.
By not keeping the gun aimed at him, Parkinson wondered if Borya had sacrificed his initiative. The policeman could strike for his genitalia and bring the assassin down. It could be his only chance.
Parkinson instead went for the other option and reached up. He moved his hand down over the jagged abdominal muscles and watched the Russian close his eyes and take a deep breath. He continued his journey, stroking his smooth, shiny, crotch and then caressed the shaft of his semi-erect penis.
Parkinson felt his own erection growing, and if it wasn’t for the bulb forced into his mouth, he would be chewing his bottom lip in anticipation.
His heart was still thrashing in his chest, but his adrenaline now came from arousal rather than fear.
He’d beaten the Dancer, the feared assassin, with sex.
Parkinson reached up with his other hand to extract the bulb, so he could place his manipulated, new lover into his mouth.
Borya’s empty hand darted out and closed on Parkinson’s wrist before he could reach the bulb. His grip was tight. The policeman winced.
&nbs
p; The killer’s eyes opened. His face suddenly seemed so full of colour, and life, while everything else around him seemed barren, and lost.
Parkinson tried to pull away, but the strong man strengthened his grip. He moaned. The assassin started to press downwards on the crown of his head. Parkinson felt the steel of the gun digging into his scalp. His neck began to burn as the sheer pressure soaked into his bones. He was being crushed to death.
Watching the serrated muscles rise from the giant’s body, Parkinson desperately wanted to scream at this monster, but his mouth was plugged.
He was certain his spine was starting to splinter.
Borya’s knee jerked upward. Parkinson felt the impact on his chin, and a popping sensation between his tongue and his hard palate.
His mouth was no longer stretched, but it was suddenly full of glass. He was just about to spit it all out when the knee came again.
And again.
The pain in his mouth was truly sickening. It was a deep burning sensation.
Borya released Parkinson’s wrist and seized him by the bottom of his jaw, so he had his head sandwiched between his two large hands. He started to squeeze like a vice.
Parkinson couldn’t believe he was still alive. The monster was on the verge of bursting his skull.
Now, Borya was manipulating the policeman’s lower jaw from side-to-side, grinding shards of glass deeper into the soft warm flesh of his tongue, cheek and gums.
Parkinson’s mouth felt like it was full of rocks.
Borya stepped away.
Parkinson spat the glass, the blood, and the remains of his mouth onto the floor.
After Yorke had exited the car, his phone started to ring. It was Patricia, so he climbed back in and answered. ‘Hi Pat … everything okay?’
‘Of course. Just wanted to check what time you were back.’
‘Got side-tracked by something, and it might delay me, but I’m not going back to HQ, so I’ll head home straight after, okay?’
‘You don’t have to ask my permission.’
‘It’s been a tough couple of days, and I want you to know I’ll be back with you soon.’
‘Nothing I’d like more. I went to see my mother today.’
‘How is Jeanette?’
‘Not great after I told her about Dad.’
Yorke sighed. ‘Well, there’s no confirmation that he’s involved yet. I’m still trying to rule him out.’ He considered telling her about being relieved of the SIO post for Parkinson but opted against it. It was a long story and would inevitably lead to Parkinson’s role in his sister’s death. He just wanted to get into his house and have it out with him. ‘Did you tell her not to worry?’
‘Have you ever tried telling my mum not to worry about something?’
‘Good point. Beatrice and Ewan okay?’
‘Bea seems a little bit under the weather. In fact, she came out with a new word. Calpol.’
Yorke snorted. ‘So, she can say Mama and Ewan and now she can ask for painkillers. Should I be offended that she doesn’t say Dada?’
‘Painkillers are important …’
‘True.’
‘Ewan has been upstairs with Lexi for a couple of hours.’
‘Door open?’
‘Not this time.’
‘Pat …’
‘Don’t worry, Mike, they’re not having sex.’
‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘I just know. Mother’s intuition. But one day they will have sex …’
‘Not now,’ Yorke said. ‘My brain already feels waterlogged.’
‘Well, as long as that conversation is on the radar …’
‘It is.’ Yorke wondered if he possessed such a radar. ‘But I’ve got to shoot.’
‘For the secret mission that side-tracked you?’
‘Yep. I’m looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Me too.’
‘Oh … and go and open that door!’
‘Yessir.’
Yorke hung up and left the car again.
Borya watched his target writhing on the floor in a puddle of his own blood and flesh. He was moaning, crying and dying of blood loss at the same time. A perfect symphony.
Before this final stage, his targets usually fought with the belief that they couldn’t be beaten. And they always failed spectacularly.
This target had been more challenging though. He’d tried instead to seduce him with flesh and, for the briefest of moments, he’d almost succeeded.
Almost.
He reached behind the lamp beside the sofa, picked up a boxcutter he’d concealed there earlier, and pushed out the blade. Then, he knelt, and stilled the target by pressing down hard on his forehead.
‘First, the message I am paid to deliver. You took from someone you should not have taken from.’
His target tried to plead with him, but his tongue was practically destroyed, and his useless words bubbled out with bloody saliva.
‘Next, my message.’
Borya placed the blade of the boxcutter against the corner of his mouth and drew it up his face close to his ear. His cheek split open.
He listened to the deep guttural moan, before carving open the other side.
Borya leaned back, punched his target in the stomach, and watched his target’s whole face open when he gasped for air.
As a child, Borya had been fascinated by dot-to-dots. He’d adored the way that everything came together with patience and control. His pen brought order and organisation to the chaos of the dots.
When he looked down at the mouth of a target, he saw again those dot-to-dots. The disorder, the disorganisation, the chaos.
So, he put the blade to Luke Parkinson’s top lip and, with patience and control, joined the dots.
Yorke extended an umbrella and, as he walked over the road, he realised he was going to have to work hard to control his temper. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than swinging for Parkinson and grilling the idiot afterwards while he was nursing a bloody nose. But Yorke had acted on impulse and passion once before in the past; it had almost cost him his job, and his sanity. It was better to approach more formally. He had the evidence, after all. He had the signed statement back at HQ, and a video of Parkinson coming out of the brothel-squat. He also had the name of a pimp who would probably give him up with little pressure. Parkinson’s days were numbered. He simply had to tell him this, and then force the bent copper to give him some closure on what’d happened to Danielle all those years ago.
At the beginning of the path leading to Parkinson’s house, the front door opened, the light flared, and someone stepped out onto the porch.
It wasn’t Parkinson.
Yorke stopped and reached into his inside jacket pocket for his ID. The man, who was even taller than Jake, stepped off the porch and onto the path. He then started to move with purpose. Yorke felt adrenaline whip through his guts. He held up his ID. ‘DCI Yorke. I’m here to see Luke Parkinson. Who are you please?’
The man marched onwards. Quickly. A gust of rain-filled wind sent his open leather jacket flapping up around him like a cape.
‘STOP THERE! I’M AN OFFICER!’ The words died in his throat when he recognised the killer from the mugshot Robinson had shown him earlier.
Yorke felt the blow to the side of his head. A hard, crushing punch which came from an incredibly well-conditioned human being. Everything flashed, and his legs buckled, but as he went down to his knees, Yorke let go of the umbrella and managed to deliver a firm shot to his assailant’s stomach. It was like hitting a brick wall. He didn’t have to wait long to find out that his blow had little impact. Borya reached down, seized the front of Yorke’s jacket and threw him into the garden. He landed on his arm, which immediately went numb. All the air was knocked from his body. He rolled onto his back, gulping for oxygen, and saw the assassin standing over him with a boot raised in the air, planning on crushing his skull.
Yorke thrust his own booted foot into the bastard’s k
nee. There wasn’t a reassuring crack, but it had more impact than his previous effort, and the killer went down on his other knee.
Yorke scurried backwards on the muddy garden, brushing rain from his eyes.
Borya was coming again, moving gracefully and elegantly like a swooping eagle, rather than a lumbering heavy. Yorke knew he was embroiled in a fight that he was very unlikely to win.
Expecting the killer’s boot again, Yorke shielded his face, but Borya instead knelt as he charged, and threw an arching roundhouse punch. Yorke managed to adjust his lying position as the strike came, so it struck his shoulder rather than his head. It burned, and a numbness now descended on his right arm too.
‘Stop, Borya! It’s over. There’re more officers coming. You don’t want to make—’
Borya’s next blow struck home. There was an exploding sensation in his cheek. He was sucked into the inevitable flash but managed to open his eyes just in time to watch the second, fiercer, shot descend.
He was thankful for the soft soil which his head sank into. Solid ground would have fractured his skull.
When Yorke opened his eyes, he expected a descending fist again, but simply saw Borya looking down at him, glimmering under a slicing sheet of rain.
The weather made it difficult to see what Borya was doing. Yorke cleared his eyes with his sleeve, and then felt his internal organs melt.
The psychopath was holding a boxcutter.
Yorke kicked out, and managed, for a second time, to catch the assassin. Where, he couldn’t be sure, as the rain and the heavy blows had turned his vision to mush. It had impact though. The big man came down on top of him, boxcutter first.
Luck, more than skill, allowed Yorke to catch the killer’s wrist and soften the impact of the extended blade. But his luck only went so far. The boxcutter sank into his face.
With both hands, Yorke pushed Borya’s wrist, but the man was too strong, and the blade remained buried in his cheek.
If he succumbed to the pressure, Borya would cut his face to ribbons. He held on with everything he had left, but he was already starting to tire. So, he took the only option available to him. It was terrifying option, but preferable to having his face removed.
