by Wes Markin
‘Go on.’
‘Buddy had the same hunch as you. Whoever tortured Johnson works for Buddy alright.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Years back, before Article SE, when Buddy was ruling the roost instead of simply existing on machines, he used to take souvenirs.’
‘The eyes?’ Yorke said, recalling the grisly details from Pemberton.
‘Yes. It looks like someone has done this on his orders.’
‘Unless, someone has made it look like he’s responsible?’
‘Another possibility.’
Despite the fatigue, and pain in his ribs, Yorke paced the bathroom. His adrenaline was up. He so badly wanted to be part of this investigation.
‘You must have grilled Wheelhouse and Firth by now?’
‘We tried. Firth is very adept at pleading ignorant. He’s an experienced man.’
‘Yes, I noticed.’
‘When we saw Wheelhouse, he was out of it on a sedative too, which didn’t help matters. He says he’s dealing with loss.’
‘Seems he dealt with it,’ Yorke said, ‘An eye for an eye.’
‘Possibly, Mike, but listen, you’ve given me that guarantee now. I like you. You’re a fantastic copper with instincts as sharp as a razor, but next time this won’t be as pleasant. Next time, I’ll push Joan to discipline you.’
‘Fair enough, sir … could I at least get updates?’
‘You’re unstoppable … when I can, and if appropriate, Mike, but right now you need to rest.’
After the phone call, Yorke returned to the mirror. He was just about to sneak a long-awaited peek at his split cheek when the bathroom door flew open. It was Ewan.
‘Shit … bollocks … sorry, Mike.’
‘Since when have profanities made up fifty percent of your vocabulary?’
‘Since I walked in on you in the bathroom.’
‘Don’t worry, my fault, forgot to lock it; pain medication has sent me a bit sideways.’
‘I was going to ask you later, but now is as good a time as any. Is it okay if Lexi stays over?’
Yorke reeled and the question came out before he’d even thought it through. ‘Are you two having sex?’
Ewan blushed.
So did Yorke. ‘Sorry, I just blurted that out. What I meant—’
‘No … we’re not. I was going to suggest she sleeps in the spare room anyway.’
‘Of course. Sorry … it’s these medicines. Yes, that’s fine. Spare room.’
‘Thanks Mike.’ Glowing, he turned away.
‘Oh … Ewan,’ Yorke said.
He turned back.
‘If you ever … you know … want to chat about things, just let me know, okay?’
Ewan nodded and left him in the bathroom.
Yorke had led many incident rooms in his time. Some pretty unforgiving ones at that. But never, ever, had he felt as lost for words as he did right now.
He closed the door, locked it, and sat down before his jelly legs gave out on him.
When Borya heard the ping of his email, he wondered if his next target was the ex-GRU officer and his daughter. It made sense. Russians often liked to use their own to clean up.
Borya wouldn’t mind being assigned Alexander Antonovich. He’d easily be his most high-profile target to date, and further testament to his ascension to greatness.
Antonovich was famous for writing books about Josef Stalin. Books that stripped away the propaganda. Books that riled his motherland.
Carrying a soviet court conviction, Antonovich had originally been smuggled over from Switzerland, and the UK government was in no rush to extradite him back. He had been a useful informant over the years, and anyone that riled Russia with bestselling books was welcome to stay.
Yes, Borya thought, I would like that job very much.
Borya was surprised to find another email from ‘Power Protein.’ They often changed the company name in subsequent emails. This suggested one of two things. They were growing complacent. Unlikely. It was most likely the second option: they were in a rush.
They didn’t usually rush, which implied that whoever had requested the contract had offered more money.
Interesting … maybe it isn’t the Russian spy, after all …
He clicked the email. He opened a pad in front of him, picked up a pen, and starting with the words, ‘Exclusive offer.’ He counted twenty letters. T. Then, another fifteen. H …
He followed his usual process until he’d written: THE HOBBIT, BEVOIS VALLEY ROAD. It was a famous Tolkien-inspired public house in Southampton.
He then counted the testimonials from the fictional Power Protein junkies which would indicate the time of the meeting. There were thirty-three, which did not work against any clock Borya had ever come across.
Fortunately, he knew what it meant.
Many years ago, he’d been warned that this could happen in the future. It never had. Until now.
The difference between thirty-three and twenty-four was nine. His meeting was at nine o’clock this evening.
He looked at his watch. Less than an hour to go.
Borya rarely felt excited, but this felt very different.
Jake lay awake. The rain pounded his bedsit. White noise usually calmed him. Not tonight.
Instead of counting sheep, he counted all the ways his life had gone wrong. He smirked. It should keep him going most of the night. And, at least if he didn’t sleep, then he might have the definitive reason for the state he was in.
Where did he start? The return of Lacey Ray? The sociopathic ex-girlfriend who took offense at being called emotionally stunted. Bringing that up had given birth to a vendetta which had lasted for years. A vendetta that had led to his pregnant wife being threatened; him being chained to a chair and threatened with secateurs; and the execution of a devious plot which had led Jake to violent murder in order to protect those he loved.
He was lying to himself. She wasn’t the only reason.
Prior to the return of Lacey, his relationship with Sheila had been crumbling for years. He’d written off the advice that you should always look at your potential mother-in-law before you took a wife. For the second time in this melancholy sheep-counting exercise, he smirked.
There were moments of happiness amongst the wreckage of their marriage. Frank being the best of these. He brought short periods of clarity and happiness to their time together because it was something they could share away from the job and the mother-in-law. But he’d also made a mockery of that by embarking on an affair.
He’d like to return to Lacey, and blame the malignant narcissist, but she was out of his life now. She’d been institutionalised and was unlikely to see the light of day anytime soon. Yet, he’d continued walking this path of self-destruction. Running rather than walking. Shaking down people for money on behalf of organised crime; following and tracking the movement of potential hits; incorrectly logging, and sometimes damaging, evidence; and, giving out protected data, such as addresses and phone numbers.
No, the buck really had to stop with him. He had to own this. Had to admit that his life, as he had known it, was well and truly over. He was dangerous and destructive. His mother-in-law had been right. Time to disappear. Exactly how Mark Topham, his good friend, had disappeared.
He vowed that tomorrow would be the beginning of his future. He would miss his son, dreadfully. The possibility of never knowing how Frank’s life evolved sawed through his entire being, but how could he continue? Even Yorke knew now. Really? How long could his noble colleague allow this to continue? He smiled over the thought of his closest friend. They’d had some good times. Yorke had always been a rock for him. He’d miss him.
But before leaving, he had one good deed to complete. It wouldn’t make up for everything, but it was a start. He could walk away knowing he had made a significant difference to someone else’s life. And he could also walk away knowing that he’d never broken his golden rule. Because not a single child had ever been hurt as a
result of his actions. Not like Herbert Wheelhouse, not like Lacey Ray, not like Simon Young …
He wasn’t like any of them. At least he would see out the rest of his life, knowing that.
Eventually, he slept with a single thought on his mind: it’s time for a new beginning.
From his jail cell, Firth couldn’t hear the heavy rain that was forecast, but he tried to imagine it.
He recalled a time, long ago, when the rain would help him sleep, especially after the loss of his son.
But try as he might, the sleep just wouldn’t come. And when his mind started to drift to the events of tomorrow, he became even more agitated.
He climbed down from the top bunk and switched his desk lamp on. It was lights out, but this was one of his ‘special privileges.’ Not that he exercised it often. He never wanted to keep Wheelhouse awake. However, tonight, his friend was out for the count on another hypnotic, so there was no rousing him.
Firth had already composed his weekly letter to Patricia and Jeanette, but he wanted to write another one to Patricia. One with a slightly different tone, one that matched tomorrow, and the sense of finality which was looming. He wanted Patricia to know her importance in his existence despite their estrangement.
Dear Patricia,
It may not seem like it to you, my darling, but it still feels like yesterday when I walked you to school, when I read to you in bed, when I helped you to ride your bicycle. All those times. All those experiences. Priceless moments. They’re so vivid that when I close my eyes, I can still hear you breathing beside me, and feel your tiny hand in mine.
These are moments I can’t lose, no matter what happens. Day by day, I live through them, and if the day comes in which I can’t find them again, then I’ll be no more.
I like to believe, want to believe, Pat, that these are the moments that define me. Not what has happened since. Those moments with you, and Ian. And your mother. All of us together. Happy. Before Geoff Stirling and his Ford Capri.
But I know that life isn’t that kind. And I certainly don’t expect you to overlook everything that happened those years after we lost Ian. The choices I made to support you and your mother were unacceptable. I know that now. All I did was drive an even thicker wedge between us all.
I have my priceless moments, but I also have those other moments. The moments I want to forget but must face every night when I lie down, and every morning when I first look at myself in the mirror. You know of the times I’m referring to. One of those moments physically damaged you, scarred my poor baby’s back. I know that no matter how many times I apologise, I can never get it right. Know this though, Patricia, my darling, it wasn’t your father asleep, drunk, in that car. The true man, your true father was gone long before that.
You remember when you held my hand? The day I watched your brother die?
I pulled my hand away from you. Not because I didn’t want to support you, because I did, and still desperately do, but because I felt myself dying inside, and I didn’t want to contaminate you. Death had taken Ian, and it was taking me too, and I was not letting it get its bony hands on you.
Patricia, when all is said and done, and one day it will be, probably sooner than you realise, I want you to remember me for the man I was before that day, and not the man I became.
I know it’s such a long time ago for you, and your memory will be hazy, but whatever you have, please hold onto. Those priceless moments. Drops of rain. Frozen forever. Don’t let them melt. Hold them close. And if you ever want to know more about me, who I was, before, ask your mother. She will speak fondly of me because we were happy then. Genuinely. There is a treasure chest of precious moments right there for you to open, and I pray to God, every single night now, that one day you’ll open it.
I love you, more than you could ever believe.
If this was to be my last letter to you, I know that it’s a fitting farewell.
Yours truly,
Daddy.
After sealing the envelope, writing on the address, wiping tears away, Firth turned off the lamp. He climbed the steps to his bunk. He lay there and thought of all those precious moments that had made his life so full, and all those other moments that had eventually ruined it.
Eventually, he slept with a single thought on his mind: it’s time for a new beginning.
19
TODAY FELT LIKE a new beginning to Borya Turgenev.
And not simply because the ash cloud was predicted to clear today, but rather because of the assignment he’d been given.
It hadn’t been the Russian defector as he’d first suspected. That had already been assigned. He didn’t regret this. That was an easy task. The most challenging task had been reserved for the best.
The rain had taken a break this morning, but it was due back at some point today, so he carried an umbrella.
When in his car, he switched on the lights. Despite it being day, the world was still dark.
After Borya had been asked to kill his entire family, he’d never expected to be tasked with so ambitious a challenge again. He’d been wrong.
And he thanked his lucky stars.
Jake was up early for his new beginning.
There wasn’t much to pack, so he had a couple of cups of coffee instead and thought of where he should go. He hadn’t given his actual exit plan too much thought so far. Most of his focus had gone into the good deed he was planning.
Using the internet on his phone, he scheduled himself onto an overnight ferry from Portsmouth to St Malo in France. Having visited the port city in Brittany in the past with Sheila, he knew it well enough to lie low there for a few days before deciding on his next move.
The mast-filled port city of St Malo was walled, and Jake recalled standing with Sheila at the highest point, looking down at the waves lashing the ramparts. The sky, like the skies here now, had been black and swollen, and the air was moist with sea spray and the beginning of rain. It had been untamed and wild and was one of Jake’s favourite memories.
It was also a time of happiness for them both. They’d both been young, and very much in love.
He looked inside the black holdall. He brushed aside his clothing and double-checked the first bundle of cash was there. This one was for Frank and Sheila. In the other holdall, there was an inside zipper pocket. Last night, he’d slit the inside of this pocket, so he was able to stuff his cash into the lining of the bag rather than the main compartment.
If he was stopped by customs on his journey out of the UK, they hopefully wouldn’t find it. He’d be able to convert it into Euros in small increments when he reached St Malo. It was a risk, he knew that, but he’d never had a rigorous customs check when travelling, and leaving his life behind with no money was unthinkable.
He looked at his watch. It was time to make a move.
He checked around the bedsit one last time. He’d left a few provisions in the freezer and two bottles of Summer Lightning in the fridge for the next unlucky sod who reached a bump in the road and decided to hunker down in this squalor.
When certain he’d not left anything important, he left the bedsit, closed another chapter in his unhappy life, and went off to do his one good deed of the year.
‘While you were asleep last night, I called to tell Alice that I needed some time,’ Pemberton ran her fingertips up and down Willows’ exposed back. ‘Told her I was staying with my mother.’
‘Did she believe you?’ Willows said.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. She never really seems to believe me about anything.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Dunno. She thinks I’m too sarcastic.’
‘You are … but you’re not a liar.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Good point.’
‘She says I use sarcasm to mask my feelings which is the same as lying.’
Willows rolled over in bed to face her. Pemberton was glad; she could now run her fingertips down over her breasts and stomach.
Willows smiled. ‘I guess you kept your feelings masked from me for a while.’
‘I think we both played that game.’
‘Who’s to say I had feelings for you to start with?’
‘Now, who’s lying?’
They paused to stare at each other for a time. Willows looked quite tearful.
‘I’m proud of you, Collette,’ Pemberton said.
‘Why?’
‘You know why. You went to Johnson. You held him while—’
‘No,’ Willows said. ‘We have today off for a reason. Let’s not relive it again and again.’
‘I held you back. I’m sorry.’
‘Really Lorraine … let’s not discuss it. You were just trying to protect me. But, please, no more. This instead …’ Willows moved in and they kissed.
Pemberton started to move her fingertips further down her stomach. Willows took the wandering hand and broke away from the kiss. ‘Do you love her?’
Pemberton rolled onto her back, looked up at the ceiling and sighed. ‘I guess so.’
‘Great.’ Willows also rolled onto her back.
‘At least I’m telling you the truth. Regardless of what Alice thinks, I’m not a liar. But loving and being with someone are two totally different things. There are so many problems in our relationship – trust issues only scratch the surface.’
‘This is starting to feel very much about you.’ Willows sat up. ‘And no one else.’
‘That’s not fair, Collette. This is a long-term relationship, not some student fling. We own a house together. I can’t just set fire to everything.’
Willows glared at her. ‘That’s patronising. Do you think that I don’t understand?’
‘You told me that your longest relationship was nine months, and that was with a man, so forgive me if I’m …’
‘Being a bitch?’ Willows said, swinging her legs out of the bed.
‘Woah … extreme!’
