by Wes Markin
‘What’re you doing, Mike?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This isn’t you. There is no one else, and I mean no one else, better equipped to find this beast than you.’
Yorke stood up. ‘So, now you’re going to try and talk me into it too?’
‘It’s not something you can refuse to do.’
Yorke took a step away from where she was sitting. ‘I turned it down for us ... for our family … for you.’
‘Do not,’ Patricia held up a finger, ‘use any of us as an excuse, Mike. That is not fair.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ Yorke said, turning and walking to the lounge door. He stopped with his hand on the handle, and turned back. ‘I want to be here with all of you.’
‘You want to find this bastard. To say otherwise is just a lie.’
He turned back from the door. ‘I never lie to you.’
‘No, you don’t,’ Patricia said. ‘You’re just lying to yourself.’
‘So that’s it then? I go, and what, Christmas is over? Why can’t someone else stop him?’
‘What happens if they can’t? You’d blame yourself. And have you forgotten Emma? What happened to Mark tore her to pieces. How would she feel if she ever finds out that you had the opportunity to stop him?’
Yorke flinched and looked away.
‘What?’ Patricia said. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’
Yorke told her about Gardner and the conversation before in the car. He also told her about the photograph of Topham on the steps in Leeds.
Patricia rubbed her temples.
‘Could you imagine me and Emma heading up north on some kind of crusade?’ Yorke said with a shrug.
Patricia looked at him. She didn’t say anything. She raised her eyebrows.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘What’s the alternative then Mike?’
‘What do you mean, what’s the alternative? Emma goes home and spends time with her family, and I stay home and spend time with mine.’
‘Jesus, Mike, for the most intelligent man I know, you can be thick as pig shit sometimes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Phone Emma now.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it, Mike.’
Yorke phoned Gardner. ‘Voicemail? Now what?’
‘Phone her home.’
Yorke obliged.
‘Hello, Barry?
‘Mike?
‘Yes … Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas to you too!’
‘Sorry to disturb you today but is Emma there?’
‘Yes, she just got back from seeing you. She’s upstairs, packing.’
‘Packing? Why?’
‘For her trip to Leeds tomorrow with you, you plonker! You need to ease off the mulled wine.’
Yorke felt the blood drain from his head. ‘Yes … that’s right … sorry, I was just going to pack first thing.’
‘Shall I grab her then?’
‘No … just tell her, I’ll collect her at 8.’
‘Fantastic. Will do.’
After ringing off, Patricia stood up, walked over and kissed him. They touched foreheads for a moment. ‘I’m proud of you.’
Yorke sighed.
‘While you phone Madden, I’ll go upstairs and pack your things.’
When the Conduit wrote letters to his friend, he opted for a fountain pen over the keyboard, and always plumped for a cursive style. If he made a single mistake, he rewrote the letter again. He had one friend, and as such, could take the time to offer perfection to them.
He was on the final paragraph of a rather long-winded affair. He sat back on his dining room chair, took a refreshing deep breath, and looked over at his dog convulsing on the floor.
His eyes were rolled back, his teeth were clenched, and he was frothing from the corners of his mouth.
‘Sorry, dog, I got a bit carried away with your cocktail this evening. I can only imagine what you are seeing in that storm. Flashes of a bygone era with Neil, I guess, before his insides were sliced like salami. But pay little attention, dog, don’t let it upset you. That time, your old identity, doesn’t exist anymore. Glowing embers on a long-dead fire. Nothing more.’
He smiled at his pet. Granted, he looked as if he were suffering, but he would be fine. He’d already rolled him onto his side. No need to put anything in his mouth. It was a common myth that you could swallow your tongue during a seizure – it was virtually impossible.
The Conduit turned his attention back to his letter, trying to shut out the groaning and clattering.
He was writing a letter about minimalism. Living a life with fewer possessions. He found the idea intriguing, and knew that his friend, the recipient, was currently experiencing this minimalistic lifestyle.
It was a shame that his friend never replied. The Conduit closed his letter by remarking on the possibility of extending minimalism to cover relationships. The fewer entanglements the better, in a life that carried too much emotional baggage for many.
The Conduit looked at his pet. The seizure was coming to an end. He was whining rather than groaning.
‘Yes, dog, but don’t you worry, our relationship is in no danger. You certainly don’t bring emotional baggage. Not since I hollowed you out.’
7
BOXING DAY
YORKE SLIPPED OUT quietly.
Since his conversation with Patricia the previous evening, he’d accepted that his family wouldn’t hold this departure against him. They’d concede that there was something grossly wrong in the world right now, and that he was off to try and put it right.
However, despite their blessing, Yorke knew that they’d be disappointed. He’d be leaving a gaping hole in the Yorke household for the rest of the Christmas season.
So, he quickly kissed Patricia and Beatrice, said ‘congratulations’ to Ewan and Lexi for the thousandth time – which was now coming across as more of an apology for his initial reaction – ruffled Rosie’s fur, and then made his exit smooth and swift, in the hope that they could revive their celebrations.
He drove to Gardner’s house. She was already at the door waiting for him. After she’d installed herself in the passenger seat of his police-issue Lexus, he turned to her. ‘Did you know I’d cave? Seriously?’
‘Never a doubt.’
‘Shit.’ Yorke indicated to pull out. ‘That’s exactly what Madden said. Am I really that much of an open book?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a rhetorical question.’
‘I know. Still thought it best to answer it.’
‘Well, if you’re coming with me, you better stay on your best behaviour.’
‘So, I’m coming with you now then?’
They exchanged a smile. He passed her a wad of paper, stapled together.
‘What’s this?’
‘I have an old academy buddy in the West Yorkshire Police. I contacted him last night, and he pulled the necessary strings to get that fast-tracked to me. It’s all the records from the investigation into Robert Brislane’s disappearance. It came through on e-mail about an hour ago.’
‘Jesus, that’s a different level from fast-track.’
‘Good thing about being this long in the tooth, Emma, is that you’re owed a lot of favours, and a copper always repays his favours. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us. Before I meet Benjamin Rosset of HMET, I really want to be completely informed. If you start to feel travel sick going through the notes, there are some tablets in the glove compartment.’
She scowled. ‘You’re all heart.’
Over the next hour, Gardner fed him the details of the case. Yorke could feel himself growing more and more frustrated. The investigation was half-hearted at best.
‘Bloody hell,’ Gardner said after reaching the end of the notes. ‘Was your buddy involved in this?’
‘If he was, he wouldn’t be my buddy anymore.’
‘Well, now I know why I didn’t g
et much when I pestered them.’
Yorke stopped at the Service Station for a coffee and left Gardner in the car. While they prepared his order, he sat down and scrambled around the many holes in the West Yorkshire investigation looking for something.
‘Mike?’ The waitress called, holding up his tray of coffees.
‘Thanks.’ He winced. He was all for good service, but knowing his name just felt creepy.
When he got back to the car, wielding a skinny Latte for Gardner, and an Americano for himself, he felt more inspired. ‘Whenever we investigate the murder of a married woman, we always throw so much at the husband.’
‘That’s because uxoricide is so common, Mike. Remember that training course we went on? 35% of female victims are killed by their husbands.’
‘Yes, that’s right. But because mariticide is rarer we give it limited airtime.’
‘You thinking Robert’s wife?’
‘I’m thinking that our colleagues barely looked into Robert Brislane’s wife.’
Gardner nodded.
‘The ratio of mariticide to uxoricide is 3:4. Not as rare as some may think, eh?’
‘But I’m hoping Robert is missing and not dead.’
‘Do we really need to go through the statistics of how many missing people are dead too?’
Gardner gave him a cutting smile. ‘I did say I was hoping.’
‘Take a look at a map, Emma. Do you know that Coventry is approximately half-way between Salisbury and Leeds?’
‘I do.’
‘Fancy popping in to see Mrs Brislane? See how she’s adapting to life without her husband?’
Gardner smiled. ‘Shit! I’ve missed this!’
Alan Sants, wets his pants.
Alan Sants, wets his pants.
Alan Sants, Alan Sants.
Alan Sants wets his pants.
Using a ruler, Alan Sants adjusted his four Chinese Mud Men figurines, so they were exactly four centimetres apart. These four mud men on his shelf, dated from the early 20th century, were a gift from his mother. She, too, had received them as a gift. Not from her mother, but an exporter from Beijing, who sent his cloths and silks over to be sold in her sewing shop.
Alan loved the figurines, and not just because they were an antique artefact from South China, and so worth some money, but because they were rugged and real. Untarnished by gloss and commerce.
His four Mud Men were all fishermen. They wore hats to protect them from the sun, and dark brown sandals. There was some glaze on the clothing. Some yellow, some blue and some green. But the face, hands and feet were left unglazed, and the natural colour of the mud was exposed.
But what Alan loved most about these rustic figurines was the fingerprints of the sculptor. Forever burned into the fired clay.
Once, when he was younger, he took these wonderful figurines to school to show his friend. He was thirteen years old. A group of children of different ages, sizes, and gender, clubbed together to tease him over his interests. One young girl even took one off him and threatened to smash it. When a large damp cloud spread over his trousers, she gave it back, but not before a new song came into being.
Alan Sants, wets his pants.
Alan Sants, wets his pants.
Alan Sants, Alan Sants.
Alan Sants wets his pants.
That song had been sung to him countless times. All the way through school. All the way through college. Branding him, like the fingerprints of a sculptor on a little Chinese Mud Man. Only stopping after his escape to University.
He heard Eddie McLarney farting behind him.
When he turned to look at the naked rugby player sprawled on his bedsheets, he chewed his fingernails. Not from nerves. He never really felt nervous. Neither was it from revulsion, although he did feel this often. It was disorder which made him chew his nails.
‘Why do you always wear that fucking bowtie?’ Eddie said.
Alan chewed harder. This disorder was extreme. The only reason he was in this situation right now was because the desire for sex had been particularly strong last night.
But there was no desire right now. ‘It’s time for you to go. I have to leave … soon.’
‘Answer me. Why the bowtie? You look like a fucking ponce. Didn’t Doctor Who wear one?’
Alan touched the material with his fingers. He turned to look in the mirror above the mantelpiece. He loved the symmetry of a bowtie. ‘I just prefer it to a tie.’
Eddie snorted. ‘So? You don’t have to wear a fucking tie either. You’re not working for a corporate company, you’re at Uni!’
‘My mother always said, “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.”’
‘Is that a jab at the boy with his bollocks out on your bed?’ Eddie gave a snort of laughter.
Alan tried to ignore the disorder and focus instead on the order in the room and his reflection. His brown bow-tie. His Mud Men. The black curtains of hair that framed his long gaunt face. ‘I have to leave.’
He farted again. ‘I can see myself out after you leave.’
Alan’s left eyelid twitched. He turned from the mirror. ‘I’d prefer it if you left before.’
Alan could only imagine the havoc Eddie would wreak with the order of his room. The Mud Men, for example. What if he picked one up? It was inconceivable.
Eddie slumped out of bed and dressed with a sneer on his face. ‘I knew this was a bad idea.’
We both knew it was a bad idea, Alan thought, but that didn’t stop it happening, and it won’t stop it happening again.
After dressing, Eddie stood opposite him. They were both tall, but where Alan was very thin, some would say emaciated, Eddie was wide and muscular. He’d already admitted to using steroids in oral form. It was a slippery slope, Alan had thought, but never said anything. He didn’t really care less if Eddie started injecting himself or not.
Eddie poked him in the chest with a fleshy finger. ‘You know the drill.’
‘Yes … I say fuck all about us.’
‘Shit.’ Eddie smiled. ‘Word perfect. You do listen.’ He showed him the palm of his hand, and swung it to strike him, stopping at the last moment. ‘Not even a flinch. You like it that much?’
Alan didn’t like it. He’d just got used to it.
‘Remember, I call you, you don’t call me, Mr Bowtie.’
Eddie left the room.
Alan sat on the edge of the bed, running his hand over his arm, feeling the sting of the bruises Eddie had left there. Then, he leaned over and slipped the backpack out from under the bed. He checked it was completely zipped up. He had a gift in there, and he would hate for it to get wet in the snow.
The Sat Nav said that they were ten minutes from Helen Brislane’s house. Yorke was glad they were close, the general mood had taken a turn for the worse over the last hour, and the distraction of an interrogation would be welcome, and should hopefully get the two investigators’ juices flowing again.
Gardner was just relaying her experiences with CBT. ‘It did help, at first, it really did. It helped with the guilt I felt after shooting Lock. It also helped after I was stabbed. I could really get at that paranoia, those thoughts of dying, and leaving Anabelle alone. But it just didn’t help with Mark. I just couldn’t get over what I saw. Do you remember seeing Dan Tillotson?’
Yorke nodded. Seeing a young lad in his twenties beaten to a pulp wasn’t something you shifted with ease.
‘And I see that boy all of the time. How could Mark do that to someone? Mark? Our Mark?’
‘You know, better than anyone, he wasn’t himself. The grief over Neil changed him … as it would anyone.’
‘But grief, or no grief. Yourself, or not yourself, how could the gentlest man start behaving like a wild ape?’
‘Well, Darwin might offer you some rationale for that.’
‘And you’re right. We all have those moments. Those moments we’re overwhelmed, but with most of us there is a failsafe switch, isn’t there? I kno
w I’ve pressed it a few times.’
‘My finger is hovering over it nearly every day,’ Yorke said with a smile. ‘Look … mental illness is a force. We’ve seen it time and time again in our job. The people who do these things are often not the people they once were. People change, and sometimes what they change into, is not something that is easily understood. I know I struggle to.’
‘But I don’t believe he’s changed, Mike. I can’t believe it. He was a good man. Is a good man. He cannot have lost that. It only seems like yesterday, I was sitting across from him in the kitchen. Yes, he was drinking too much. Yes, he was plagued with nightmares of Neil being stabbed. But there was no aggression in him then, and I don’t believe there is now. I mean are we even 100% sure it was him that killed Tillotson?’
‘Apart from the DNA?’
‘He could have been defending himself?’
‘From what? There was no weapon. You’d expect more of Topham’s blood and DNA on the victim if they were actually fighting.’
‘Well, when we find him, I guess we’ll finally get the truth.’
‘You are speaking about him as if he’s still alive?’
‘He is.’
‘It’s good to be positive, Emma, but I think you should start preparing yourself.’
‘No. I won’t accept it. Have you accepted that Jake is gone for good?’
‘That’s not the same, Emma.’
‘Why? He’s gone. Missing too.’
‘Yes, but Jake’s not dead.’
‘So where’s he gone then?’
‘Just to cool off. He’ll be back.’
‘Cool off from what?’
Cooling himself off for getting in too deep. For getting involved with the wrong people. For doing some immoral things. And it was the right move. It means he is safe. For now.
But Gardner could not know these things.
‘His broken marriage for a start. Anyway, now is not about Jake, it’s about Mark, and I’m just asking you to prepare yourself, that’s all.’
Yorke drove past Helen Brislane’s house and to the end of a cul-de-sac. The dead end opened up onto a small park, scattered with a few benches, and a children’s weathered playground. Yorke pointed it out. ‘Handy if you’ve got kids.’
