by Wes Markin
‘If it’s from a farm,’ Gardner said, ‘it could link to the blood and the Ray family’s history.’
Yorke nodded. ‘Then we need to start sending officers out to farms in the area to collect samples.’
‘We’re in Wiltshire,’ Topham said, flashing laser-whitened teeth. ‘It would take days, weeks even.’
‘Hopefully, once the mud has been examined, we can narrow it down a bit. We may, for example, find out what animals are kept on this particular farm.’
The phone rang again; it was Jake, sounding breathless. ‘We’ve got CCTV footage. Both Paul and the person who drove him away are on it. It’s on VHS, so you might want to get straight down to Salisbury Station to watch it, rather than wait for us to make a digital copy and email it to you.’
****
Splodges of seaweed-coloured mould felt its way around the corners of the room. Cracks in the walls resembled the eager, raised tentacles of an octopus. This was a far cry from the incident room Yorke was sitting in less than an hour ago. He preferred it.
The CCTV camera used by Sapphire Restaurant was poor; the TV screen flickered and the sound cackled. Bit cheap of them really, thought Yorke, considering the money that place makes - it‘s impossible to get a table in there most nights.
A white transit van was sitting by the curb on Exeter Street outside the restaurant. Over the road, a group of pram-pushing young mothers strolled past. Next came a man in a tracksuit, who spat on the floor, and then stopped to look down on what he’d produced.
A young boy, wearing the school’s uniform, emerged from the tall medieval gate which led to the cathedral and crossed the road.
‘Paul Ray,’ Yorke said, recognising him from the picture Sarah had given them.
He came alongside the transit van. The camera was facing the passenger side. A tangled mess of blonde hair was in focus. He unlocked the passenger door, climbed in and closed the door. The time on the display was eleven minutes past eleven.
‘He had a set of keys,’ Yorke said to Jake, who was sitting beside him. ‘Roll it forward until we see the driver of the van.’
DC Collette Willows blocked most of the TV as she leaned over to operate the VHS player, but Yorke could still see some pedestrians shoot across the screen like bullets; he could also see the time in the top right corner racing forward.
As the time passed twelve, Yorke said, ‘Whoever did this was still in the school when we were there.’
Willows played it from twenty-one minutes past twelve and then moved back out of the way.
‘Paul’s been in the van for an hour and ten minutes. No exhaust fumes either, so the engine’s not on. How could he just sit there waiting? Wouldn’t he be cold?’ Jake said.
‘Drugged again maybe?’ Yorke said.
The windows were tinted, and the quality remained bad, so it was impossible to tell if Paul was asleep.
A large man crossed the road and came into focus.
Yorke’s vision blurred. He suddenly felt like he was turning over and over in the sea, being squeezed by the waves. Clutching his mouth, he looked at Jake, who had clearly not recognised the man.
‘Have you found out who owns this van?’ Yorke said.
‘It’s a hire vehicle, we have someone contacting the company,’ Willows said.
‘I need some air,’ Yorke said as he marched from the room, concerned that he might throw up.
****
Yorke stood outside the station, jacketless, the snow soaking through his clothes. He looked up at snowflakes, sparkling like buckshot in the streetlamps, and closed his eyes; the past came back to him out of the darkness ...
He held Harry tight in his arms and his shoulder went damp from the tears.
‘I told her not to go, we had an appointment with the hospital about IVF,’ Harry said, stepping back, swiping tears away. ‘I hated her going to the mad bastard’s farm, she knew that.’
Yorke could smell perfume. Was it Danielle’s? Had Harry been spraying it on himself? Was he worried about forgetting her, or did he do it just to feel close to her?
‘She really wanted a family. I couldn’t give her that,’ Harry said.
The words were cold and flat; the blame game had begun―
A car backfired and Yorke’s eyes burst open. A snow flake caught him in the eye. He rubbed at it.
A couple of teenagers, confident enough in these brash times to smoke marijuana outside a cop shop, were laughing over the road. He had better things to do than bust them; he had to wait for confirmation of what he already knew. He looked back at the door to the station, still no sign of Jake. Still no sign of the bad news that was surely coming.
On the wall, beside the boisterous teenagers, red graffiti read “welcome to the jungle.” Salisbury was anything but a jungle. The graffiti dripped down the wall like pig’s blood. He closed his eyes and journeyed into the past again ...
Yorke saw her. Lit up by blazing blue lights. On her side. Her head tilted back so she was staring right at him. Her arm fully extended and her hand open to him.
Was she asking for help?
No, of course not. The natural order of her body had been changed. Parts that should have been inside her body were outside of it. Like road kill.
From nowhere, Harry arrived, charged and grabbed the camera from Reynolds. Yorke grabbed him from behind, but his good friend fought hard. Topham and Gardner helped, and together they took him to the ground. They all slipped about on the mud. Harry writhed and Yorke felt like he was betraying him.
Thomas Ray was led out of his farm house. They all looked up from the mud and stared. His shaggy hair and beard were as white as wilting lilies in an ossuary, he wore moth grey overalls and his eyes were hollow. He said, ‘I have saved myself and I have saved you―’
‘Sir!’
Yorke opened his eyes and saw Jake standing at the door to the station. His phone started ringing. He looked at the screen. Harry.
He looked up to see Jake approaching him. His friend didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to, his eyes did the talking.
Yorke leaned against the side of a parked police car and sent Harry to voicemail again.
The man on the CCTV footage had been Thomas Ray.
3
ALL THOSE WOMEN, all those betrayals, it’s my fault.
Trembling in the rocking chair built by his great-grandfather, Joe Ray reached to the floor for his glass of bourbon. Two gulps did little to shift the shakes. He needed to tell FLO Bryan Kelly what he’d just seen on his computer screen upstairs moments ago, but he’d gone out to get them something to eat.
Besides, I’ve not even told my wife yet and she should take priority.
He lowered his head, closed his eyes and prayed that when he opened them, the horror of what he’d seen would fade like an old dream. But when he did eventually open them, he was startled by Sarah standing over him. He leaned forward and rubbed his head against her thigh like a neglected dog. Despite everything, she ran her hand through his hair.
‘I was wrong,’ he said.
‘About what?’
‘He’s not run away.’
‘You don’t know that. The snow isn’t too bad yet; he could still be hiding out there.’
‘No. I’ve seen where he is.’ Tears sprang from the corners of his eyes.
‘What have you seen?’
It was horrible. Truly horrible.
‘I have to take you upstairs.’
She had to see. It was her right as his mother.
As they went up the stairs, he reached out to her. He wanted her to close her hand around his with the same affection with which she’d just stroked his hair. But she didn’t. Instead, he had to take hold of her hand. It felt cold, almost dead.
Now more than ever he needed her, and in a few moments, when she’d seen the e-mailed video, she would need him too.
At least he hoped she would.
‘You’ve made a shambles of our marriage,’ Sarah said.
‘I k
now,’ he said, glancing out of the little window at the top of the stairs. There were swirls of snow around the streetlights. Really heavy snow was due overnight. He couldn’t imagine being snowed in, trapped here, knowing something dreadful was happening to his son.
‘Nothing you can show me could be worse than what you’ve already done to our family.’
I wish that was true, Joe thought, I really do.
He led her into his office which still smelled of Fisherman’s Friends and bourbon, his chosen cocktail.
Fortunately, she’d had her own cocktail already – forty mg of Valium and a large amount of sherry. Hopefully, it would help. If anything really could.
He sat her in his office chair. After kneeling before her, he reached up to stroke her face. At first, she welcomed it, but then she flinched and pushed his hand away.
He switched on his computer monitor. ‘I want you to know that before you watch this, I’m sorry.’
‘You should be ashamed.’ There were tears in her eyes too now.
‘I am.’ He used the mouse to press play on the digital video.
He reached into the pocket of his trousers and checked the bottle of Valium was still there. Just in case.
He put his hand on her thigh.
She brushed it away. ‘Not now.’
He turned away and sat on the floor. He didn’t want to see. Not again. He covered his ears with the palms of his hands and cried as quietly as he could.
****
At first, nothing happened, and Sarah let her eyes close. The Valium and the sherry were cooling her tortured mind. She was desperate for peace. For emptiness. Her head fell forwards ...
There was a sudden tortured wail. She snapped her head back, opened her eyes and gulped back a huge mouthful of air. Then, she snatched the mouse and shifted the volume slider down.
She saw a whiteboard; on which the words “Pig Productions” were written in blood. The board trembled and the blood streaked until the words were no longer legible. She put her hand to her mouth. Then, there was a loud thrashing sound which caused the small speakers on the table to hiss.
The board dropped away and Sarah stared into darkness. ‘I can’t see any―’
Light exploded from a bulb hanging from the ceiling, revealing the inside of a dilapidated barn. In the distance, something was twisting in the air. The camera started to zoom in, losing focus slightly, giving the writhing things the appearance of two pink, pulsating organs.
‘Oh God,’ Sarah said. ‘What’s happening?’
The camera completed its zoom and she held her breath as it auto-focused.
Three pigs hung upside down with meat hooks skewering their trotters. Two of them screeched and thrashed whilst the third quivered as it bled out through its neck.
The sherry in her stomach rose up and burned the back of her throat. She turned to her side and retched. Joe stopped the video.
It took her over a minute to regain control. She could taste the sherry in her mouth, but had managed to stop herself throwing up. ‘Is our son ... okay?’
‘He’s okay,’ Joe said, rubbing her back.
You’re lying, Sarah thought, but that’s fine. Right now, that’s fine.
‘I think we should stop it, now,’ Joe said. ‘There isn’t much left anyway―’
‘No. This is my son. Whoever sent this has him. I want to see it.’
‘It gets worse,’ Joe said, taking hold of her thigh. She didn’t brush him away this time; she was too busy rubbing her throbbing temples.
She took a deep breath, reached over and restarted the video.
A large man, with his back to the camera, strode out. He wore bulky grey overalls and long hair crawled down his back. A jagged strap was wound around his head clamping something to his face. A mask perhaps.
‘God,’ she said, tears blurring her vision. ‘What’s he wearing?’
With his left hand, the slaughterer shone a torch into the eyes of one of the pigs. Wide-eyed, the creature thrashed even harder, flogging itself against the wall.
The man took two long, slow steps toward the animal. The pig’s scream cut into Sarah’s skull. With her shaking hand, she halved the volume.
The bastard’s right hand fell to his side, revealing a guttering knife. The blade flashed across the pig’s neck and blood jetted across the barn, speckling the camera lens like dead flies on a car windscreen. She resisted the impulse to stop the video. Her eyes darted to the information bar. One minute remained.
Hold on ... otherwise, you’ll have to come back and switch it on again ...
The large man watched the squirming pig until it steadied to a quiver; beside it, the first pig, wounded prior to filming, had gone completely still.
Then, in a final bid for freedom, the third pig almost tore its trotters to pieces.
Forty-five seconds remained.
The slaughterer, who lumbered like he was either intoxicated or half-asleep, placed the tip of the knife against the poor animal’s flesh and then eased the five or so inches of steel into its gut. There, the killer kept the blade rooted, whilst the pig jolted and mangled its insides; then, he jerked it out.
He stood there for a moment, watching his victim, seemingly enjoying its suffering. Then, as if someone had just speeded up the footage, the man burst into life, thrusting the knife into it over and over again until it was dead.
He stood back to watch the blood gout from the pig’s chest and stomach.
Twenty-one seconds left. Please let this end.
The slaughterer flicked his wrist and the poor animal’s guts hit the barn floor with a splash. Turning around to face the camera, he pointed the torch up at his face like children so often do in the dark to scare one another.
At first, she thought the slaughterer was in fact a monster, but then she recognised the large flapping ears and protruding snout of a pig. Tiny pupils stared out through the holes where the beast’s eyes used to be. She put her hand on top of Joe’s hand and clutched hard.
If it wasn’t for the jagged, bloody sides where the animal’s face had been sawn from its skull, she may have been fooled into thinking she was looking at some kind of genetic cross between human and pig.
The slaughterer switched the torch off. She winced at the sight of the bastard’s blood smattered apron and then the light bulb went off too. It was pitch black again.
Nine seconds left.
‘That can’t be it, where’s Paul? Where’s our son?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said.
Light exploded from the bulb again. The pig-faced slaughterer stared at Sarah, cradling her only son in his bloody arms. The screen went black.
Realising it was too late to run for the toilet, she instead slipped, almost lifelessly, from the chair into her cheating husband’s arms and vomited down his front.
4
YORKE TORE ALONG Salisbury Road in a police issue Lexus GS. Fog lights sliced darkness into chunks of snow white emptiness. Frozen bushes and branches chewed into the side of the car. The speedometer flipped past one hundred.
Yorke had a bad case of déjà vu. Eight years ago, he’d journeyed to the same disused pig farm with the same break-neck intensity. And what he’d found there would haunt him until his final day.
Following a fatal high-speed pursuit last year, these sporty sedans had been fitted with specialised winter tyres. It showed. Over the steep frozen hills, the car rose and sank with no fuss; around sharp corners, the wheels squealed, but never slipped. But, with so much of his conscious thought dedicated to Harry’s wife’s murderer, the car’s handling alone was not enough to keep him alive. He also needed the wailing siren on the roof.
He looked into his rear-view mirror, but the road was empty; Jake, who had followed in his car with Willows, must have fallen behind.
Blazing through Tilshead – virtually the geographical centre of Salisbury plain – he ignored the slowdown signs and caught sight of the Rose and Crown public house where he’d once been for Sunday lunch
with Harry and Danielle almost ten years ago. Into his mind crept the final day of Thomas Ray’s trial ...
Yorke held Harry’s shoulder gently outside the court, making it seem like a gesture of support, rather than what it really was. Concern that Harry might just go for his wife’s killer.
Sucking hard on the cigarette in his hand, Yorke watched Thomas Ray, hiding behind that wild mane of white shaggy hair, being led away. Diminished responsibility. Murder to manslaughter in two simple words. As if blowing someone to pieces couldn’t really be your fault.
The press rounded in on the killer.
‘I have saved myself and I have saved you,’ Thomas said, and not for the first time.
‘What have you saved us from, Mr Ray?’ A young journalist from a local newspaper said.
With a huge paw he split his mane and revealed his eyes. ‘Them.’
Harry threw his burning cigarette in Ray’s direction and then turned his back―
A shrieking horn drew Yorke from his trance. He had started to stray into the wrong lane and two oncoming headlights swelled at an alarming speed. Swerving, he felt his chest freeze.
After managing to steady the car, he looked at his eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘Pull yourself together!’
His phone rang, it was Gardner. ‘Yes Emma?’
‘Thomas Ray was released from the secure hospital in Bristol three months ago―’
‘You’re joking? After eight years?’
‘If you remember, he was detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure due to a successful insanity defence, the trial judge set a minimum of eight years, and when he was reviewed, three months ago, they deemed him sane.’
‘But still, eight years, for what he did. It’s bollocks.’
‘I agree. But I think they made their decision based on the fact that he had terminal cancer, less than four months to live, they sent him home to die.’
