One Last Prayer for the Rays

by Wes Markin

  ‘I have decided that Collette will be driving Sarah Ray’s car and leaving the money. It is my opinion that Sarah is not psychologically fit enough for the task. She has not been made aware of this yet. FLO Bryan Kelly will be breaking the news to her later. We will endeavour to make Collette look as much like Sarah Ray as possible.’

  Brookes stopped doodling and looked up. ‘Do you really think he will show up? He knows we’ll block the exit if he drives in by the petrol station. He also knows that we’ll be all over the Park and Ride.’

  ‘He might trust Joe and Sarah not to get the police involved,’ Gardner said, but her expression suggested she didn’t believe this.

  ‘Why would he have kidnapped the boy in the most public place imaginable and left all that blood if he didn’t want us involved?’ Topham said.

  Gardner nodded and sighed. ‘Why is nothing ever simple?’

  Yorke said, ‘Would there be any point being a copper if it was?’

  ****

  The cold, dark night was laced with possibility and it was the only blanket Lacey needed, preferring to leave the stifling, claustrophobic duvet to the snoring meat sack beside her.

  Earlier, she’d found sexual satisfaction in Phil Holmes. She’d handcuffed, hit, choked and finally, fucked him. It’d been all about her.

  Lights from a parking car broke through the windows of her Spire View apartment, and swept over her body. Her nipples were sharp, and her diamond encrusted belly-button ring sparkled.

  You’re a lucky man, Phil. She smiled. I just don’t have time right now and I’ll be gone in a few days.

  There was a buzzing sound. A fly hovered next to her face.

  You’re defying the usual. It’s far too cold for you to survive.

  The world was made up of patterns, and she’d always prided herself on her ability to manipulate these to her will; however, she did enjoy the occasional surprise. Everyone needs challenge.

  She looked at the huge man beside her. If I had longer, and the police weren’t hunting my nephew, there would have been no surprises with you. Everything would have run smoothly.

  There was a lot to be said about everything running smoothly.

  Phil would have been a perfect fit for the Blue Room. She’d not seen it before at the station, or even on their date, but she’d spotted it in her bedroom. Yes, their first romp had been all about her, but during the second romp his aggression had reared its beautiful head, and although it wasn’t satisfying sexually, could never be so for her, it meant that he would have settled well into the Blue Room, and that would have been satisfying in so many other ways.

  Jake, on the other hand, was not a perfect fit ― there wasn’t enough aggression in him. Yet, if she’d possessed both the time and anonymity to pursue the man who’d irritated her right through to her bones, she would have embraced the challenge, and succeeded.

  I could have stoked your feeble fire, Jake, until it raged like an inferno!

  The night passed, but she didn’t sleep; content to bathe in visualisations. When the sun eventually came up and her blanket of darkness was replaced by a bloody glow, unusual for this time of year, she leaned over her new lover and stared at him until he woke up. ‘You’re pathetic, do you know that?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’ve spent all night in bed with me and you’ve only screwed me twice.’

  She spat in his face. With wide eyes and gritted teeth, he bolted up and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.

  ‘What you waiting for?’ she said. ‘Stop being pathetic.’

  He pounced.

  She heard the fly land on the pillow next to her ear; the buzzing sound grew quieter and quieter until it stopped. She suspected it died. Patterns always won out in the end.

  Phil’s movements were quick, his touch rough. She smiled.

  8

  EVERYONE HAD BEEN careful getting into position and had arrived one by one over the past two hours, just in case the kidnapper had the area under surveillance.

  Yorke and Jake were sitting in an unmarked car on Dairy Meadow Lane, the first road off Bourne Way, and opposite the entrance to Tesco’s petrol station and car park. When, and if, the kidnapper went into the car park, Yorke would be able to block off his main escape route.

  Further along Bourne Way, DI Mark Topham and DC Hanna Miles waited on Hatches Lane, exactly opposite the Tesco store, in case the kidnapper ploughed his vehicle through the bushes lining the car park.

  On the opposite side of the Tesco car park was the Park and Ride stop. There was the possibility that the kidnapper could use that route and approach on foot, so DI Emma Gardner and several other officers were stationed there.

  DS Iain Brookes had parked in a disabled spot near the RBS cashpoint and the bin targeted for the drop. PC Sean Tyler and several other plain clothed officers were hovering around the area on foot ready for the kidnapper, should he try to run.

  Contrary to the weather forecast, it hadn’t snowed all night and during a cloudless morning the sun had seized a rare opportunity to blaze through the bleak surroundings; consequently, the roads were much safer, and therefore, busier, than Yorke had anticipated.

  Jake’s eyes were closed with his head against the glass.

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ Yorke said. ‘You need to buy a decent bed for your spare room, no human being can sleep on a sofa bed for this long.’

  ‘And I’ve told you already, it’s only temporary.’

  ‘I remember, but this temporary situation is starting to feel a lot more like a permanent one, and I need you more alert than this. Get bed shopping.’

  ‘So sympathetic, sir, thanks for your help. You know, most people aim to solve the cause of the marital dispute, rather than focusing on making the problem more manageable by buying a comfier bed.’

  ‘Why are you having so many problems anyway?’ Yorke said, taking a mouthful of cold coffee.

  ‘Hormones.’

  Yorke smiled. ‘She’s your wife, not your teenage daughter. Besides you’re the one who guzzles growth cocktails, are you sure it’s not your hormones?’

  ‘Very funny. She worries about me while I’m working. She listens to the news too much.’

  Yorke looked at the clock on the dashboard and saw that it was five to two. He spoke into his hands-free set. ‘Five minutes till the drop, are we all ready?’

  He received a series of affirmations through his earpiece.

  When the clock on the dash changed to one fifty-eight, Yorke caught the glint of silver and saw the BMW Coupe negotiating the roundabout. He spoke into his hands free, ‘Collette’s here’.

  The BMW slid down Bourne Way, passed right in front of Yorke and Jake. Yorke saw that DC Collette Willows was wearing a jet black wig, and the dark frock Sarah had been wearing in the school yesterday. They were both broad women and Willows had pulled it off remarkably well.

  ‘Dead ringer,’ Jake said.

  ‘You know, that’s just what I was thinking.’

  She indicated right and turned into the car park entrance, she passed the petrol station and a line of traffic queuing both to get into the petrol station and to get back out onto Bourne Way. If the kidnapper did show up and try to get out this way, he’d have to get around that long queue.

  It was an absolutely ridiculous place to choose a drop and not worthy of someone who’d pulled off the feat of staging a bloody crime scene and then smuggling a twelve-year old boy out of the school unnoticed.

  Yorke watched her crawl into the Tesco car park and disappear into the swell of metal-housed consumers. Jake was wide-eyed – any indication that he had missed a night’s sleep long gone. Yorke chewed his bottom lip as he waited for one of the other officers to report a sighting. He felt like he was observing the beginnings of a dangerous storm from a safe enclosure, wanting desperately to rescue those out there, but knowing there was nothing that could be done.

  Brookes said, ‘Our Sarah Ray clone is parking three spaces from me. Badly,
I might add.’

  Willows could hear the conversation through her ear-piece, but was not wearing a hands-free to communicate. Jake came to her defence with humour. ‘Part of her cover.’

  Yorke said, ‘Everyone focus. Sean, keep as close as you can without being spotted.’

  There was no reply; communication with Tyler was also one-way.

  Brookes said, ‘Okay, she’s parked.’

  Yorke chewed on a fingernail. Jake opened his window to let some air in.

  Brookes said, ‘She’s getting out of the car with the paper bag ... she’s dropped it into the bin. A couple of kids on skateboards are watching her.’

  ‘Why?’ Topham said.

  ‘Dunno. Sean keep an eye on them.’

  Yorke had moved onto another nail. There was the sound of interference over the airways, followed by Gardner, ‘A group of people just got off the Park and Ride, I’ll keep an eye on them.’

  ‘Nothing here yet,’ Yorke said.

  ‘She’s already on her way back to her car,’ Brookes said.

  ‘Anyone moving for the bag?’ Yorke said.

  ‘No, not yet ... wait ... no, no, no ... one of the kids is going for the bin. Maybe, Sean should move now.’

  Yorke’s mind was racing, and his heart, desperate not to be left behind, began to speed up. ‘No. If it’s not the actual kidnapper, we have to use the tracker to follow the money back―’

  ‘Don’t worry, false alarm,’ Brookes said. ‘He’s just throwing his gum into the bin.’

  Yorke sighed. Jake looked at him and said, ‘I always assumed the youth of today just chucked it on the floor.’

  ‘You’re always stereotyping. Maybe we have a skater here with a Blue Peter badge.’

  Someone bashed their horn and Yorke’s eyes darted to a dirty white transit van tearing around the roundabout to their right. He read the license plate as it thundered onto Bourne Way, it was the one on the Sapphire restaurant’s CCTV footage. ‘The van signed out to Thomas Ray is here.’

  The van screamed past them. A bearded man wearing a beanie hat took a sharp right into the car park entrance.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Jake said. ‘He came.’

  ‘Driving like that, I’m surprised he survived the journey.’

  The van rallied past the queue, spraying snow from the gutter. After vanishing into the car park, Yorke started the Lexus.

  Seconds later, Brooke’s voice surged through the ear-piece. ‘The nutcase is not even bothering to park, he’s pulled up right alongside the bin and the cashpoints.’

  ‘If it’s him, make the grab.’

  ‘He’s out of the van now. Guy looks like shit. Long dirty jacket and boots, beanie, unshaven. He’s way too thin to be the man on the CCTV footage.’

  ‘Shit,’ Yorke said.

  ‘Is he definitely alone?’ Topham said.

  ‘Someone could be in the back of the van. He’s in the bin already ... he’s got the paper bag. He’s looking in the bag, now he’s ... oh shit, one of the skater kids is coming back over―’

  Yorke heard Jake swallow.

  ‘The kid is asking the man something. He doesn’t want to answer and is turning away and now ... shit the bed! The kid is making a grab for the bag.’

  Yorke felt his blood run cold.

  ‘What was that you were saying about stereotyping?’ Jake said.

  Brookes said, ‘The bag’s torn ... the money is on the floor.’

  Yorke put his hands on his head.

  ****

  Joe Ray’s pulse danced like the wild sparks springing from the logs on the fire.

  He glanced at his watch. It would be about now that the kidnapper would be wrapping his pig blood stinking fingers around his money. Not that the money mattered too much right now; he’d have given this idiot everything to have his son back.

  FLO Bryan Kelly had taken Sarah to visit her mother to try and keep her calm during the drop. At the time, he welcomed the opportunity of a break from Sarah; now, he realised, he felt lonely. He stood up and paced the living room until he stood at the foot of the spindly rocking chair by the patio doors.

  A family heirloom, Sarah would say whenever Paul would rock in it too hard, treat it well, might be worth something one day.

  Pig farm used to be full of them, Joe would say in defence of his son, they’d burn them on the fire once they’d worn out and winter had turned their farm into an ice-rink.

  He never said: my grandparents had rocked in them eating local children off plates on their laps and my Uncle Thomas had been rocking in his when he blew that pretty nurse to bits.

  He shoved the chair as hard as he could. It was unbelievably heavy, but he managed to topple it. Despite landing on the parquet floor with a thud, it didn’t crack. He felt like kicking it, but thought better of it, he had no shoes on. Maybe, he should just take it outside and burn it.

  I’ve worked my whole bloody life to bury my family’s reputation, and then some bastard has the audacity to walk into my life, grab my kid, steal the fruits of my hard labour and no doubt turn my family name to mud again.

  ‘I hope they’ve got the bastard already,’ he said.

  Tap-tap.

  He froze. The patio doors ...

  Tap-tap.

  He turned slowly to look and his blood ran cold; someone was standing there.

  His hand flew to his mouth and he took a step back. A scream rose in his throat; yet, he suppressed it just in time. He’d been fooled! Drizzle had taken the layer of snow from the convex top of his barbecue, making it look like a snowman wearing a black helmet.

  He made straight for the drinks cabinet beside the sofa, and poured himself a glass of bourbon with trembling hands. After two gulps, he waited for the sudden anxiety to dissipate, then topped it back up and sat down on the sofa.

  He thought about all the lies he’d told Sarah over the years and how often she’d forgiven him. He took another mouthful. If anything happened to Paul today that well of forgiveness would run dry and then he truly would be alone.

  Tap-tap.

  Instinctively, his eyes were drawn outside again. Nothing but a snowman shaped barbecue, frozen grass and a frosty swing.

  What was it? Hail?

  He scanned the room as if the answer for the strange tapping somehow lay within it. His eyes drifted over the Persian rug on the floor, lingered on the Christmas tree for a moment, wandered over a pile of Sarah’s knitting on the sofa, before again, finding the glass in his hands. He finished his drink.

  His thoughts turned to his sister. She’d always been this way. Insulting him, hurting him, abusing him.

  When he was ten, she’d made him undress in front of her teenage friends, so they could laugh at him. The memory was more vivid than his own wedding day, even more so than the birth of his own child.

  They’d all teased him, made him hard, and when he’d tried to touch them, they’d slapped him in the face, laughed and pointed.

  He thought about the two women he’d been sleeping with this last year. He felt himself growing excited and felt ashamed ―his son’s life was in danger for fuck’s sake―

  Tap-tap.

  This time something really was there. The glass slipped from his fingertips, smashing on the parquet floor beside the rug.

  The huge man from the video, still wearing his pig’s face and bloody apron, was staring in at him from the garden, tapping his finger on one of the patio doors. Rooted to the sofa, Joe’s eyes widened as the twisted bastard ran his fingers down over the glass, leaving long, red smears. Then, he rubbed at his nose and part of the rotten snout broke away. His stomach churned.

  Whilst springing to his feet to make for the lounge door, he turned awkwardly; he crashed down and his head bounced off the edge of the coffee table.

  Rolling onto his back, clutching his forehead, he turned to look outside. Pig-man was gone, yet the smears remained – he’d not imagined it. Time to get out of here. After sitting up on the rug, he managed to ease himself back
to his feet using the sofa for support.

  Outside of the lounge, he stumbled down the hall-way. For over twenty-four hours, he’d been anxious, and last night, he hadn’t slept a wink, add to that the fact that he was half-pissed. It could be possible that his eyes were playing tricks on him, that he was having flashbacks to the horrendous e-mail. Colliding with the wall as he fled, he dislodged the framed picture of his show-jumping exploits; it smashed on the floor behind him.

  He jerked open the front door. The sun had retreated behind the clouds and his automatic lights threw an orange pool onto the snow-covered porch. Pig-man moved into the light, hunching slightly, almost submissively, like a begging animal. He hung his head forward, revealing the torn jagged skin where the pig’s face had been sawn away and had been threaded with straps. Part of the bastard’s greasy black hair glimmered in the lights.

  ‘Who are you?’ Joe said.

  Pig-man looked up. ‘Nice house, Joe.’

  White eyes, intense as if they’d been chipped from bone, darted back and forth from behind the mask.

  ‘Where’s my son? I want him back.’

  ‘You’ve always had what you’ve wanted, Joe, haven’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about―’

  ‘You’re greedy.’ He lifted a meat hook, turning it lengthways, so it looked like a menacing grin. The hook flashed.

  ‘Greedy as a pig.’

  ****

  For a while, Brooke’s voice had been coming like surges of high voltage electricity; now, it was like the constant buzz of a faulty plug.

  ‘The skater kid is grabbing the bag of money ... his friends are walking over ... our man realises he’s in danger and is starting to retreat back to his van, without the bag of money and the tracker.’

  Yorke said, ‘Grab him now Sean, and get some of the officers to stop those kids before they get off with the money.’

  Brooke took a moment to reply. ‘Christ, this is sick. The guy’s dragged a blood soaked potato sack out of the van and slung it on the ground. Someone please tell me it’s not the kid in there.’