by Wes Markin
‘I see, so you went into her house while she was out. It does not seem much like love to me, Robert, not in the traditional sense of the word.’
‘Let me go. I didn’t say anything, I won’t say anything. They’ll think it’s me for Christ’s sake! Why would I turn myself in?’
‘What about hate, Robert?’
‘Hate?’
‘Your hatred for me?’
‘There’s no hatred. I don’t want revenge.’
‘But you saw what I did to her.’
Preston saw him again through the window, in the dimmed lights, leaning over Jessica, with his hands inside her chest. The image merged with the sunken eyes that were looking at him right now. The killer had seen him looking in.
‘I didn’t, it was too dark.’
‘Now, you lie, Robert. Are you not supposed to be her knight in shining armour?’
Preston strained against the ropes.
‘Please relax, Robert, I don’t come here to cause you pain. On the contrary, I come here to offer you something I think you will want.’
‘All I want is for you to let me go.’ Preston felt breathless now.
The man didn’t reply. He cocked his head to the side again as he looked into Preston’s eyes, he then switched sides. Preston thought of Nosferatu, the rat-like vampire with the long fingers, but, unfortunately, unlike that particular monster, the shaft of light coming through the gap in the curtains did no harm to this monster.
‘Who are you?’ Tears ran into his mouth. ‘What are you?’
‘A Tlenamacac.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Are you happy?’
‘Yes, of course …’
The killer paused. ‘But you look at them, Robert, and they don’t look back.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I will ask you one last time: are you happy, Robert?’
‘No then … no I’m not fucking happy!’
‘You are a slave to need, and now I come here offering you the chance to do something good. Would you like that?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good.’
‘Just let me go after.’
The man seized hold of Preston’s bound legs and started dragging. When they reached the hallway, he slid easily over the polished tiles. They were heading to the front door. This is good, Preston thought, outside, someone might see, someone might help.
Then he remembered that he too had seen yet not helped.
But I couldn’t have done, could I? He thought. It had been too late - the fucker had already started to pull out her heart.
Preston wondered if all of this would be happening to him, if he’d been born one of the beautiful people. As he was dragged to the front lawn, he noticed that his photographs were falling from his pocket and marking the trail like breadcrumbs. Then he saw a big wicker basket and a large tin of lighter fluid.
Yorke fired up the flashing blue lights on the front grille and contaminated the quiet country roads with his two-toned siren. Ahead was a tractor which was desperately trying to clear some room on the road for him – and failing. Yorke streaked around it and held his hand up to thank the driver for his attempt.
He was grateful for the high-speed pursuit course from several years back; however, this made him remember that Jake had not taken this course yet. He phoned his colleague on the hands-free to see if he was alright.
‘You okay?’
‘Well, sir, I’m not in my comfort zone, which I guess is why you phoned?’
‘Don’t push yourself too hard. I’ve organised back-up local to Avebury, so they might even get there before me now. You don’t want to be picking up any dead pedestrians along the way.’
Ahead of Yorke, brake lights on a black van glowed. Make way, thought Yorke. It did. He sped on.
‘I’m sorry again, sir.’
‘About what?’
‘Leaving the incident room.’
‘I’m surprised you were the only one who left the room. Maybe you are the only one with a soul … Wait a second …’
The driver of a BMW ahead of him was clearly pumping his music too loud to notice Yorke’s approach; he shot around him, agonisingly close, with his speedometer dancing around 90. This time, Yorke offered the driver his best pissed-off expression.
‘Back again. Look, you’ve got Lacey on your mind. That would be enough to put most people off work, and into hiding. Which reminds me, call into Emma now, get her to contact Southampton HQ, and find out if there have been any updates on her whereabouts.’
‘Do you not think we’d have had an update if there was one?’
‘Probably, but no harm in double checking. She’s left bodies in Southampton, here and in France; I think we have the right to nag.’
The phone went silent for a moment, and Yorke acknowledged that it was now Jake’s turn to negotiate some tricky driving.
‘I think my driving is improving,’ Jake said.
‘It couldn’t get any worse. Listen, Jake, there’s one thing I want you to keep in your mind. Lacey had the chance to hurt Sheila, didn’t she? But she walked away. I don’t know why, but let’s assume she has some kind of code. Her victims have never been squeaky clean and usually seem to involve some measure of violence towards women. Take reassurance from this, until we catch her.’
‘She is sending me dead birds, sir?’
‘I know, Jake.’
‘An ex-girlfriend, a malignant narcissist, wanted for murder, and she’s sending me dead birds? She despises me for rejecting her advances and the last thing she said to me was that she would decide when our paths divide. I am really struggling for reassurances.’
‘Jake, if you need some time, I would totally …’
‘That would make it worse.’
Yorke sighed, took a corner at a phenomenal speed and overtook a row of three cars. ‘Jake, contact Gardner, get that update. Let’s get Preston, and we’ll get Lacey on our radar too. I promise. See you in twenty.’
‘Okay, sir.’
Preston wasn’t sure if he was asleep or awake, but hoped for the former, knowing that a nightmare, even one as bad as this one, wasn’t fatal.
It seemed to take an eternity to roll his head from one side to the other, so with time working in such a laborious way, it did seem reasonable to assume it was a dream. At the very least, it proved he was still alive.
‘Stop the head rolling, I have to be up first thing, you’re a mean dickhead, you know that?’ he heard Yvonne say.
So he stopped the head rolling and moaned instead, which still affirmed his existence. But then he remembered the man who butchered Jessica. He tried to see him, but he had become a black blur, and he realised he was still rolling his head and had probably never stopped.
‘Stop it!’ Yvonne’s voice again.
‘Okay, sorry, it’s been a long day. I saw something last night.’
‘What?’
‘Something I shouldn’t tell you about.’
‘Sounds familiar.’
‘Yvonne, I feel heavy, heavy enough to sink into the ground.’
‘For pity’s sake! Are you not listening to me? I’m trying to sleep.’
‘I think I’m seasick. If I lie in your lap can you stroke my hair while the boat is going nuts? I like it when you push the hair out of my eyes and tell me it’s going to be alright.’
‘It’s going to be alright my darling.’
Preston took a quick dose of reality. Quick, sharp and clear. Yvonne had gone. Left him. He couldn’t quite remember why.
‘Because you care more about all the others than you do me,’ she told him.
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I can’t feel my arms!’
He wondered why. Unless, no … it couldn’t be? Something to do with the man who had put his hands in Jessica’s chest. Cracking, toiling, removing. Jessica was so beautiful; he had loved her.
‘I lo
ved you too Yvonne.’
‘I know.’
‘I think this man has cut off my arms.’
‘No, my darling, they’re still there.’
‘Good.’
‘My legs?’
‘Still there.’
‘But I can’t feel them.’
‘Sometimes we just stop feeling.’
‘I saw something beautiful today bobbing up and down in a plastic bag. How nice it looked! How interesting was this little yellow creature with its dark brown rings. Oh and I got to touch it! Or did it touch me? I can’t remember but I liked the way its rings suddenly glowed blue like a peacock.’
‘Like a peacock?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now how do you feel my dear?’
‘It’s hard to breathe and things are getting more confusing.’
‘As confusing as that pathetic need to take photographs?’
‘Yvonne …’
‘Confusing like those fantasies that destroyed our life together?’
‘Not now, please. Not now.’
His mouth was dry and he couldn’t swallow any more. It must be hot. Maybe, he was back in the Caribbean? Hopefully, he had flown there. He didn’t handle boats too well. Sunshine was nice. The sunshine, Yvonne, his daughter, in no particular order. Salisbury was cold this time of year and life was good when they were all away together.
‘It’s really hard to breathe now … Jesus, who are you?’
The man in black leaned close, his breath smelled rotten, and he chanted in an unfamiliar language and held a picture of a cartoon man, wearing many different colours and dancing, holding a bow in one hand and a basket in the other.
‘I feel strange, like I’m locked in or something.’
‘Just relax.’
‘It feels like I’m drowning.’
‘It will be over soon.’
‘What are you putting me in? I know you’re doing it. Why can’t I feel anything?’
‘Just relax.’
‘It’s dark now, ah Jesus, Yvonne, please talk to me some more, I’m sorry for everything, I’m afraid now, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to be in darkness forever.’
While Greg Brookes waited for his grandson to pack, he took a seat beside Riley. Bryan Kelly had retired to Brookes’ room for some much needed rest after being awake most of the night.
‘So, one old man to another,’ Riley said, ‘why did you leave Wiltshire for the North?’
Greg sighed. ‘I worked my entire life in this area. Police, same as my son. After a while you need a change.’
Riley took a sip of his tea. ‘I take it you saw some stuff you don’t need reminding of?’
‘Saw some stuff, heard some stuff, knew about stuff. You remember the Rays?’
‘Everybody remembers the Rays. Pig-farmers. It began with Reginald Ray at the end of the nineteenth century. Killed six local kids.’
‘Yes, my own grandfather had the pleasure of investigating that one. There was no need to catch him though – neighbours hung him from a tree.’
‘Deserved it from what I heard. He used to eat the children by boiling their bones and liquefying their flesh because he had no teeth left to chew with.’
Greg took off his Trilby and held it in his lap. ‘Didn’t get too much better. Years later, my own father, bless him, had to investigate the murder of Beatrix Ray by her brother. Point is they’ve always been a bad lot. I spent years of my own career dealing with the madness of Thomas Ray until I retired and then my son had to pick up the pieces when he did what he did to that poor young lady.’
‘I know the story, everybody knows the story. But it’s over now.’
‘Well, you asked why I left, and that’s why I left. There’s only so long you can put up with the disease in this place. After Fran died, I couldn’t stand to be here any longer. And sure enough, look what’s happening again. Jessica? The place is bad. Rotten.’
‘Well, I kind of like it, but I do take your point,’ Riley said.
Greg laughed. ‘Good.’
‘There are things you miss though?’
‘Beer … they just can’t get it right up there. So, one old man to another, how did you get the limp?’
‘Well, I take it you know my history?’
‘Of course, I wouldn’t be letting you sit in the motorhome with my family if I didn’t. If my son trusts you, I trust you, so don’t think you have to waste your time justifying anything to me.’
‘Well, the story is not as entertaining as yours, so I’ll keep it brief,’ Riley said, leaning forward and rolling up one leg of his jeans. His calf was crisscrossed with white and pink welts.
‘Shit,’ Greg said.
‘You should see the other guy!’ Riley smiled.
‘Really?’
‘Nah,’ Riley said. ‘It was the first day in prison and a couple of lifers gave me a grand welcoming in the canteen. They gave this young newbie a blade and pointed me out – kind of an initiation ceremony for him. I still feel sorry for him.’
‘Why?’ Greg said. ‘Look what he did to you?’
‘He wasn’t doing it to me. He had a lot of anger in his eyes – I watched it as he cut me up. But he wasn’t angry towards me. Why would he be? He didn’t even know me. He was just so bloated with hate. Angry at himself, mainly, for doing what he was doing. The lifers knew that. They were playing with him and never let him in to their group afterwards. So, he may have ruined my leg, but he ruined himself completely. Six months later, he killed himself in solitary confinement. Poor kid.’
‘You are very forgiving,’ Greg said.
Riley smiled, rolling the leg of his jeans back down. ‘No. Just philosophical. That kid wasn’t bad. He was just fighting – the wrong way. Same as me with what I did. I just fought the wrong way.’
Greg put his hat back on and reached over for his cup of tea.
‘That’s what I don’t get about Jessica,’ Riley said. ‘I see no logic in it. I know why I did what I did, I kind of know why that kid did this to me, but how could anyone kill an innocent mother in her own home?’
Greg nodded. ‘Thought this many a time over the years about the Rays and the stuff they did.’
‘Maybe this is what evil is,’ Riley said.
‘Jesus, you are getting philosophical.’
‘Look after Ewan,’ Riley said. ‘He’s a good boy.’
‘I know, he’s my grandson.’
‘Yes, but just really look after him, you’ve got something special there.’
‘And do you have anyone Riley—’
‘Grandad, I’m ready,’ Ewan said.
Greg and Riley both stood up and turned to face Ewan who was now wearing his backpack. Ewan stepped forward and hugged Riley.
‘Please look after Dad,’ Ewan said.
‘You have my word.’
As they drove away from the caravan park, Brookes senior looked out over the trees. He couldn’t help but think of Reginald Ray, the child killer.
He remembered Riley’s words: it’s over now.
Sorry Riley, but it feels anything but over.
A white Ford Transit van came out of nowhere and Yorke swerved. After steadying his Lexus, he beat his horn while the ancient box-on-wheels grew smaller in his rear-view mirror. He fought back the urge to chase the bastard and instead phoned Jake.
‘Yes?’
‘A white Ford Transit van just almost ran me off the road.’
‘Shit …’
‘Jake?’
Yorke could hear the screeching of wheels and more of Jake’s obscenities down the phone. ‘Jake?’
‘I’m here. Shit … a white Ford Transit van you say? Yes, just seen it.’
‘Bollocks! I was going to ask you to clock its reg, catch up with the nutjob later. I can’t believe how close you are!’
‘I told you I was improving behind the wheel, sir. Do you want me to give chase?’
‘No, I want you with me. I’ll call it in.’
He hung
up and called in the van. Some local officers would try and flag it down.
He drove through the three stone circles that surrounded the village of Avebury. He’d visited this Neolithic henge monument three weeks previously with Patricia. While not as famous as Stonehenge, Avebury Henge could claim the credit for being the largest stone circle in the world. Patricia and Yorke had spent the day listening to a guide talking about both its history, and its religious importance to contemporary pagans. They’d followed it up with a night in a local bed and breakfast that was probably even more memorable.
His eyes widened when, ahead, to his left, he saw a dense patch of smoke hovering above the centre of town. He followed his Sat Nav to the postcode Jake had texted him, realising that he was getting ever closer to the black cloud. As he turned onto the street with the Preston holiday home, he was forced to acknowledge that the source of the smoke was definitely here and was probably unlikely to be a coincidence.
A small crowd was already gathering around a picket fence where the charcoal black plumes were billowing into the air. A quick glance at the Sat Nav identified the fact that it was indeed the Preston holiday home.
He punched the brake, jumped from the car and plunged into the mass of residents. He was immediately assaulted by a smell like roasted pork.
‘Police, let me through.’ The crowd obliged and started to fan away so Yorke could get through to the fence to see.
A large, flaming wicker basket sat in the centre of the garden with the air shimmering around it. Yorke gulped. A burst of wind caused the side of the box to glow red like a fiery eye.
He vaulted the fence as he heard Jake calling from behind him. ‘Sir?’
At first, Yorke moved slowly, uncertain of what was inside or even behind the box. He looked over at the cottage door which was banging open and closed in the wind.
‘Bloody hell, wait!’ Jake came alongside him, out of breath. ‘Can you not smell it?’
‘Yes.’ Yorke gestured towards the open back door. ‘We need water, quick.’
‘Someone could be in there though.’
‘Remember that white Ford Transit van?’
‘Shit, do you think it was Preston?’
‘No,’ Yorke said, ‘I don’t. But I hope I’m wrong.’
