The Repenting Serpent

by Wes Markin

  ‘Anything else you can tell us about Terrence Lock?’

  ‘Not much. I doubt anyone would be able to really. He is very quiet. Keeps himself to himself. Most people would consider him peculiar enough no doubt.’

  ‘Why didn’t any of you notice?’ Volume crept into his voice. ‘Did Reiner not wonder where his patients were when they didn’t come back? I mean, they weren’t with you and they weren’t at Mary Chapman. Whose alarms bells were supposed to be ringing?’

  ‘I can only assume that Lock is altering the paperwork,’ Page said. ‘I have a few patients participating in these drug trials, but I very rarely request them overnight. A few hours will usually suffice. He must be altering my signed requests when he collects them, possibly changing the return date and time. Reiner should have questioned it, I guess, due to its irregular nature. But you’ve met Dr Reiner, haven’t you? To be perfectly frank, his incompetence doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘When I saw you at the hospital that morning on the day Karen died, did no one think to ask you why you’d kept her overnight, that she’d only recently returned?’

  ‘Sorry, Detective Yorke.’ Page shook his head; he genuinely looked quite sad about this.

  ‘And Michelle Miller, you requested her yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, for a couple of hours again.’

  ‘And she was returned this morning?’

  ‘Like I said, not per my instructions.’

  ‘And how long did you request Michelle for today?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘So, he’s gone one step further, he must have forged the entire form? Because he’s taken her again.’

  Page looked concerned about this. ‘I hope she’s okay. You know Michelle has been a wonderful addition to the study; I hope to learn more …’

  ‘Stop right there,’ Yorke said, ‘If you are really about to deliver a speech about the importance of your studies over the lives of these people, you will see another side of me.’

  Jake looked down at the floor. Topham too. It was rare to see a display of such emotion from their boss towards people he was interviewing.

  ‘Sorry, Detective. I genuinely hope she is fine.’

  ‘DI Topham,’ Yorke said. ‘Go and pull everything on Lock now.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  ‘DS Pettman, contact DI Gardner at Mary Chapman. Get the details of the vehicle Lock is using to transport the patients.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Jake joined Topham in the hallway to make the phone call.

  Yorke said his farewells to Page and followed the two men outside.

  Jake came off the phone first. ‘Guess what? A white Ford Transit. I have the licence plate – let’s just hope he’s cleaned it, so we can see it. I’ll get an APW out now.’

  ‘Thanks Jake.’

  As Yorke waited for Topham to finish his call, his mind raced over the following: how did Lock communicate so efficiently with women suffering from late-stage dementia? Unless, he’d been working at this for years and so began his communication with Michelle and Karen, when they were still high functioning? Had these mothers, and God knows how many other mothers, revealed information about their children? It had probably been confusing, broken information, but would have been information nonetheless. He could have learned about Jessica’s broken marriage and Gillian’s depression over her husband’s suicide.

  Learned that they were slaves to sadness. Learned that they were suitable for the flowery death.

  And the bigger question still: why did Lock want these mothers with him so badly? And why did he refer to them as his own when they weren’t? He was repenting for something, but what? What had he done so wrong to his mother to justify all of this?

  Topham approached, but Yorke already had his first question. ‘What happened to his mother?’

  Topham raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, interesting that. Horrible really. His father beat his mother to death.’

  ‘And where was Lock?’

  ‘Trying to claw his way out of a cupboard under the stairs. And when they eventually found him; it seems he had witnessed everything.’

  ‘I need Lock’s address now.’

  14

  BENJAMIN RILEY FOUGHT back the quiver in his voice. He did not want his daughter to know he was emotional, not under any circumstance.

  ‘Thank you,’ Riley said again into the phone.

  ‘You don’t have to keep saying thank you. It’s right and proper,’ Cynthia said. ‘He’s your grandson and everyone deserves to know their grandparents.’

  ‘Thank … sorry. Great, when can this happen?’

  ‘Whenever you want, Dad.’

  ‘In that case, I would like it to be sooner rather than later.’ His phone beeped and he looked at it. ‘Sorry, I’m down to one percent battery – apologies if it cuts out. How does next week sound?’

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll make up the spare room.’

  Riley’s sensor light came on outside his static caravan. He knew it wouldn’t be Brookes, because he’d gone out over an hour ago – probably to drink again. This bothered him, but what more could he do? He’d warned Brookes about making his life any more of a mess than it already was.

  He went to the window, hoping Ewan had not made a surprise appearance. It was more than likely that Detective Yorke had come to check on Brookes, or it could be an animal trying to shelter from the cold. He edged back the curtain and peered outside.

  ‘Dad,’ Cynthia said, ‘where did you go?’

  Standing two metres in front of Brookes’ motorhome was a tall man in a long black cloak.

  ‘I’m going to have to go, Cynthia. I’m sorry and thank you.’

  The man stood there, ankle deep in the snow, looking at the motorhome. He seemed ambivalent to the flurries swirling around him. Content to simply stand there, and stare.

  ‘Is everything alright Dad?’

  ‘Yes, I love you, darling.’

  He hung up and limped over to his kitchen. Trying to ignore the sudden tremble picking up force in his hands, he laid his mobile phone down, and opened the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink. He reached to the back and pulled out his shotgun; another illegal purchase, and one that he was now very grateful he’d took the time to make. Turning, he kept the shotgun facing down, flat against his good leg and edged his way back over to the window. He peered out again.

  The white face stared back in at him.

  Riley gasped, stumbled back and let the curtain flutter closed.

  He’d been in jail for a large part of his life and he’d seen thousands of tortured souls before, but never one like that. At this point, Riley was under no illusion. The man who had murdered Jessica was here.

  Trembling all over, he peered out again, just in time to see Brookes’ motorhome door shut.

  Instinctively, he reached for his mobile again, and phoned Brookes, but he was sent straight to voicemail. He tried again but got the same result.

  Then his battery gave out and his phone screen went blank.

  Riley wasn’t a fighter, never had been. Even in jail, when such behaviours were necessary to keep you alive, he’d only used it as a last resort. It would be easy to lock his caravan door and hunker down. Riley stared down at the shotgun; he cracked it to check that both barrels were loaded. He knew it was, but a simple check never hurt anybody. His best option was to get his phone plugged in, and phone the police.

  And then Riley realised something. It might take five minutes for his old phone to burst back into life. If Brookes came back now, he would go into his motorhome and he would either be killed or kill this murderer and destine himself to the life that Riley had led. A dark life caged in behind thick walls. He looked down at his shotgun again. If he himself went, he could rid the world of this tortured entity and then, if they banged him up again, so what? His life was surely nearing its conclusion, and the opportunity for Brookes and Ewan to live together in peace was worth far more.

  Decision made.

  He scoo
ped up the photograph of his two-year-old grandchild; a young boy with the same smile as him and slid it into his jean’s pocket. He also buried a handful of shotgun shells into his other pocket. He limped to his door, opened it, took his cane with his left hand while he held the shotgun with the other and stepped out into the cold.

  Eddies of snow circled, and the icy wind pounded him. His old body struggled. He knew all about nature from his younger years working on his father’s farm. It issued warnings and demanded respect; if you ignored it, you left it no choice, and it would take you inside itself. There you would stay.

  His leg creaked and the red lamb’s wool jumper failed him. He’d only gone four metres when he started to wobble on his cane and his strength melted like the snow on his forehead. He glanced back at his own caravan; it glowed like a burning star. It felt as if he’d been away from the warmth, light and his daughter’s soothing voice for an eternity rather than a matter of seconds. He turned back to Brookes’ motorhome.

  After seeing that face, Riley had realised that there was nothing in that man that could be salvaged; there was no similarity with that poor boy that had tried to take his leg off in jail. That kid had been bloated on hate, and anger. This man was different. He did not have the capacity to hate - he simply brought death with him, wherever he went, like a plague.

  Here we have the true definition of evil, thought Riley.

  The lights went on in the motorhome.

  Riley realised he was close now, only five metres away. He thought of the photograph in his pocket. He thought about Ewan. He felt ready to protect the world from this man.

  A shadow passed across the curtained window at the back of the motorhome; the bastard was in the master bedroom. Riley stopped. If the psycho opened the curtain, he would see Riley coming towards the motorhome. He knew he didn’t have the strength left to fire his shotgun standing; the recoil would put him flat on his back, so he dropped his cane and crouched to his knees. The pain in his bad leg was excruciating and was soothed only momentarily by the cold snow soaking into his jeans. In a two-handed grip, he lifted his shotgun high and supported it against his shoulder. As the curtain fluttered, he cocked his head to the right, squeezed shut his left eye and put the window in the sight.

  Nothing happened. Riley feared that the killer had seen him and was now hidden and waiting. If he lost his advantage, he was doomed—

  The icy face appeared. Riley only paused long enough to confirm it wasn’t Brookes or Ewan before squeezing the trigger on his double-barrelled shotgun. The window exploded and the shot echoed like a thunderclap. Riley slid back but managed to stay on his knees, although he bobbed back and forth like a pendulum. It took him a moment to regain his composure and then he stared at the shattered window and the curtain flapping in the wind.

  Possessing limbs that had mostly failed him in recent years, he was proud to see he was able to shoot straight. After catching his breath, he took some shells from his pocket and reloaded. He doubted anyone could have survived that from five metres away, but if the murderer had made it out of the way, he would need to be ready.

  He grabbed his cane and, fighting the burning pain in his leg, forced himself back to his feet. The snow spiralled down even harder now, so he moved quickly.

  Even though he was confident that he’d shot him, the sight of the door of the motorhome banging open and closed in the wind caused him to hesitate. He dropped his cane, took his shotgun into a two-handed grip again and used both barrels to wedge the door open. He crept inside and surveyed the interior of the motorhome. He couldn’t see anyone. He took another step inside and the door slammed behind him.

  Despite being out of the vicious weather, Riley had never felt so cold. The monster in this motorhome, alive or dead, had presence. With his finger curled around the trigger, he limped as quietly as he could with his mouth closed tightly, so that his rapid breaths did not whistle as they slipped past his lips.

  Leading with his shotgun, he entered Brookes’ bedroom. The curtains billowed next to the shattered window. His eyes darted around the room and he stared down at the floor. Nothing but smashed glass.

  The lights went off.

  He took a deep breath as his blood ran cold, then turned and limped out of the room; his heart thrashing in his chest so hard it hurt. He could hardly see, but swung the shot gun back and forth, determined to fire at the first sign of movement. His hands were sweating so much that he feared the shotgun may slip. He looked at the front door, weighing up whether he stood a better chance out there—

  The toilet door to his right burst open. Riley snapped his head around and saw a cavernous mouth bearing down on him. He tried to swing the shotgun, but it now felt as heavy as a cannon and Riley wasn’t the quickest.

  The jaws of the creature closed.

  Two quick pints of Summer Lightning managed to kill the hangover Brookes had worked up the previous evening with a bottle of whisky.

  He moved his eyes from the hearth, where the fire sizzled, popped and threw up hypnotic spiralling embers, and looked at the bar.

  Decision time.

  Riley’s words from earlier moved around his mind: you have one priority left, that son of yours. That bold, handsome and cocky little tyke. Promise me right now that that’s it. That is all you focus on. That is all Jessica would want you to focus on.

  He watched Kenny turn from the bar, clutching a fresh pint of Lightning. He was almost seventy-five; his hand trembled slightly as he lifted the ale to his mouth and, despite looking frail, he proved there was nothing wrong with his drinking skills and took a huge mouthful.

  He sat down beside Brookes.

  ‘The thing I like more about the Haunch, more than any other pub,’ said Kenny in his thick, Wiltshire slur, ‘is that this pub is older than me.’

  ‘Every pub around here is older than you, Kenny,’ Brookes said, suddenly feeling empty-handed without a pint.

  ‘True, but this one is even older. The shit that used to go on under these old oak beams; the fighting, the gambling, the prostitution. Ah, to have been born in the fourteenth century!’

  ‘Kenny, you wouldn’t have made it to seventy-five if you’d been born in the fourteenth century.’

  He held up his pint. ‘You can survive anything when fuelled by the lightning.’

  ‘There wasn’t any Summer Lightning then!’

  ‘I would have invented it.’ Kenny tilted his head back and journeyed to the half-way point in his pint. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You not having another one?’

  ‘Don’t know, haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Well, what’s the dilemma?’

  ‘The usual one. If I have another one, I’ll have to go all in.’

  ‘Sounds like a familiar dilemma.’

  ‘Okay, so if it hasn’t harmed you …’

  ‘I’m a seventy-five-year-old man sitting in a pub on his own.’

  ‘There’s worse ways to spend old age.’

  ‘Yes, but not nearly every day of the week.’

  ‘So, your advice is to go home?’

  ‘I don’t give advice.’ Kenny smiled. ‘Look at me. However, if you ask me, I never found what I was looking for in a glass, and I’ve been looking for it a long time. By the way, how is that son of yours? Ewan?’

  Brookes stood up. ‘Safe.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And that’s the way I plan to keep it. Bye, Kenny.’

  Kenny smiled. ‘Be seeing you, Iain.’

  On the way out of the Haunch of Venison, he took his phone from his pocket to see if he had any missed calls, and noticed his battery was dead.

  It was only on the journey back to the caravan park, with his phone plugged into the charger, that he able to receive his message from Riley about the man in his motorhome that could have been Jessica’s murderer.

  When his phone rang again, his voice shook. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Iain, it’s your dad.’

  ‘Dad, I’ve got to go, something has
come up …’

  ‘Listen! I just got home from the shop. I’m so sorry, son …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘Now, you’re really scaring me.’

  ‘Ewan’s gone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Back to you. He left a note. He found some money in the house and used it to get a train. The note says that you needed him.’

  ‘When?’ The word crackled; his throat was dry now.

  ‘I don’t know; it doesn’t say. I’m sorry, I had no idea—’

  He hung up. The road ahead of him seemed to pulse and he couldn’t swallow. He took a deep breath and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

  Yorke and his colleagues hung back and let armed response do their work. As soon as the location was secure – and Terrence Lock’s absence confirmed, the place was taped off as a crime scene. There was a dead body in there and a young lady who was, quite remarkably, still alive.

  Yorke lit a cigarette and Gardner narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Not now, Emma,’ Yorke said.

  ‘When I chose a godfather for Annabelle, I chose a non-smoker.’

  ‘That’s quite dramatic, Emma,’ Topham said.

  ‘True though,’ she said.

  Yorke threw the cigarette on the floor. Gardner held her hand out and Yorke, with a sigh, pulled the cigarette packet from his pocket and placed it in her hand.

  In one pocket, she slid the cigarettes; from the other, she pulled some tic-tacs. ‘Try these. They work for me.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Yorke said. He heard Jake chuckle to the left of him.

  One of the officers was leading the kidnapped woman out through the front door. She was trembling and leaned against the officer’s shoulder. ‘Jake and Mark,’ Yorke said, ‘interview the young lady. Emma, we’ll go in.’

  Yorke and Gardner crunched through the snow and through the front door, pausing briefly to access the bagged-up white suits, and ensure they were logged in.

  Lance Reynolds, who was managing the SOCOs, came down the corridor with his camera dangling from his neck. ‘It’s cramped in the cellar where we found the body and the girl tied to a radiator.’