by Wes Markin
On the floor, Lacey saw that the lava from her smashed lamp had solidified; it reminded her of the pool of blood in her brother’s kitchen. Next, her eyes moved over the tangled bed sheets, soaked with the sweat of sex and sadism.
The two officers were looking around the flat. She was allowing this; it was the only way she would be able to get rid of them. There was nothing to see, or find anyway; she’d purposefully kept the place sterile and innocent of her true nature.
Her plan had backfired on her. She had wanted to draw Jake to her, arouse sympathy in him, make him realise he still cared, before seducing him and informing Sheila of his betrayal. This revenge might have satisfied her growing need, desire rather, for the Blue Room and his death. But he wasn’t that dim, wasn’t that unprofessional. She’d underestimated him.
As for Phil Holmes, he was a gorilla. There was no danger of underestimating him! And, she thought, stroking her split lip, nothing can satisfy me now, apart from the Blue Room. It was a risk she’d have to take; she couldn’t leave her incarnation as Lacey Ray the day after tomorrow and let the bastard get away with that. She’d be careful; she’d leave it right to the last minute. By the time they discovered him, she’d be gone and her identity changed.
‘It was just a bit of fun which got out of hand,’ Lacey said to the officer who’d introduced herself as PC Kelly Stamp.
‘Ms Ray. You’re not thinking straight. We deal with this all the time; you press charges and he won’t be allowed near you again,’ Kelly said.
‘There’s no need to press charges.’
‘You can’t let him get away with what he’s done to you.’
I won’t. Don’t worry.
‘You’re bleeding. Quite badly. We need to get you to the hospital,’ the male officer, Neil Chappell, said.
‘Nonsense, I’m fine.’
‘You need an x-ray, possibly stitches.’
‘Did anything else happen?’ Kelly said.
‘You mean, did he rape me?’
Kelly nodded.
‘No, we had sex; it was consensual.’
Lacey stared at the inquisitive officers, who looked at each other, several times, realising, no doubt, that their time in this apartment was coming to an end.
After they left, Lacey phoned Jake’s mobile. It reported that he’d blocked her number. She smiled.
She still had plan B. She reached into her top drawer for her laptop. After logging on, she located and double-clicked the appropriate folder.
Once upon a time, she’d wanted to be an actress. Now, with fondness, she recalled standing in front of her bathroom mirror collecting those Academy Awards, her acceptance speech becoming more flowery and enigmatic each time she delivered it.
She stared at the extensive list of video files on the laptop screen. The acting in these movies wouldn’t win her any awards, but they still made her feel good, and in no small way.
She scrolled through the list until she found the file called “Jake P”.
A far streetlamp, little more than a dot of light at this distance, poked through the tiny gap in the curtains. Lacey likened the image to the half-opened eye of a gigantic creature.
Joe glanced over his shoulder at the large man, whose shotgun was slicing through the moonlight like a shark fin, and said, ‘It’s not too late to stop this.’
‘I told you if you turned, I’d kill you. You will not get another chance.’
Joe continued through the snow, dabbing his bleeding forehead with a napkin he’d taken from the dining table. Looming ever closer was a giant wooden barn.
‘Please tell me why you’re doing this.’ He spoke as loud as he could. The wind was playing havoc over the empty fields.
‘That list of rules now includes not talking. It would be a shame if you died before you got to see your son again.’
The shotgun touched the back of his head; every nerve in his body tingled. Tears began to well up in his eyes – no doubt this was how a prisoner of war felt. Expecting to be thrown a shovel at any moment and told to dig their own grave.
At the barn door, a key was pushed into his hand. ‘Open it.’
He fumbled with the padlock and the barn door creaked open. Inside, the tears that had welled in his eyes from fear began to fall with joy. Paul rose to his feet and met Joe in the centre of the barn. After embracing, he held his son at arm’s length to examine him.
His hair was dishevelled and greasy; his face pale. He looks like he’s been to hell and back. Paul’s body trembled in his arms and he was crying so hard, it was difficult to understand everything he was saying. ‘Dad, I’m scared, it’s been awful.’
‘I’m here now.’
‘Throw back the padlock and key,’ Lewis said.
Paul tightened his grip on his father. ‘That man ...’
‘I know, just let me do what he says.’
Joe prised himself from his son’s grip, turned and threw the padlock and attached key to the shotgun-wielding bastard in the doorway.
When he turned back, his son looked up. ‘What happened to your head Dad?’
‘Don’t worry about that right now.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘Not now, please,’ Joe said, stunned by a strength in his son he’d never seen before. A strength that must have grown from this harrowing experience.
‘Do you really care, Paul?’ Lewis said. ‘You told me you hated him.’
Paul looked up at his father. ‘I didn’t mean it.’
‘It’s okay,’ Joe said. ‘I deserved it.’
‘You told me you were my friend, Lewis,’ Paul said.
‘I said a lot of things to make this work.’
Fresh tears ran down Paul’s face. ‘I told you ... everything.’
‘And I listened to everything you said, but none of that is important. Not anymore.’
The barn door slammed shut.
‘Not again, please,’ Paul said, wrapping his arms around Joe’s waist as tight as he could.
Joe heard the pigs grunting and moving in the darkness. They knelt together in the centre of the barn, hugging.
Eventually, when they’d both taken control of themselves, Paul said, ‘How did you get here Dad?’
‘I’ll explain it all to you.’ He stroked his son’s hair. ‘And you need to explain to me how you got here too.’
‘What do you think is going to happen to us?’
‘The police will come.’
‘Are we going to be okay?’
‘Yes. I promise.’
He continued to embrace his son, and tried to think of more promises he wouldn’t be able to keep.
In the interview room, Yorke stared across the table at his old friend.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a solicitor?’ Yorke said again. This was the first ever time he’d repeated this question with a suspect. Despite everything he’d done, Harry was still ex-police and had suffered horrendously; he wanted to give him the best possible chance to exonerate himself.
‘No.’
‘Okay, we have two signed statements from you. The first claims you did not go anywhere near the school the day of the kidnapping. Do you stand by that?’
‘Yes.’
Yorke looked up at Harry’s wide eyes. He looked almost enthusiastic – maybe, he believed Yorke would get him off the hook.
‘The second signed statement says that you sent a letter to Thomas Ray. A letter we have in evidence. The statement also says that you didn’t approach Thomas after his release.’
‘Yes, that is the statement I’d like to retract.’
Yorke exchanged glances with Gardner. ‘I’m going to be blunt now, Harry, and ask you a direct question.’
‘Okay.’
‘Did you kill Thomas Ray?’
‘No, I did not.’
Yorke was relieved at the answer, but still felt a surge of frustration. He’d yet to hear the reason Harry had called him this evening. After Topham’s phone call, he told Harry it was better to keep
it for the station when it could be recorded and heard by another officer.
The frustration came from the fact that Harry should never have let it get to this stage; he should have been open and honest with Yorke last night in the pub.
Whatever this reason was. It’d better be a good one.
Gardner said, ‘A Phadebas test revealed saliva on Thomas Ray’s face and this is the DNA profile.’ She opened the brown folder and pushed it over to Harry.
‘I don’t need to look,’ Harry said, pushing it back. ‘It’s mine. I admit it. I spat in his face.’
Yorke clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘Harry, you don’t need me to tell you how this is looking.’
‘I spat in his face after he died. I found him how you found him, dead ... and mutilated.’
‘What were you even doing there?’ Gardner said.
‘This is what I wanted to tell you about tonight, Mike.’ He pulled out a handful of photographs from his jacket pocket and threw them onto the table. ‘When he was released, it drove me crazy. I mean, eight years? How was I supposed to cope with that?’
Yorke forced the image of his sister’s murderer from his mind – a man who had served no time; ironically, because of the man whinging about injustice in front of him.
Harry continued, ‘I followed him, took those photos. I wanted to see if he lied about the cancer, wanted to see if he was still enjoying his life.’
‘And?’ Gardner said.
‘He wasn’t lying, he was sick.’ He pushed the photos over to Yorke. ‘There are photos here of nurses arriving. They were coming about once a week. I even went right into his house one day and saw him in his bed. He saw me, but he was that out of it on medication he thought I was a doctor. I had chances to hurt him, if I’d wanted to; not that there was any need to, he was suffering enough.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me all of this last night?’ Yorke said.
‘Because the next thing I tell you is going to get me into trouble.’
‘Go on.’
‘Six nights ago, a large man,’ he said, reaching over and tapping a photo, ‘stopped by. It was dark, and I was some way away, so the photos aren’t clear.’
Yorke looked at the photos of a heavyset man with long black hair. Harry was right, the picture had been taken at some distance and the face wasn’t clear.
‘He took Thomas Ray into his barn.’
‘Did you get a photo of him leading Thomas Ray inside?’
‘Yes, but it didn’t come out. I only got this one of the man arriving at the farmhouse.’
Yorke rubbed the sides of his head with his thumb and forefinger. ‘You were there when Thomas Ray was being murdered?’
‘Yes, but obviously, I didn’t know he was being murdered.’
‘But you discovered the body, afterwards, and didn’t phone it in,’ Yorke said, widening his eyes.
‘Well, I couldn’t, could I? You’d have thought it was me.’
‘And you still didn’t think of telling me last night in the pub? With a young boy missing?’
Harry looked down. ‘Sorry.’
‘Everyone is going to think it is you now anyway,’ Yorke said, slamming the palm of his hand down on the table. He stood up and leaned over so his face was an inch from Harry’s. ‘You spat in his face! You were a policeman for Christ’s sake. How stupid are you?’
‘I was angry ... disgusted ... I didn’t think.’ Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes. ‘That bastard killed my wife.’
‘You saw what this psycho did to him – why couldn’t you have left it at that? Putting your DNA on the body. Jesus, Harry, you were never that dumb when I worked with you.’
‘I was all shaken up. Listen, Mike, I’d rather he’d not have died at all.’ He looked away. ‘I wanted him to rot in jail. The way he died gives me no satisfaction - he was probably so out of it on medication he didn’t even realise what was happening to him.’
‘You should have contacted us,’ Yorke said.
‘I know. But I just assumed the nurses would realise he was missing and report it.’
‘We checked that out,’ Gardner said. ‘There was a mistake. An agency nurse phoned in sick, twice, and both times they failed to cover the shift.’
Yorke said, ‘We are going to need all the details. In a statement. The time you were there, everything you saw, the reasons you didn’t call us immediately. Everything.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Harry said, dabbing at the corners of his eyes. ‘I’ve been through it in my head a million times since. You’ll get everything. And, Mike, I was going to tell you tonight. That’s why I phoned. You have to make that count for something.’
Yorke sat back down and took another deep breath. ‘Let’s just worry about the possible charge of murder first, before we think about the fact you didn’t report the crime.’
12
FOLLOWING A FITFUL night’s sleep, Yorke was woken early by a call from Salisbury station. There was a CCTV camera over the road from Joe Ray’s cottage and part of his abduction had been caught on film.
After viewing the footage, Yorke managed to fill a small room with officers important to the case; Gardner, Brookes and Topham were all present. Several other officers including DC Collette Willows and PC Sean Tyler were also in attendance.
Yorke said, ‘Joe’s abductor drove another white transit. This one had been stolen the previous night from outside the Grey Friar’s council flats. This morning, it’s been found abandoned near the gas works. Forensics are working on it now.’
‘The footage shows a larger man wearing a pig’s head. He does have the same build as the man on the ransom demand e-mail and the man disguised as Thomas Ray on the Sapphire restaurant CCTV footage. We know that this man is not Harry Butcher, not so much because of the size, but rather because Harry was being watched by us during the time of Joe’s abduction.’
Topham raised his hand.
‘I know what you’re going to say, Mark―’
‘Can I say it anyway?’
‘If you must.’
‘We still do not have any evidence that the kidnapping and the murder are linked, so the saliva and DNA makes him our prime suspect for the latter.’
‘We are all aware of this – this is why Harry remains in custody.’
‘If the cases are linked, Harry could be working with the abductor―’
‘Again, noted Mark. We can pick up this discussion following the meeting. Now, returning to the CCTV footage. The kidnapper wore a backpack, presumably with Thomas Ray’s blood bagged up inside. First, he went around to the back of the cottage and several minutes later, after he’d left that print on the patio door, he returned to the front of the house to ambush Joe. He whacked him over the head with a piece of metal that looks like a large hook; then took a syringe from his jacket pocket and injected something into his neck, which either killed him or knocked him out.’
‘Let’s hope for the latter,’ Gardner said.
‘The man then disappeared into the house for approximately four minutes, presumably to deposit the blood and leave the message, before carrying Joe up his driveway to the back of his van. The man does this with remarkable ease. Not only is he very big, but he’s strong.’
‘And no one saw him hoisting an unconscious man into the van?’ Brookes said.
‘Several cars drove past, but no one stopped to do or say anything. Collette, could you run the plates on all the vehicles on the CCTV and send some officers to interview the car owners – see if anyone saw anything?’
Collette made a note in her pad.
‘Something else of interest happened last night,’ Yorke said, ‘involving both Joe’s sister Lacey and an IT specialist employed by the school, Phil Holmes. DS Jake Pettman received a call from Lacey reporting an assault by Holmes. Jake sent two officers to investigate. She’d been badly beaten, but denied rape, and said she didn’t want to press charges.’
Gardner said, ‘How did she meet this Phil Holmes?’
‘At the station while they were both awaiting interview.’
Brookes said, ‘And how did he fare in his interview?’
‘I played the video back earlier. He denied having any contact with the boy. He does have a rather awkward manner, and his answers are often monosyllabic, but other than that his interview seemed to have no consequence.’
‘Still, it’s strange,’ Topham said. ‘Following the strange vibes you picked up off Lacey Ray yesterday, she suddenly makes our headlines again today with this man from the school.’
‘I agree,’ Yorke said. ‘That’s why Emma and me are going to the school later to question Holmes again. Not only do we need to know more about his relationship with Lacey and this alleged assault, but we need to check he’s not connected to this kidnapping.’
Following her argument with Jake, Sheila Pettman had not slept a wink and now, to make matters worse, the morning sickness was ruthless. She’d taken the day off and sought distraction in a reality TV show focused on cooking. She turned it off after realising that the show, like all other reality game programmes, was based around conflict rather than the quality of someone’s cooking.
Something clattered through the letterbox.
Expecting a new book, she was intrigued to receive a shabby brown envelope with ‘Sheila’ scrawled across the front in blue biro. She ripped open the envelope and shook a purple memory stick out into her hand; she continued to shake, but it contained nothing else.
She opened the front door, hoping to see whoever had posted it, but was too late. The only person in sight was a woman sitting at a bus stop opposite, wearing a fur coat; it was snowing hard, and it was impossible to see her face clearly.
After closing the front door and sitting back down on the couch, she switched off the reality show, opened her laptop and looked at the picture of Jake on her screen. She stroked his face. I want to tell you, but there never seems to be a good time at the moment.
She inserted the memory stick. There was only one file available to view: a video file entitled “Jake”.
Lacey Ray yawned and her injuries stung. A good thing. It reminded her of Phil Holmes’ continued existence and so enthused her.
