The DCI Yorke Series Boxset

by Wes Markin

  She reached out from underneath the bus shelter into the fuzzy world; the cold sensation of snow on her hand reminded her that she was still here, in reality. Next, she slipped her other hand into her pocket and thumbed the passport she’d collected over an hour before from Jacques Louvre.

  She shouldn’t be here having fun with Jake Pettman’s life, but he had her riled, and if she could only take a slight bit of revenge between now and her trip to Nice tomorrow morning, she’d take it.

  Her phone buzzed and she saw that it was the misogynistic bully, Phil Holmes. How excellent.

  She answered. ‘Don’t call me―’

  ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘After last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think I’m mad?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I promise I want to make amends.’

  ‘It’s not a good idea. I still haven’t made up my mind whether or not to go to the police yet.’

  ‘I understand if that’s what you want to do,’ Phil said. ‘Just see me and hear what I have to say first.’

  ‘It takes more than an apology.’

  ‘I know.’

  Lacey paused ten seconds to let him believe she was deep in thought. ‘Mercure Hotel at eight. I’ll be checking in under a friend’s name: Laura Bryce. She is a member of the hotel chain and gets me a good discount.’

  ‘Okay, Laura Bryce.’

  ‘Don’t be late.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She hung up and held out her hand again, but the snow had stopped. It was risky she knew, but worth it. This time tomorrow, they would be looking for Laura Bryce, just like they’d be looking for a Sylvia Seddon in Southampton for the murder of Brian Lawrence.

  The Blue Room wouldn’t let her down. It never did.

  With her hand trembling so hard, Sheila doubted she’d be able to use the remote control, but she managed. The reality TV show restarted; she watched a girl talking about the best way to put together a cottage pie with a grating Birmingham accent.

  Lacey and Jake had been much younger in the video file – definitely before Sheila had started dating him, but it had been hideous just the same.

  Here I am, pregnant, watching a sex tape made by my husband.

  She turned the TV back off and flung the remote control as hard as she could against the wall. It spat its batteries back at her. Then, she jumped up and slammed the laptop on the floor. It announced its refusal to ever work again with a crunch.

  What is this woman’s agenda?

  She hoisted her mobile phone out of her pocket and attempted to scroll through to Jake―

  The woman outside ...

  She turned slowly and looked through the lounge window. The woman in the fur coat had crossed the road and was now standing on her driveway, smiling.

  Sheila’s hand flew to her mouth.

  After the meeting, it was Gardner rather than Topham that approached him for a chat.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to moan at me too,’ Yorke said.

  ‘No, I agree with you. Harry’s innocent.’

  ‘And are you sure that’s what I think?’

  ‘Reasonably sure. I wanted to talk to you about something else. It’ll be quick.’

  ‘Fire away, Emma.’

  When Gardner wasn’t munching on tic-tacs, the corner of her mouth twitched; it usually flared up when she was nervous about something. It was flaring up right now.

  He pulled out some gum and held some out to her.

  ‘You noticed then.’

  ‘We’ve been friends for a long time.’

  She smiled and took a piece. ‘Anyway, the thing is, me and Jordan were wondering if you wanted to be Lucas’ godfather?’

  ‘I’m not Catholic.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  Yorke looked away, but quickly looked back – he didn’t want to give Gardner the impression that he was uncomfortable with the request. This had been the reason she was nervous – she knew he’d try and wriggle out. ‘I’m not sure I’d be the best godfather.’

  ‘I disagree.’

  ‘Aren’t you best asking a friend who’s a father already? I mean, I’m not sure I have any paternal attributes whatsoever.’

  ‘Never mind, just thought I’d ask anyway.’

  As she turned to leave, Yorke said, ‘Okay.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, you took me by surprise that’s all. Sounds good. Who knows? I might even take to the whole fatherhood idea.’

  She smiled. ‘Thanks, sir.’

  ‘No, thank you for thinking of me.’

  After she left him, he sighed; it’d been too long since he’d used those words.

  Yorke was sitting in a pokey little room that could have doubled up as a broom cupboard, but it was big enough for a desktop and a filing cabinet stuffed full of old cases - most were solved, but some remained unsolved and grew colder by the day.

  He squeaked back into a leather swivel chair and watched the CCTV footage of Joe’s abduction again. Watching that large man prance around wearing a pig’s mask was like watching a poorly made eighties’ video nasty; he could only imagine how bad it must have smelled inside that scooped-out hog’s head. Was the psycho wearing nose plugs?

  He re-watched an interview with Francis Weller, an English teacher with straggly tufts of hair which seemed to have grown around the arms of his spectacles like vines around a drainpipe.

  ‘Last year, he was in here every morning before most of the other kids had arrived, talking about books with me. It was verging on obsessive. Sometimes, I’d have to pretend to be listening so I could get on with my work while he sat there. I’d be doing duty breaks and lunches, and he’d be following like a shadow.’

  ‘So, you’d say he was needy then?’ the interviewing officer said.

  ‘Very. But then it just stopped. Really peculiar. Six or seven months ago. He lost all interest in talking to me.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘Honestly? The first few weeks, relieved. After that, it kind of hurt my feelings a little bit.’ Weller paused to smile. ‘Wondered what I’d done to upset him, but he still worked hard and was polite to me in lessons, so I guess he just became bored of spending his mornings with an old man.’

  Yorke picked up a paper folder full of photos and emptied them on the floor. It formed a rather gruesome collage.

  His eyes scanned the images: pools of blood, a smashed up transit van, peculiar words written in blood, an old man hanging from a hook, an aerial shot of the school, the Ray family’s cottage, Thomas Ray’s barn. He spent almost ten minutes looking for a pattern.

  From the door, Topham greeted Yorke.

  Yorke didn’t speak, just lifted his hand in the air to signal a greeting.

  ‘You pissed off, boss?’ Topham said.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I would be.’

  ‘Why? Your suspicions are credible. I know we may have to arrest him. But I cannot ignore my gut. And in this instance, both of our guts are saying two different things.’

  Topham sighed. ‘Your judgement is clouded.’

  Yorke swivelled in his chair. ‘If that was the case, wouldn’t I be more likely to have him arrested? Some would argue that getting his face on the papers might give me some sense of personal satisfaction.’

  ‘His DNA is on his body!’

  ‘He spat on the man who murdered his wife! And as much as I dislike the man, putting the press on his doorstep, again, is not going to help anyone, especially not Paul and Joe Ray. This conversation is over, Mark. If you really believe Harry is behind all of this, go and check up with the uniforms watching him. Right now, I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Shit, you’re stubborn, sir!’

  ‘I’m hearing that a lot at the moment.’

  ‘Well, I guess you’re the boss.’

  ‘That I am.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘Come over here and look at these with me.’ Yorke
pointed at the bloody collage on the floor.

  From another folder Yorke pulled out another photo. The malignant narcissist, Lacey Ray. She was much younger and dressed in her tartan sixth form uniform. ‘Around the time Jake was getting to know her better.’ He dropped the picture and it floated for a second or two before landing on the collage. It sat beside a close-up picture of the words, “In the Blood” scrawled across the toilet wall. ‘Lacey Ray has no children. She’s the last Ray by blood we know the whereabouts of.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Get rid of her and the line ends.’

  ‘You make it sound like a vampire movie.’

  ‘With all this blood everywhere, it might as well be. Let’s see what she’s up to.’

  He contacted the officer sitting on her place. ‘Can I get an update, please?’

  There was a pause. Yorke didn’t like it one bit. ‘Shit - don’t tell me.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. She must have seen me in the car park. She disappeared out the back door.’

  He hung up without saying goodbye, and flicked through his notebook until he found her mobile number.

  ‘She’s slipped out,’ he said to Topham as he phoned her.

  She answered straight away. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s DCI Yorke here. I would really appreciate it if you could come in and help us further with our enquiries.’

  ‘I’m busy, right now.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Visiting the wife of an old friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Do I have to answer that question?’

  Yorke was already on his feet, pacing around the tiny office, suddenly aware of how a large zoo animal in a small cage must feel. ‘Listen, Ms Ray, we’ve no time for this. People in your family are missing. When are you free?’

  ‘I’ve told you absolutely everything I know.’

  ‘You’ve not really told us anything about last night.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What happened would be a good start.’

  ‘I fell in with the wrong man. It’s happened before and, knowing me, it will probably happen again. He was a bully and he hit me hard, several times.’

  ‘Phil Holmes works at the school your nephew was taken from.’

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘Do you think he could be connected to the kidnapping in any way?’

  She snorted. ‘Phil? No, he’s a gorilla. He doesn’t have the intellect to pull off anything like that.’

  Yorke sighed. ‘We really need to speak to you properly, Lacey.’

  ‘Later.’

  He choked back his anger and tried a different approach. ‘New evidence has come to light suggesting you could be in danger; it would be safer for you to come to the station.’

  ‘Danger, how so?’

  ‘Well, whoever has your nephew and brother may not stop there. You saw the message yourself. It is possible there is a vendetta against the Ray family.’

  There was a pause. ‘Ah, so you want to use me as bait?’

  ‘Police don’t do that, Ms Ray.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. I’d hate to be a pawn in some kind of game.’

  ‘Ms Ray. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it sounds like you don’t care enough about your brother and nephew.’

  ‘Is that what you think, Detective?’

  He detected anger in her voice.

  ‘I think you should be expressing more concern.’

  ‘Should? We are all individuals, Detective, and we are all capable of defining our own sense of morality.’

  ‘If you don’t come into the station now, Ms Ray, I will have to send someone to find you.’

  ‘Be patient, Detective, right now, my sense of morality has brought me to someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A woman, a very broken woman. My battery is about to die, detective―’

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘Every now and again we meet someone special, Detective. And when they throw it back in your face, it becomes even more painful to deal with.’

  The blood drained from Yorke’s face. ‘Are you with Sheila?’

  But the phone was already dead.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Topham said.

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ Yorke said. ‘Something bad. Get a search out for Lacey Ray immediately.’

  Topham nodded and disappeared out of the door while Yorke located Sheila’s phone number in the directory in his phone. When he hit call, he was sent straight to voicemail. He left a brief message saying that he was trying to contact her. Then, he called Willows. ‘Get to Jake’s house now. Take help. And don’t, whatever you do, call Jake until after you’ve spoken to me again.’

  13

  THE SPRAWLING FIELDS, caked in ice, closed down around Jake. He turned off onto a gravel track, which made the three dirt samples installed in the plastic box rattle like old chains in a derelict factory. He phoned Yorke.

  With a mouth dry from the previous three interviews, he said, ‘The case will be over before I’ve visited all these farms.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ Yorke said.

  ‘You sure there’s still no match on the samples from yesterday?’

  ‘Louise Tenor hasn’t been in touch again, so it doesn’t look that way. Sorry, Jake, I’ve not got time now.’

  ‘Desperate to get rid of me?’

  Yorke laughed. Jake noticed the laugh sounded forced.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Jake said.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, it’s just the press need another statement and I’ve got that on my mind. I’ll speak to you later. Just take care, okay?’

  ‘Now, I know there’s something wrong, you rarely even say goodbye, never mind tell me to take care.’

  The phone went dead as Jake neared his next farmhouse. The case is driving you off your rocker, Mike.

  On his right was a wooden-slatted barn; the sun angled shafts of light through the slits between the slats, making it look as if it was burning.

  Joe heard car tyres chewing gravel outside and held his son’s head tighter to his chest.

  God, don’t let it be that twisted bastard again. The next person I see opening that door has to be a policeman. It just has to be.

  He kissed his sleeping son’s face. I won’t let him hurt you.

  At the sides of the barn, the pigs shuffled and grunted, but he was becoming less and less concerned about them. Over the course of the long cold night, in which he’d laid awake trembling and crying, it had been the ravenous insects which prowled the hay that had bothered him most.

  It was the gaping, bloody wound on his head that had drawn them in. He’d heard too many stories about insect eggs getting into open wounds, so had fought the pull of sleep and instead swatted flies, ticks, fleas and other creepy crawlies through the many hours.

  Why was that man, Lewis, doing this?

  Before he slept, Paul had told him all about the friendship he’d struck up with Lewis at the school. How long had this bastard been planning?

  He hoped that the worst was over; he hoped that Lewis would pay for what he’d done to them; but above all, he hoped that he could get his son back to his mother.

  Jake parked and approached an old veranda with a string of lights hung across the old timber frame. Despite the daylight, they were switched on, making each bulb look like a sparkling snowflake.

  After trudging through the deepening snow, he stopped at a short staircase to look up at an old lady scrunched up in a wheelchair. One hand was buried under a blanket, while the other skeletal hand stroked the knotted hair of a young, pale and dishevelled girl sitting on the slats in front of her.

  ‘Stella Morris?’

  ‘Yes, how can I help you?’

  Jake was surprised, he’d not expected to hear the reply of such a withered creature over the shrill wind. Her voice crackled like burning wood.

  He took the creaky steps one at a time until he stood a metre from the odd pair.

  He held his
ID up in front of Stella. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Jake Pettman; I’m here regarding the disappearance of Paul Ray, the young boy kidnapped from Salisbury Cathedral School. I take it you know about this already from the news. I’m collecting dirt samples from several farms in the proximity of the school.’

  She smiled and Jake saw that she only had a few teeth. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say exactly, but I’m assuming you would want to help us with our inquiries?’

  ‘Of course,’ Stella said.

  Jake looked down at the young girl. ‘How old is your granddaughter?’

  ‘Daughter, detective.’

  Jake was taken aback by this. This couldn’t be this woman’s daughter, surely? However, she could be adopted, so he played it safe and didn’t mention it; instead, he made a mental note to look into it later.

  ‘Sorry, how old?’

  ‘Twelve,’ the girl said.

  Stella tightened her grip on her daughter’s hair causing her to wince.

  ‘She should be in school.’

  ‘She’s sick.’

  ‘My information says that your husband passed away?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just me and my daughter Martha now.’

  ‘So who helps you with your farming?’

  ‘Martha, of course.’

  ‘But if she’s at school―’

  ‘She tends the pigs in the evening. We are not really a thriving farm any more since my husband died, we just keep the place ticking over.’

  ‘That’s okay, but I do want you to know that criminal charges can be brought against you if you keep your daughter from her schooling.’

  ‘I know,’ Stella said.

  ‘Is it okay if I take a look around, and get that sample now?’

  ‘Martha,’ Stella said, now stroking, rather than pulling, her daughter’s knotted hair.

  ‘Yes, Mother?’

  ‘Be a good girl and show the policeman around.’

  ‘Okay,’ Martha said, rising to her feet.

  He’d seen it before. A beautiful, yet neglected young girl, with a vacant expression in her eyes, left to only imagine a life that many others, elsewhere, were taking for granted.