by Wes Markin
‘When I saw him at the school on the day of the abduction, his hair was damp and just now, he claimed to have used the squash court in the school sports hall during first period, rather than working. Is that acceptable to you as his employer?’
‘Well, he doesn’t teach, so it’s not a massive problem, and he does stay very late some nights. But I will talk to him about this; he needs to be available during school hours in case any of the staff need him regarding an IT issue.’
‘My partner is just talking to your PE department now, just to confirm he was there that day. Is this okay?’
‘That’s fine.’
Yorke looked at his notes. ‘Can you confirm that he was in the school at two PM yesterday?’
‘I didn’t see him, but someone may have required his help.’
‘He suggested an activity check on his computer.’
‘I guess he’d be the one to do that, but I could ask someone in the business department with IT skills to look into that one for you.’
‘Excellent. One more thing, do the students have much contact with Phil Holmes?’
‘Yes, they do. He installed a new VLE, so they speak to him regarding this.’
‘Yes, Phil mentioned the VLE to me while I was at the school. Allows students to access work on the internet and send it in for marking?’
‘Among many other things, yes. Anyway, several students have been struggling to log-on in class and they have had to go to Phil to have passwords reset.’
‘Can you find out which students have been to see him?’
‘I guess so. I will have to ask the teachers which students have requested password resets during their lessons. It might take me a couple of hours to receive all the names back by e-mail, and the list won’t be reliable, because they may have forgotten some of the requests. There will be a lot of them ‒ Phil has been working here for six months.’
‘Give it a go; I’m only interested in one name anyway.’
‘Paul Ray, I’m guessing.’
‘If his name shows up, phone me, immediately.’
15
THE NOISE OF pigs seemed to be coming from all directions. It was an illusion; the wind was surely messing with Jake’s hearing. The squeals were only coming from within the barn, the door of which he was holding half-open.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He reached for it and let the barn door clatter shut. Hopefully, it would be Yorke with news that they’d already found a match on the dirt, put him out of this misery.
While taking his mobile from his pocket, he rotated and then flinched when he saw the old woman only a couple of metres away from him; her tiny face, sucked of moisture, peered out from the old blanket.
‘Are you creeping up on me?’ he said.
She smiled, and Jake looked at his phone. He saw Sheila was calling and answered. ‘Hello?’
‘She came here.’
His blood ran cold. ‘Who?’
‘That crazy bitch.’
‘Shit―’
‘And she brought a movie with her.’
‘A movie?’
‘Yes. Of you and her.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. Disturbed by the way the withered woman was staring at him so intently, he turned back around. Martha was replacing the padlock.
He was just about to tell Martha to stop when Sheila said, ‘Of you and her fucking.’
Jake felt panic rising from the pit of his stomach. ‘That’s bullshit, I haven’t touched her.’
‘It’s from when you were younger. A little souvenir of your time together.’
‘Shit,’ he said, remembering the time Lacey had filmed them together. ‘Where are you now?’
‘My mother’s.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
‘No―’
‘We have to talk.’
‘Not now.’ The phone went dead.
He looked up at Martha and Stella who were both staring at him.
‘An emergency, I have to go. Thanks for this,’ he said, holding up the paper bag which contained the mud sample.
‘No problem,’ Stella said.
Jake turned and marched over the snowy ground towards his car. He heard Martha bid him farewell; then he heard the squealing pigs up their tempo.
They were probably glad to see the back of him.
Jake was furious with Lacey. It was a struggle to keep his finger from the call button. But he had too. All contact had to stop immediately. Having her restrained, taken out of his life would now become a police matter.
Focus on Sheila, he thought, make that right.
After punching straight through the traffic from Devizes to Salisbury, Jake stood outside Sheila’s mother’s house. The lights were on.
Around his feet, mounds of snow rose from the concrete path. He rang the doorbell. No one bothered to answered. He tried the house phone, which he could hear ringing from where he was standing. Again, no one answered.
He rapped on the door until his knuckles burned, before heading along the side of the house and banging on the double glazing.
Eventually, his mother-in-law opened the front door, poked her head out, and stared at him through dyed black eyelashes.
‘She doesn’t want to see you Jake.’
He headed back to the front door. ‘I know, just for a minute, to explain―’
She slammed the door. He took a step back, burst a mound of snow with his foot and began to shout.
After hearing from Willows that Lacey Ray had exited the bus in town and then disappeared into a shopping centre, Yorke received a blocked call. He took it outside the school beneath the bike shelter.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Michael Yorke?’ The voice sounded half-digested by tobacco.
‘Yes, who is this please?’
‘DCI John Hargreaves from Southampton – we met before at a conference not that long ago.’
‘I remember,’ Yorke said, recalling the bulbous man who was pinned to the buffet table for most of the evening. Yorke listened to the busy sounds of his department in the background.
Hargreaves said, ‘Just this morning, we went to pick up Lacey Ray from her Southampton flat and found that she’d packed and left. We saw that you’d put out an APW for her. We need to get hold of her also.’
‘What do you want her for?’
‘One of the richest real-estate dealers in the city, Brian Lawrence, met a rather unsavoury end in a hotel room here several nights ago and, while investigating this, Lacey Ray has come onto our radar.’
There was a violent gurgle in Yorke’s stomach. ‘Are you sure?’
‘We have CCTV footage of a woman arriving at his room before he did, wearing a scarf, hat and sunglasses like some kind of film star. It took a while to find someone in Lacey’s network to recognise her behind the disguise, but after they did, we compared it to photos of her. The CCTV footage is not great, and any solicitor worth his salt would tear it to pieces, but we think it’s her.’
‘No one thought this disguise was peculiar when she checked into the hotel?’
‘It’s a love hotel for the great and the good apparently; everyone walks around in disguise and checks in under different names.’ Hargreaves coughed; it was deep and chesty. The tobacco industry had taken his lungs too.
‘What name did she check-in under?’
‘Mrs Sylvia Seddon.’
‘When you said “network” before, I assumed you mean those connected to the prostitution racket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you get confirmation from the agency that she was with this Brian Lawrence?’
‘Tried that. Lawrence was being regularly serviced by four prostitutes; of which, Lacey was one. But she wasn’t requested that night. Her day off apparently. It could have been an off-the-books arrangement perhaps?’
‘Four prostitutes? Bloody hell! Have you interviewed the other three?’
‘Of course. Shit, these girls cost thousands.’
‘As the world
around him slips deeper into the financial mire, he indulges in a thoroughly hedonistic lifestyle.’
‘Real-estate agents, just like bankers, no conscience. Sociopaths.’
‘Exactly like Lacey Ray,’ Yorke said. ‘She’s causing all kinds of trouble around here. How was Lawrence killed?’
‘Slowly and sadistically. She tied him to a chair before cutting off his fingers and stabbing him to death with a penknife.’
Thomas Ray was killed sadistically too, Yorke thought.
‘Evidence?’
‘A few fibres, no fingerprints or DNA. And the weak CCTV footage of her walking with her eyes on the floor. We were waiting on the confession really.’
‘Off Lacey Ray? Not a chance. Do your research. She’s a narcissist and prides herself on control. I suspect she wouldn’t confess with a knife to her throat, and I imagine that she will have developed a real skill for lying.’
‘Sounds like we best hurry up and find her,’ Hargreaves said, coughing again. Yorke wondered if Hargreaves had left it too late to cut back on the cancer sticks.
‘There’s nothing I’d like more. She’s taking a liking to a good friend of mine. This morning, she paid his wife a social call.’
‘I saw it on the report.’
‘I still have her mobile number, which I contacted her on earlier today. I’ve put a trace on the number, but I’ve tried it again recently and it’s switched off. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s ditched it by now. She was last sighted in town. I have officers trying to track her down. You’ll be the first to know when we have her.’
‘How’s the search for the boy and his father going; it’s all over the news here.’
‘We’re making progress.’
‘Do you think Lacey has anything to do with it?’
‘Let me find her first and I’ll update you on that one.’
As soon as they said their farewells and finished the call, Yorke’s mobile rang again. It was Tyler. He was flustered. ‘DS Pettman is at his mother-in-law’s house looking for Sheila. They’re not letting him in, and he’s refusing to leave. The neighbours are complaining about the commotion.’
‘Okay, I’ll be right there.’
On the way, Yorke tried Jake’s mobile but was sent through to voicemail. He used his smart phone to put Topham, Gardner and Brookes on a conference call so he could update them with the information from DCI John Hargreaves.
‘Bloody hell,’ Gardner said.
‘Shit, it’s always the beautiful ones,’ Topham said.
‘What are you talking about Mark? This isn’t French film noir,’ Brookes said.
Irritated, Yorke’s voice rose slightly. ‘Anyway, we need everyone looking for her; Mark can you gather our troops?’
‘Yep.’
‘Also, thinking about the way Thomas Ray was tortured, we could do with a comparison, to see if his murder exhibits the same MO as the one used in the Lawrence case. Emma, if you could handle that.’
‘Okay.’
‘Iain, she was using the pseudo name, Sylvia Seddon, when she was suspected of going to work on Brian Lawrence. See if you can get any hits on that name.’
‘What are you up to?’ Gardner said.
‘Following a lead,’ Yorke said, turning into the road where Jake was apparently causing commotion. ‘I’ll let you know if it comes to anything.’
He parked outside the house; no-one was outside. When he knocked on the door, Sheila answered immediately. Her eyes were red from crying and she glared at Yorke as if he was the reason for her sadness.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi Sheila,’ Yorke said. ‘I know you’ve had a bad day, but I’m looking for Jake―’
‘He was here. Shouting. Now, he’s gone.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care. I suppose you’ve seen his Oscar-winning performance by now?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
A woman appeared behind Sheila. They looked dissimilar, but Yorke assumed it was her mother. She crossed her arms. ‘I always told Sheila he was trouble.’
This really isn’t something I want to get involved in, Yorke thought.
Sheila’s mother continued, ‘Jane next door was married to a copper. I remembered what it was like for her. She had severe IBS by the time she was fifty.’
‘I’m sorry Sheila for what happened today,’ he said. ‘We’re dealing with it and we’ll let you know what happens.’
‘Bye Mike,’ Sheila said and closed the door.
Yorke took a deep breath. Jake, you’re going to be on that sofa bed a while longer I’m afraid.
As he walked back to his car, he tried Jake’s phone again. This time he got a response.
‘Where are you?’
‘Guess.’
Yorke sighed. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope.’
‘We’re in the middle of trying to solve a double abduction and a murder.’
‘I know.’
‘And now we have a suspected murderer on the run.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Your turn to guess.’
‘Shit.’
‘I’m on my way to explain. Don’t go anywhere.’
Above the door, the picture of Dionysus, God of Wine ― which always reminded Yorke of the fawn in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe ― seemed to be smiling, welcoming him to The Wyndham Arms, birthplace of the phenomenon, Hopback, the brewers of Summer Lightning. In the front parlour, he found Jake indulging in a seasonal special of Winter Lightning, which was spicier than its counterpart. Yorke looked at the bar, suddenly craving a pint of Gilbert’s First Beer ― the ale that first began the Hopback phenomenon. Knowing that alcohol in his bloodstream would do no good for his instincts right now, he resisted.
‘Figured I might lose my job for drinking on duty. Sheila would most certainly approve of that one!’ Jake said.
‘Sheila would. I don’t.’
‘Sheila will be disappointed.’
Jake said, ‘How about a random piss test; you never know, they gave me one a couple of years ago.’
Yorke saw that Jake had consumed half his pint already. ‘Tell me that’s your first.’
‘Second.’
‘It’s your last then.’
‘Tell me about Lacey being a suspected murderer.’
Yorke obliged.
‘And she’s stalking me and my wife. Great!’
‘The next time you’ll see her, she’ll be in custody.’
‘I was having enough problems; shit, Mike, I feel like my life is falling apart.’
Yorke squeezed his shoulder. ‘I know, mate.’
‘You’re just about to tell me you’ve been there.’
‘You know that more than anyone. We need a long hard talk once this case is over.’
A drunk local called Kenny swaggered by. Seventy plus and still going strong; by his own admission it was because he was ‘fuelled by the Lightning’.
‘Hello Michael,’ he said, in a thick, Wiltshire slur. ‘Not got yer pretty lady with yer today?’
He was, of course, referring to a girl Yorke had very briefly dated. Another one that had ended all too quickly when they’d realised he was still hung up on his first true love – Charlotte. Obviously, he’d never told Kenny that particularly relationship was over, or was about to. He was the type of chap you drank a beer and laughed with. Stories of woe were not on the agenda. ‘Not today, Kenny.’
‘You naughty boy,’ he said, wagging a finger, while spilling a mouthful of beer over his brown cords.
‘I feel like killing her,’ Jake said.
‘Perfectly natural, I’m sure, but I’m pretty sure you won’t do that.’
Jake smiled. ‘Everyone can have their unpredictable moments.’
‘True. But you don’t have to do anything now. As I’ve just explained to you, the witch has already sentenced herself to a burning, we just have to hunt her down.’
Yorke took a mouthful of Jake�
�s pint and then pushed it aside. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, not only have you got to run in those dirt samples in the car, you’re putting my reputation on the line.’
‘How so?’
‘I’ve been telling everyone that you’re the best policeman I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with.’
‘Misfortune?’
‘Who likes to be argued with by someone who thinks they know better, before it turns out that they sometimes do.’
Jake smiled again. Yorke’s phone beeped. A message to pick up from voicemail. He rang through and felt his blood pressure rise as he listened.
Afterwards, he jumped to his feet. ‘I have to go.’
‘Why?’
‘I think I know who has Paul and Joe Ray.’
Jake started to rise to his feet too.
‘No,’ Yorke said. ‘All you need to do right now is calm down, run those dirt samples in.’
‘At least tell me who it is?’
‘It’s not Lacey Ray. But if she comes anywhere near you, you call me, okay?’
‘Okay.’
Making his way to the exit, he heard Jake calling out from behind him. ‘And I can’t kill her?’
Above the door, the Hopback logo of Dionysus seemed to have lost its smile and appeared to frown instead; maybe, it wanted him to stay.
He had a feeling that things may just turn out a lot better if he did.
Lacey Ray threw the fake driver’s licence she had used to check in with onto the hotel bed, followed by the bag containing her brand new passport. Then, she sat in front of the mirror, and removed her jet-black wig. She smiled. The male receptionist had said she was the spitting image of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction and had started to flirt with her. He wasn’t bad looking, but he was barely out of his teens. Not enough sin to pay for just yet, she thought, smiling to herself.
Her muddy-brown hair flopped down around her shoulders. She scrubbed off the dark make-up with a baby wipe to reveal her purpling injuries.
