by Wes Markin
He backed away, staring at his father’s face, turned and ran for the beech trees. Why he did this he had no idea. He just felt drawn to them. A brilliant bright light forced him to stop and shield his eyes. He identified the source of the light: a lamp swinging from the branch of the peculiar central beech tree. Beneath the lamp was a jaguar.
Ewan recalled seeing the jaguar - third largest feline after the lion and the tiger - hunting on a nature documentary. It pierced a deer’s skull between the ears and bit deep into its brain. The killing method is unique to cats.
The jaguar flexed the muscles beneath its tawny yellow coat and the black rosettes that spotted its body seemed to shimmer.
As a rule, jaguars are not found in Salisbury and are mainly based around Central and South America, but it seemed comfortable and at home, despite the extreme temperature. Its tail curled around it on the floor like a long snake.
The jaguar continued to make the rasping sound. At one point, it tilted its head back to yawn; in profile, its mouth looked like the opening of a giant cave with menacing white stalactites.
The jaguar roared and turned its dazzling, yellow eyes on him. It then lifted itself from a sitting position, rising to its feet. Terrified, Ewan started to back away. The feline started to stalk forward and Ewan could see blood glistening on its fur.
It roared again and bared its sharp teeth; flesh hung from them like vines. It broke into a sprint, and when it was only a few metres away from Ewan, it pounced.
Ewan watched the eyes of the great beast plunge from the sky like two fiery suns.
7
AS THEY ENTERED the hospital ward, currently providing Gillian Arnold medical care, Yorke tried to get as much information out of Topham as possible because he felt grossly unprepared for the interview he was about to conduct. He was still trying to get his head around the fact that someone else had been there. Someone stamping, apparently, in the back of the van.
‘Her injuries?’ Yorke said.
‘The dickhead pressed the knife so hard into her back that they’ve had to give her a couple of stitches. They are also monitoring her for shock, but have said that she seems to be coping well.’
‘And she definitely doesn’t know him?’ Yorke said, thinking back to their suspicions that Jessica had known her killer.
‘Her initial report at the station says not, but I haven’t spoken to her directly.’
‘And how much have we gathered together already?’
‘We have managed to get some excellent CCTV footage of the white Ford Transit on Southampton Road, but his registration remains obscured. I cannot believe he keeps getting away with that? Why have traffic not pulled him over yet?’
‘Imagine how many people would be getting pulled over in winter with dirty registration plates?’
Topham nodded. ‘We also have a forensic artist on the way. Gillian has said that he looked rather unique.’
Yorke felt a moment of hope and an accompanying burst of adrenaline. ‘Anything on the mugger?’
‘Nothing yet. We know the direction he ran, and I have some officers down there looking into it. You think he’s part of this?’
‘It’s not a coincidence. And the guy that pulled over for Gillian – what do we know about him?’
‘You mean the guy who almost killed her coming off the roundabout?’
Yorke nodded.
‘Nigel Wilkes. Local plumber, clean record. We have him at the station, obviously, but I’m not expecting anything from that. He came to her aid. That seemed to be his only role in all of this.’
‘Has Gillian contacted any of her family yet?’ Yorke said.
‘Not that I know of. Her husband died a few years back – suicide.’
Topham tried to get some information out of Yorke regarding Billy Shine and his murder, but Yorke waved it off until later. It was a major incident right now, and Topham may as well wait until the update from Gardner, who’d remained at the scene to coordinate the SOCOs.
A nurse showed them through into a room. Gillian Arnold sat on a hospital bed; she was fully clothed apart from her shoes.
She was an attractive woman; fine-boned with a slim build. Did you think her delicate? Yorke thought. An easy target for your peculiar rituals?
Your misjudgement is about to be your undoing.
‘Mrs Arnold, my name is DCI Yorke and this is DI Topham. I want to say how extremely sorry we are about what happened to you tonight.’
‘Don’t be,’ Gillian said. ‘I got away. I’m the lucky one.’
Yorke smiled. ‘Well, from what I hear, luck had nothing to do with it. You ran. Quickly.’
Gillian smiled. ‘I’m determined to beat last years’ time in the Salisbury marathon. I think I will now.’
‘I hope you do. And I’d be there cheering you on, if I wasn’t running it too.’
Gillian reached over and plucked a glass from her bedside table. She took a long gulp through the straw.
Yorke and Topham sat in the visitor’s chairs.
‘Now, I know you’ve been through this already, and I know you’re exhausted, but is it possible you could go through it again with me?’
‘Of course. Anything to help catch him.’
‘Well, I think it will. I think we are getting close.’
Gillian described her initial encounter with the mugger and how the man who called himself Joe had come to her rescue.
‘And at that point, did you think there was anything strange about him?’
‘I thought he was smartly dressed. He gave me some spiel about a date gone wrong. I thought his hair was too long for my taste, but he looked respectable. And you know, I was all shaken up and he was … well, he was there for me. It was later when I thought back to this moment, and other moments in the van, that I thought there was something odd about the things he was saying. Everything he said sounded too scripted, rehearsed even. I sensed that he had planned the things he said.’
‘What happened after you got into the van?’
The next part of the tale made Yorke flinch. He could only imagine the terror this poor young woman had experienced. The crazy man’s attempts to potentially drug her; the missing handle on the door and the sudden turn off into the park. He was surprised she’d been able to defend herself so effectively and made such an impressive escape.
When Gillian described the knife carved into the shape of a headdress-wearing man, Yorke started to write faster in his notebook. He could feel a cold tingle running down the back of his neck. She then moved onto describing his damaged ear. From the way it repulsed her, it sounded as if his ear had been through a blender and then stitched back on again. Yorke’s mind wandered back to a conversation he’d had with Utter regarding auto-sacrifice and the pushing of thorns through various parts of the body to offer blood to the gods.
The Aztec link was starting to rear its ugly head again.
At this point, Gillian had to pause. ‘Sorry … wow, I thought I was holding it together.’
‘Believe me, you are,’ Yorke said. ‘Have a drink of water.’
After she’d taken another drink, she said, ‘I remember something. He said he was a Tenman … no, sorry, a Tlenamac? At least I think there was an ac sound at the end … sorry.’
Yorke tried his best to write down the word she was saying. ‘No, you’re doing great Mrs Arnold. I’m just going to ask my colleague something – is that okay?’
Gillian nodded.
‘Thanks. DI Topham, I would like you to contact Gary Utter. I know it is late, but we need him here to interpret this information.’
‘Okay, sir.’ Topham left the room.
‘He also said I was a slave to sadness.’
‘A slave to sadness? You have any idea why he might say that?’
‘Well, I already mentioned in my last report that he said he knew about my late husband, Geoff. That’s when it all became clear that this was planned and that Joe was specifically there for me. He said he was offering me release from
the pills and despair.’
‘And was he right? Do you take pills?’
‘Yes.’ Gillian nodded. ‘An anti-depressant.’
‘So, you are depressed?’
‘No, not really. I mean, I’ve had a tough couple of years, but things have definitely improved … are improving.’
‘I know it’s extremely personal, and I’m sorry for asking, but do you mind telling me what happened to your late husband?’
Gillian took a deep breath. ‘Geoff had an anxiety disorder, and they gave him pills too – not the same ones I’m on – and he committed suicide. Hung himself.’
‘I’m so sorry Mrs Arnold.’
She took another deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘His brother thought it was to do with the medication. The doctors, and obviously the drug company, disagreed. Still, it all came to nothing. Everyone was protected by the warnings on the medicine’s leaflet.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I just think that he could no longer cope with the anxiety and crippling panic attacks.’ She wiped tears from her eyes. ‘Sorry.’
‘No need. I’m sorry about your loss,’ Yorke said.
Gillian then told him about the journey around the side of the van; a journey which must have felt like her final moments on earth. The threats he’d made to paralyse her were horrifying.
Eventually, they got to the most intriguing parts – the icebox and the person sitting in the back.
‘It was too dark, I’m sorry. The plywood blocked off the light from the front of the vehicle and he’d obviously taken the bulb out in the back. The person was a silhouette. They were stamping their feet – it is about all I could tell. Sorry.’
‘Please, stop apologising.’
‘It is the same with whatever was in that icebox. I felt something, and it was terrifying, but I couldn’t see it.’
Was it the blue-ringed octopus? And, if it was, how is Billy Shine connected? He cannot be the murderer because he’d been bled dry on a chair in Tidworth, but this is not just a coincidence. The chemical from that little creature has poisoned two people already, and almost poisoned Gillian.
‘I genuinely believe he thought I’d been bitten or poisoned by whatever was in that icebox,’ Gillian said, ‘because he just backed away. He thought I was in trouble.’
And that was your misjudgement, you bastard, and that is the beginning of your end.
‘I’ve just remembered something else,’ Gillian said. ‘He said he was going to give me a flowery death.’
Yorke chewed his lip. He’d read about this on the internet.
The flowery death – the promise that you would travel in the sky with the sun and be reborn as a butterfly drinking from the flowers.
The flowery death was a glorious death. This was why so many Mexica had given themselves up for sacrifice.
Jessica’s death was anything but glorious.
The only thing glorious right now was that Gillian was sitting here still in one piece.
She took Yorke to the end of the tale when Nigel Wilkes had burst from the roundabout almost killing her, before almost certainly saving her life.
Yorke probed her with questions about her life, desperate to find more connections to the killer. He had known her. They had also suspected that he’d known Jessica.
Yorke considered the surgical angle and asked about her doctor, and her late husband Geoff’s doctor, but there was no connection there. He asked her about her job as a barmaid at The Rose and Crown, one of the few pubs in Salisbury he wasn’t very familiar with. No disgruntled customers, or fellow workers. Despite the lack of success in the questioning, he was diligent in his note making.
‘Do you think he will come back for me?’ she said.
Yorke genuinely didn’t know, but he did know this: ‘If he does come back, he will walk straight into our hands, because we won’t be taking our eyes off you until he’s caught.’
Outside the ward, Topham approached him. ‘Utter is also on his way. He’s unhappy about the time – he was desperate to get to bed.’
‘Fuck, Mark, we all know how that feels.’
Jake lay on a mattress by the cot, cradling his son’s hand through the bars.
There was a nightlight beaming from the corner, enabling him to look at the tiny fingers as he caressed them. For the first time in days, he felt a moment of contentment. Until his eyes fell to the mobile phone he’d left on and then it all came flooding back.
Lacey had returned, chasing Billy Shine; he had two police officers sitting outside his house in case she decided to pay him a visit; his wife was irate with him for holding back the truth; and one of his close friends, Iain, was grieving for his murdered ex-wife.
He released Frank’s hand; it felt wrong touching him with so many horrible images in his head.
He went out to the landing and looked out through the window. The flurries of snow sparkled in the lamplight like flickers from a fire. He stayed and watched for a while. The car occupied by the two officers, Willows and Tyler, had disappeared under a blanket of snow. He watched, as every now again, the occupants were forced to hit the windscreen wipers, and scatter the snow so they could see again. Only for it to come back again just as quick.
His phone rang; he saw that it was Yorke.
Yorke was on his way to the Wiltshire station to speak to Utter, but he’d found a pocket of time in his journey to update Jake on Billy Shine and Gillian Arnold.
‘She sliced through his femoral artery and he bled to death in minutes. The strange thing is she took all of his belongings. His clothes, his bags – assuming he had any, because he’d left none at his mother’s house. She even took one of his fucking fingers.’
Jake rubbed his forehead as he listened.
‘His friend, Paul Lucas, the owner of the house, is none the wiser to what happened because he was out at the cinema.’
Jake stared out at the snow, wishing, to some extent, it would just come in and swallow him up.
‘Lacey Ray. If it wasn’t for her, we may have gotten what we needed and put a stop to this whole bloody thing.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘What are you apologising for?’
‘Well, this Lacey Ray shit just seems to be sticking to me.’
‘Are you listening to what I’m saying? She didn’t come back for you. We are still up shit creek, but don’t flatter yourself into thinking it was your pull that sent her rampaging back up here. Emma is in touch with Brighton now. We will have everything on Billy’s crime within the hour. We will scour his records here and, first thing tomorrow, we will be hauling in the fool that sold him the octopus.’
Jake heard Frank murmuring from the spare room. He started to walk downstairs. ‘I’m at the station now. Jake, get some rest. This isn’t over.’
‘When are you getting your rest, sir?’
There was a pause. ‘After I’ve spoken to Gary Utter again, I’ll get a few hours before briefing. But don’t you leave and come to briefing. Not till I’m sure Lacey has gone. But I suspect she has. She won’t last five minutes before we pick her up if she sticks around.’
Yorke rang off and Jake sat at his kitchen table; he reached behind himself to the fridge and plucked out a Summer Lightning.
He didn’t have any chance of sleeping without one … or two …
His phone rang again; it was an unknown number.
‘To be honest, Jake, when I sent you the last pigeon, I didn’t expect I would be in touch so soon.’
His blood ran cold. Never in a million years had he expected this phone call, and he’d never rehearsed what he would say if he ever spoke to her again. ‘Lacey, I …’
‘Shhh,’ Lacey said. ‘Take a moment to calm yourself. Remember where your temper got us last time? You were quite lucky with the way that little episode ended.’
‘Lucky,’ Jake said, ‘lucky! You terrorised—’
‘You, Sheila and that beautiful boy of yours are only alive because of me. So, a little gr
atitude would be nice.’
‘You are fucking unbelievable!’
‘One last time, Jake, I’m warning you. I know you are frustrated. I know life has you all tied up in knots these days. But I have something you want, something you need.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I know things about Jessica’s killer. I know things that you need to know. Listen to me now Jake, and I will tell you things that will mend your wings so you can fly all over again…’
Jake listened.
‘Thank you for coming again, Mr Utter,’ Yorke said.
Utter spooned soup into his mouth from a plastic tub. ‘No problem, as long as you don’t mind me eating while we talk. I had to leave my dinner at home.’
‘Of course not.’
Utter had been made privy to all the details of the case so far and had signed the confidence agreement. It was, therefore, quick and easy to fill him in on the events of the evening regarding Gillian Arnold.
‘He called himself a Tlenamac?’ Yorke said.
‘A Tlenamacac,’ Utter said after swallowing. ‘That means he considers himself a fire priest for Tezcatlipoca.’
‘The deity on the picture that we found at Preston’s?’
‘Yes. The deity that brings about change through conflict and disharmony. There is also something else that is very interesting in what you just told me. He referred to her as a slave, and himself too. Is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ Yorke said, checking his notes.
‘Well, Tezcatlipoca has an epithet – He whose slaves we are, we are all slaves.’
Yorke paused to allow the connections to form in his mind. He wanted it to feel like a jigsaw, coming together with a sense of accomplishment, rather than how it really felt: a spider web being weaved and threaded into a whole that would only entangle and trap. ‘So, he is choosing his victims based on whether they are slaves or not? What does that mean?’
Utter shrugged. ‘You said that he told Gillian that Jessica was also slave to her sadness? What could Jessica have been sad about?’
