by Wes Markin
‘And are you going to offer it?’
‘Of course not! They’re finished, but we are working them now, so it won’t be long. They might avoid some jail time.’
‘So, can you pull in Harry?’
‘On what grounds? Has he suggested to you that he is about to act on this information in some way?’
‘I told you everything. The meeting was brief. I received a phone call from DI Topham very shortly into our meeting. The details of the events at the academy.’
‘Yes. A disaster, and the other reason we need to talk.’
‘You think I’m compromised over the attempt on Emma’s life?’
‘It will be a miracle if it remains as an attempt. I’ve just spoken to the doctor.’
Yorke flinched.
‘So, yes, I think you’re compromised. It is no secret you are close friends. It is no secret that you’re the godfather of her daughter.’
‘You’re right…’
‘But it’s no secret that you’re the best we’ve got.’
‘Thanks ma’am. Not sure I agree, but thanks anyway.’
‘You can beat yourself up over this all you want but remember we all make mistakes. Admittedly, because of you, I’m facing the biggest shit storm of my career. Potentially, I have two dead officers in two days, yet we were actually at the scene of the crime following good work by yourself in identifying potential targets. But that doesn’t get away from the fact that this actually happened on our watch. Martin Price and his press buddies will be baying like a pack of wolves.’
‘I can do—’
‘Don’t even suggest it, Michael. Look at the fucking state of you. Compromised. That’s what you are. You’ve got Harry fucking Butler snapping at your heels, a best friend lying in ICU, and an open murder investigation that just became very fucking personal. How many times did I just use that profanity, Michael?’
‘Three times.’
‘How many times have you heard me use that profanity before?’
‘Never.’
‘So, do you appreciate the severity of the situation?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Here is the fourth time I use it for good measure. Get in there, say goodbye to your friend, just in case, round up your team and close this fucking case down.’
‘I will.’
As soon as Severance stepped into the cellar, he knew something was wrong.
He looked around and saw the usual: the mould eating the walls; the rust chewing on the bikes; the flies bashing against the bulb; and the blood trail from the castrated man.
His eyes widened when he saw pieces from the broken locks beside the coffin. He ran over to confirm that she was gone.
She had to still be in the cellar because the door at the top of the stairs had been locked.
His eyes flew around. Boxes were piled up everywhere. Some old chairs were stacked in one corner. In another corner were two seven-foot-high shelves.
The shelves.
It would be the most obvious place to hide.
He surveyed the bike, and other pieces of scrap beside the plastic coffin, and lowered himself down to secure a large spanner. He did this quietly, although he knew that she would be aware of his presence – his entrance had been rather dramatic – and he also knew that she would have had the sense enough to arm herself.
With his right hand, he readied the spanner. With the left, he drove the sweat back off his forehead into his hair, and then put this other hand on the spanner too. Holding it head-height, he quietly approached the shelves.
His heart beat quicker than usual, but not fast. He felt in control. As he did most of the time these days. The Conduit had seen to that. He stood at the edge of the first shelf. She’d been wetting herself for days and the smell of urine was intense here. He curled his top lip up.
He would turn in and swing. Bash her head again and again until the stink of her piss was drowned out by the scent of blood and grey matter. He thought of Marcus Long’s reaction when he heard the news. Then his heart really did start to beat fast…
He swooped in between the two shelves and brought the spanner down onto emptiness. Confused, he looked at the floor, saw her clothes in a pile.
There was a flash and the whole world seemed to burn. He collapsed to his knees. Another flash, and his face was in the pile of sodden clothes. He rolled onto his back. Above him, the world swirled, but he could see Susie holding what looked like a wrench.
Everything disappeared.
‘I’m sorry,’ Yorke said, embracing Barry in the waiting room.
Barry’s eyes were bloodshot, and his body shook. It took him a while to get any words out. ‘It’s not your fault.’
But it is, Yorke thought, it really is.
‘I know you can’t see her, not yet, but when she’s out of surgery and I’m in there, do you want to say anything? I know how much she thinks of you. She might not be awake, but she may be able to hear.’
Yorke forced back his own tears. This wasn’t his time to cry. It wasn’t his right to steal that moment. He put a hand on Barry’s arm. ‘You tell her I’ll be in as soon as they let me.’
‘I will.’
And tell her, thought Yorke, I’ll never touch another ciggie again if she recovers. I absolutely bloody guarantee it.
‘She’s the best police officer I’ve ever worked with,’ Yorke said. ‘You can tell her that if you want. But she already knows.’
‘Yes, she’s told me you say it often.’
Yorke smiled. ‘It’s true.’ He forced the tears back again.
The surgeon came over, peeling off his mask.
‘Mr Gardner?’
‘Yes.’
‘It went well. Better than I hoped.’
‘Is she going to be okay?’
‘It’s too early to say. If you come and sit over here, we can talk it through.’
Barry looked at Yorke, who nodded back at him. He reached out one more time to clutch his arm. Then, Barry and the surgeon wandered over to the couch.
Yorke turned to the exit because, in the words of Super Joan Madden, he had to close this fucking case down.
Susie looked down at the bastard lying in his blood. She didn’t think he was dead, but she wasn’t about to bash his skull in to make sure. That was something she didn’t have in her. Not really. Yes, she’d screamed at many movie heroines to finish off the bad guy, but now she was in that position for real, she knew that such behaviour would only come back to mentally haunt her. She wasn’t about to hand Christian Severance victory in ruining her life. Hopeful that she’d be miles from him before he woke, she turned and ran.
Half-way up the cellar stairs, she realised that she was only in her bra and knickers. Was this a positive? If she reached her destination outside of this house, being practically naked would bring her more attention from neighbours. Then she really would be free.
As she turned at the top of the stairs into a narrow hallway, she tried to listen out for the sounds of Severance giving chase. Was he coming after her? Charging up those stairs? Blood rushed in her ears.
The hallway was lit. It led directly to a front door. Her pathway to freedom was a thing of beauty. She ran alongside the staircase and bumped into a cabinet. A vase toppled to the ground, but it didn’t smash on the carpet.
Now, she was at front door and, it seemed as if the gods were smiling down on her, because it was unlocked.
Bursting from the dungeon in which she’d spent those days in terror, incarcerated within a plastic coffin, she felt like whooping in delight.
She was actually free. Fucking free!
It was a bright day and she was half-blinded, but she didn’t care. The street, ripe with large, modern detached houses, basked in sunshine. Freshly mowed green lawns and colourful flowers. The world had never looked so delightful. She almost cried in happiness when she saw a man in his car mounted on the pavement.
She charged across the lawn. He had started his car, and was indicatin
g to move out, but there was no other traffic, so he would be gone in seconds.
‘HELP! HELP!’
He turned to look at her. She must have been a sight! A young lady in her underwear, streaked with dirt and sweat. Her hair drab and limp. She waved as she neared.
The man stepped out of the car. ‘Are you okay?’
He was a muscular, older man with a friendly face.
‘Help me.’ Tears streamed down her face.
‘Of course, come here, my dear. Sit in this car and tell me what’s happening.’
‘Get me away from here.’
‘Of course, get in.’
They both climbed into the car. ‘Please,’ she said, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘Please just drive.’
He looked at her, smiled and then started to play with the ends of his white moustache.
12
BACK AT WILTSHIRE headquarters, in his office, Yorke watched the CCTV footage from the academy with Topham. He shook his head throughout the entire recording and flinched when Gardner was stabbed. Afterwards, he trembled. He worked his way through a large glass of water before voicing a response. ‘She walked right past us … right past us.’
‘But how could you have known?’ Topham clutched his shoulder.
‘I was telling Emma she needed to double check everyone that checked-in at reception, and then, at that point this woman passes, and we didn’t speak to her? Do you not see the problem with that?’ Yorke put his head in his hands.
‘Look at her! There’s nothing in her appearance to suggest that she was on her way to … you know … do what she did!’
Yorke pulled his head from his hands and glared at Topham. ‘Since when did we judge on appearances?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Yorke sighed. Nothing Topham said would lift his guilt. The fact of the matter was that Yorke had been in too much of a bloody rush to get to that meeting with Harry, and now Gardner was fighting for her life.
‘Listen, Mike, it was your hunch that put us there in the first place! Give yourself some credit. At least Werrell was warned. It could have ended a lot worse if she’d been caught completely unaware.’
‘Her face was cut to ribbons!’
‘Yes, but she’s alive.’
‘Give myself some credit? Mark, do you hear yourself? Emma wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t told her to stay there.’ He paused to rise to his feet. ‘Now, go out there, Mark, and find out if this woman is ready to be interviewed. Get a stack of cards for her to scribble on. I’ll just wait for final confirmation that she is who she says she is.’
The woman in custody had already identified herself as Chloe Ward. She’d also shown her driver’s licence to back this up.
Topham left and closed the door. Despair was coming, but Yorke managed to close his blinds just in time. With the tears streaming down his face, he paced the room like a caged animal, images from that moment when Chloe Ward walked past them burned in his mind.
The strong smell of perfume mixed with tobacco smoke. The bold make-up. The small pink handbag. The knife inside?
He thrust out his hand, scattering folders and the papers all over his office. He grabbed a coffee cup and hurled it against the wall. He sat down on his hands. He was making too much noise. People would now be staring at his office.
He released one of his hands and rubbed tears away.
He’d been a fool. And if Gardner died, he’d never be able to forgive himself.
Yorke received confirmation that the woman in custody was Chloe Ward and gathered some background on her. She was a twenty-nine-year old who had been through the ringer. Adoption, taken into care, foster families – she’d had the full English of support from Social Services. Recent years had seen her mixed up with drugs which would eventually see her linked to Sturridge and the squats in Tidworth.
She’d had a string of lousy boyfriends. Records showed that she’d pressed charges against one of them for beating her before eventually dropping them.
Six months ago she’d dropped off the radar. Her benefits had been frozen and her disappearance had been reported. A brief investigation had ensued, but she’d not been found.
And now here she was, in custody, minus her tongue, with the blood of a respected principal and a decorated police officer on her hands. Figuratively, of course. Once, samples, fibres and other traces had been taken, she’d been cleaned up.
Yorke and Topham observed Chloe on a monitor, waiting in the interview room. They’d dressed her in blue overalls and a guard watched over her. She looked rather nonchalant. At least she wasn’t grinning inanely like Sturridge had been.
Where have you been for six months? Yorke thought.
Dots needed to be joined, and he was certain that Christian Severance would be one of those dots.
When Yorke and Topham sat opposite her, it was as if they didn’t exist. They’d supplied her with a pencil so she could write her responses to their questions on the cards, but instead she just sat there and drew. Intently.
Yorke managed three unanswered questions before he slammed his fist down on the table. Not hard enough to concern Topham, and the guard towering above the young lady, but hard enough to draw Chloe’s attention from the drawing.
Only when she slid the picture over did Yorke realise that she hadn’t really been distracted by his fist. She’d simply finished her sketch.
Yorke’s eyes widened. Beside him, Topham murmured, ‘Jesus.’
It was an impressive sketch of Gardner’s face. As impressive as any forensic artist Yorke had ever come across. She’d captured her face, eyes and hair perfectly.
What was even more impressive was that Chloe had only clamped eyes on Gardner for a brief moment, and not just any old moment, but a moment filled with chaos and blood.
Yorke was too stunned to speak, so Topham took the reins. This was unfortunate because his question was wholly inappropriate. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
She looked confused for a moment. She then glanced down at the blank piece of card, paused, and wrote again.
sorrie
Her writing, unlike her drawing, was atrocious. Topham read it out for the recording.
‘The woman you stabbed,’ Yorke said, ‘is the mother of a young girl.’
She wrote again. Her spelling was poor. im reallie sorrie I came for the other one that was a mistayk
‘Why did you come for Amanda Werrell?’ Yorke said.
Chloe looked at Yorke, swung her eyes to Topham, and then committed herself to another sketch.
‘Do you know Christian Severance?’ Yorke said.
She nodded but continued to sketch.
‘How about David Sturridge?’
Again, she nodded.
‘Chloe, do you understand the severity of the situation you are in?’
Chloe didn’t respond this time. She just continued to draw. Yorke and Topham exchanged glances and then allowed her a couple of minutes to finish her sketch in the hope that it might offer some kind of enlightenment.
Eventually, Chloe pushed over a pencil drawing of a little girl, no more than five, sitting by a lake. Again, it was an extremely impressive image.
Yorke looked up at her. She had tears in her eyes. She wrote the following onto a piece of card: plise give this to her tel her im sorrie she shouldnt be hert
Topham read it out for the camera.
‘Chloe, we do not know if she will survive.’ Yorke forced back his tears, desperate to keep this whole sorry situation professional.
She wiped tears away with her sleeve. She then paused to scratch her stomach. Yorke noticed this. He remembered Sturridge scratching his forearm. An infestation of bedbugs at the squat perhaps? More evidence that she’d been there for the last six months after she’d dropped off the Social Services radar. He’d already emailed DC Jeff Powers an image of Chloe to see if he’d seen her in the squats during his time there. Yorke’s phone, lodged in his jacket pocket, was yet to vibrate with a response.
‘Why did you just draw a picture of a little girl, Chloe?’ Yorke said.
She slid over another card: thats how i immajin she would look now
‘Who?’
my dorter
‘Your daughter?’
Chloe nodded.
‘Where is your daughter now, Chloe?’
ded
‘We have no record of you having a daughter,’ Yorke said.
Chloe wrote another card, slid it over and then pointed at her stomach.
ded in side here
Over the next ten minutes, Chloe revealed the circumstances surrounding her miscarriage. An abusive ex-boyfriend had pushed her down a flight of wooden stairs, killing her seven-month unborn daughter in the womb, and leaving Chloe haemorrhaging to death on the bottom step. She’d been saved in hospital, but the cost had been great; she would never again be able to conceive.
Yorke glanced down at the sketch of the young child again. That’s how I imagine she would look now. Chloe Ward was another broken person like Sturridge. Was she another person recruited by Christian Severance?
The interview continued at a very slow pace. She struggled with her writing and was clearly sounding out the words in her head as she committed them to paper.
But she was more forthcoming than Sturridge had been, and what she lacked in intelligence, she seemed to make up in emotion and kindness. The longer the interview wound on, the more Yorke struggled to believe that this was the woman in the CCTV footage that had mutilated Werrell’s face and stabbed Gardner in the chest.
She made it clear that it was Severance who had initiated the incident at the school today. She referred to him as her brother over and over.
The complete details of how he went about this were sketchy, because Chloe herself didn’t fully understand them, but it went something like this: Christian Severance had coerced someone within the school, using threats against family members, to access and report on the online diary of Amanda Werrell. When the parental meeting with Debbie Lang, parent of troubled student Alicia Lang, had been scheduled, Severance had sent Chloe in instead. Debbie Lang had spent the day at home, drugged up on heroin, administered to her by a man called the Conduit.
