by Wes Markin
Severance threw his head back, and started to wail. It was like no sound Yorke had heard before. An unearthly howl which seemed to burn him inside. He backed away as Severance started to fight the grips of the officers holding him.
He watched Severance being dragged away down the corridor, his cry fusing with the unbearable heat in the air, and making Yorke feel as if he’d just stepped into hell.
‘Not so silent anymore, are you Christian?’ Yorke muttered under his breath, and turned away.
19
IT WAS PAST nine o’clock and the rain was thrashing down hard. Those brave enough to face the great storm could be found occupying one of the many 14th century pubs dotted around the city centre, while most were simply hiding away at home with their loved ones.
DCI Michael Yorke wasn’t doing either of those things because he was busy banging on DC Wayne Bradley’s door.
Bradley opened the door, wearing shorts and a string vest. There was a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and a can of Red Bull in one hand.
Yorke pointed at the can. ‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’
‘Not like I have to be up in the morning, is it? I’d invite you in, but I don’t want you to wet my carpet.’
Yorke barged past Bradley into his hallway.
‘Wow,’ Bradley said, ‘what happened to polite DCI Yorke?’
Outside, the sky growled.
Yorke brushed his wet hair back to stop the rain running into his eyes. ‘I’m going to ask you once, and once only, where can I find William Proud?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Bradley closed the door.
‘Where is he?’
Bradley turned around, smiling. ‘You just asked me twice.’
‘What?’
‘You said you were going to ask me where he was once, and then you asked me again.’
Yorke moved in and Bradley grabbed his wrist. Yorke turned his hand over onto the bastard’s own wrist and then applied pressure to his elbow with his other hand. Bradley went down onto his knees and the cigarette fell to the floor. Yorke kept the pressure up on his arm and slammed his foot down onto the burning cigarette.
‘You are going to break my fucking arm,’ Bradley said.
‘You don’t need it. Not like you have to be up in the morning.’
‘Smartarse.’
‘Let’s remember who started it.’
‘No more Mr nice guy, eh?’
‘William Proud?’
‘So, I shared this information with Harry, and it’s probably cost me my job, and now you want me to share it again. What’s my punishment next? Jail time?’
‘At least you’ll have your arm. Proud murdered my sister, so believe me when I say that I’m serious. Where is he?’
‘Harry is pretty determined to finish him off for you, so why are you so desperate to get involved? Seems like an easy win.’
Yorke pressed on the elbow. Bradley groaned.
‘Because, unlike you, and him, I’m a police officer. Now, where is Proud?’
‘Ever drank Eagleshaw beer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shite, isn’t it? Proud got the daughter of a brewer pregnant ten years ago. Rufus Eagleshaw. Eagleshaw popped his clogs about five years ago and left the brewery to his daughter, Maria Eagleshaw. She employed some staff, but she managed to run it into the ground. Not sure if it was her fault or the shite beer.’
‘Are you telling me that Proud is hiding out in a brewery?’
‘Dunno. That’s the information I gave Harry. Didn’t hear back. If I do hear back from him, there’s going to be a serious falling out.’
Yorke released Bradley and he stayed on his knees.
‘You do know he’s dying, don’t you?’ Yorke said.
Bradley turned his head to look up at him. ‘Aren’t we all?’
Eagleshaw Brewery was located over thirty minutes away. The journey was treacherous because the windscreen wipers were little match for the sudden downpour. Yorke was surprised when he made it to Amesbury, the town adjacent to Stonehenge, alive.
Throughout the journey, Yorke toyed with the idea of calling Harry. But would he answer? And even if he did, would he really want to have a phone conversation which could be monitored and recorded? Besides, keeping himself alive on a country road in this rainfall was taking enough of his attention.
Streaks of lightning burned the sky, and the thunder roared. His heart was pumping hard. He wondered what he would find when he got to the brewery. Would he be too late? Would Proud be dead, lying at Harry’s feet? Or, could it be Harry lying at Proud’s feet?
He had no idea, but he did know that he had to see this out to the bitter end. Like always. That was him all over. See it out to the bitter end and everything else be damned.
This made him think of Gardner and Danielle. They had both understood his relentless drive, his need to finish whatever he’d been motivated to start.
He saw Gardner and Danielle now, side by side, giving him their trademark knowing looks as Yorke, both younger and older, tried to pull the wool over their eyes. The football training and the promise he would be back for dinner; the French homework he’d done; his promise that he wasn’t going to work late; and his claim that he hadn’t touched a cigarette in months.
Gardener was like a sister to him. So, when he received a call from Barry on route, and discovered that she was back in surgery for another round, he hit the dashboard.
He hoped to God that surgery would be a success. Patricia and Gardner were two of the three most special people in his life and they had to remain with him.
The third, Danielle, was gone. He’d never get her back. Proud had seen to that.
Yorke wiped tears from his eyes. She had been like a mother to him: supporting him when he couldn’t switch off his relentless engine; cheering him on during his football matches and runs; and bringing food to him when he was consumed by criminal history from the age of sixteen. His mother called this interest an obsession, Danielle had called it a passion.
He looked at the SatNav. In about ten minutes, he could be looking into the eyes of William Proud.
Fuck the rain, he thought, punching the accelerator, driving blind, fate will get me to that bastard.
Yorke had not seen another vehicle for a while. The sun had almost completely gone down, so when the forks of lightning came, they momentarily illuminated everything. Large, distant hills seemed to burst from the darkness with every strike.
Yorke turned down a long road that ran through a strip of trees and he could feel the mud and water spraying up from his wheels. He gritted his teeth. Getting stuck now would be a disaster.
Eagleshaw Brewery was housed in an old mill on the bends of the River Avon. Despite being an idyllic setting, which drew tourists and ramblers, it felt anything but idyllic at this late hour. You’d struggle to find a place which felt more isolated and alone.
Through the shimmer of rain, he immediately recognised the large, red-bricked brewery from a tour he went on many years ago, before it closed down. It was a narrow, four-floor building. The ingredients had been hoisted up to the top and the brewing process had worked its way downwards using gravity.
He killed his engine. Only one other vehicle was parked here. A silver Peugeot. Harry’s?
Now, that he’d arrived, he appreciated how ridiculous this all was. The only person who knew he was here was DC Bradley, and he’d not be checking on his safety anytime soon. And even if he survived this sorry situation, breaking and entering this building would end his career.
He thought of Danielle adjusting his tie and kissing his head at the school gates. Danielle with a burned face. Danielle lying dead beside an old stove.
His sister. His mother. His everything.
He gritted his teeth, got out of his car and fought the brutal rainfall on his march towards finality.
Yorke remembered a side entrance that visitors used when attending tours. The door was unlocked. After he rubbed water
from his eyes, he looked around, finding the reception more or less how he remembered it. There was a bar area with three pumps lined up. One for their flagship ale, one for a lager and another for a seasonal brew. Here, tourists were able to sip on a freebie following observations of the brewing process. Bradley had been harsh. The brew had not been that bad.
The bar was heaped with dusty glasses, each sporting the Eagleshaw emblem of crossed hockey sticks. Some glasses had already fallen and smashed.
Yorke gave the bar area a wide berth and entered the ground floor of the brewery, where the packaging took place. The noise of the rain throttling the narrow mill was horrendous, and he could hear little else, making him extremely vulnerable to ambush. Additionally, there was no internal lighting. All Yorke had was the fading red twilight which crept in through the edges around doors and shutters. He had to be careful not to trip.
He manoeuvred around the kegs strewn on the floor, and past the huge doors which had allowed vans to drive in to collect the ale. For the tours, there had been a set of stairs running around the perimeter of the factory, but Yorke had no time to use these now. He took the route of the brewers up the ladder in the centre.
He thought he could hear loud voices upstairs from higher in the mill but couldn’t be too sure over the turbulent sounds of the storm.
Out of breath from running and from scaling the ladder in the humidity, he paused on the second floor and leaned against a fermentation tank. The sudden reek was like a smelling salt, and when Yorke distinctly heard a ‘FUCK YOU, PROUD!’ from upstairs, he rode a sudden burst of adrenaline, and scaled the next ladder. Fighting the fatigue in his arms and legs from the rapid climb, he left the final floor, littered with vats for mashing grain and boiling hops and wort, and climbed up into the milling room.
The milling room was smaller than the other floors. It was also at the top of the building, so water was finding its way in through the aging roof. It streamed down the walls at the side, and large pools were gathered almost everywhere Yorke looked. He came off the ladder beside a large electric-powered milling machine for grain, and ran, weaving around some older and smaller hand-operated milling machines.
Beside the larger double door, where the ingredients were hoisted in during its operational days, Harry and another man were wrestling on the floor.
‘STOP! POLICE!’
It had little effect. They continued to roll. Yorke moved closer and his breath caught in his throat.
They were grappling for a knife.
For God’s sake, Harry, you couldn’t even get this right.
‘DROP THE KNIFE NOW, OR I WILL SHOOT!’
It seemed to work. With their hands locked around the weapon, they both looked up at Yorke…
It was William Proud. Older with a grey beard, and a shaven head, but William Proud nonetheless. Yorke felt his heart smashing into his ribcage.
Not now, Yorke thought, no emotion. Be cold. In control.
‘There’s no fucking gun,’ Proud said.
Yorke reached to his side and scooped up a handful of grain from one of the smaller mill machines and launched it at the two men. Both reached up to protect their eyes, partly relinquishing their grip on the knife. Sensing the advantage, Yorke did it again. Each time he hurled the grain, he moved closer. Both men were sliding away from him now, shielding their eyes, with the knife sandwiched between them.
Yorke considered diving for it, but Proud turned onto his front, so the grain was no longer hitting him in the face. This gave his sister’s killer the advantage he needed to pry the knife from Harry’s hand.
‘NO!’ Yorke dived towards Harry, but he was too late.
Proud buried the blade into Harry’s stomach. He then scurried away.
Harry was gasping. His hands were on the handle of the knife.
‘Don’t pull it out. Don’t even move. I’ll get help,’ Yorke said. From the corner of his eye, he could see Proud clambering to his feet.
Harry gasped again. Blood was billowing out over his shirt. ‘Just stop him =…’
Proud was running past. Yorke threw out his hand and brought the killer crashing to the ground.
Yorke rose from Harry and turned to stand over Proud. ‘DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?’
Proud turned onto his back and looked up at him. He had blood all over his face. ‘Yes – the copper with a dead sister.’
‘Stand up.’
‘Why?’
‘STAND UP!’
Proud rose to his feet, out-of-breath. He touched his forehead, and then looked at the blood on his fingers. ‘Police brutality?’
Yorke stepped forward and punched him in the face. His head rebounded off a milling machine. He stood, clutching his face while Yorke circled him. ‘You are a killer.’
‘Wake up, pig.’ Proud took his hands down and stared at Yorke. ‘I’m just the blunt instrument.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Yorke clenched his fists, preparing to go in again.
‘The blunt instrument? I ask no questions. I do what I’m told. Get it?’
Yorke shook his head and kept coming. ‘You’re lying.’
‘Look at your own, pig. There’s a bent bastard shitting in the same toilet as you.’
‘Who then? Tell me who?’
Taking a lesson from Yorke’s earlier attack, Proud swooped a handful of grain from the milling machine and launched it. Yorke managed to close his eyes in time, but it allowed Proud the opportunity to turn and run towards the ladder.
Yorke gave chase and was relieved to see Proud slip through a puddle of water and tumble. By the time Yorke had reached him, he was back on his feet and held his palms out in surrender. ‘Okay, you win. What do you want?’
‘I want to know who this bent copper is.’
‘What’s it worth?’
Yorke took a step towards him. ‘Your life?’
Proud took a step back with his palms still out. ‘Immunity.’
‘Tell me, and I’ll get you whatever you want,’ Yorke lied, taking another step.
‘Okay, I’ll tell you, but you need to back the fuck away from me.’
‘TELL ME!’ Yorke moved forward.
It was a mistake. Proud took another step back and disappeared down the ladder shaft.
‘Shit, shit…’ Yorke looked down the shaft at the crumpled mess. He climbed down and turned over his sister’s killer. Proud’s eyes were wide and unflinching.
He heard Harry’s moans from upstairs. Leaving the body, he bolted back up the steps and sprinted back to his old friend, taking care not to slip in the puddle that had undone Proud.
He kneeled beside him. ‘Why the hell did you come here, Harry?’
Harry grabbed Yorke’s hand, widened his eyes, and spat out the words, ‘For you … for my friend.’
Yorke shook his head. ‘You framed an innocent man, Harry.’
‘I had no choice.’
‘Everyone has a choice.’
‘No … You don’t understand … I was told … I was given no choice … They said that if I didn’t do it…’
Harry’s eyes were closed. Yorke slapped his face a few times, bringing him round. ‘Stay with me, stay with me…’
‘I did it for you … If I didn’t … if I didn’t…’
Yorke slapped him again. He was pale now and his eyelids fluttering. His shirt was drenched in blood. It was coming to an end.
‘Don’t trust them…’ Harry said. ‘They wanted Proud protected. If I didn’t, they said they’d kill me … and they’d kill you.’
‘Who?’
Harry reached up and placed the palm of his hand on Yorke’s face. He tried to speak, but his words sounded now like incomprehensible hisses. His eyes were locked onto Yorke.
His best friend’s eyes.
And they stayed locked on after his life had departed.
Yorke kissed his friend’s hand, rose to his feet, turned around and choked back tears.
20
THE RAINFALL HAD been su
dden and intense but, as so often is the case with these summer storms, brief.
Yorke stood in the light rain watching the police cars assemble outside the mill. This didn’t surprise him. Neither did the sudden appearance of Superintendent Joan Madden striding towards him. What did surprise him though was the presence of DC Parkinson in that small group of officers accompanying her.
Was Madden deliberately trying to antagonise him?
It was dark now, and several of the police lights flashed.
Madden was in her gym outfit. Yorke knew that pulling her away from the workouts she lived for wasn’t going to stand him in good stead. At least Parkinson hung back with two other officers. The last thing he needed was him getting within spitting distance.
‘Detective Chief Inspector, this was a road I warned you not to travel down.’ She looked off into the distance and sighed.
‘I know, ma’am.’
‘But your reasons were personal?’
‘Yes, ma’am, unfortunately, they were.’
‘There will be costs, you know.’
‘I’m fully aware of that, ma’am. There are always costs.’
She turned around and looked at the river Avon, shimmering under the beat of police lights.
‘Always loved rivers, Michael. You know where you are at with a river. They always flow one way.’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘What are we going to find in there, Michael?
‘Harry Butler and William Proud.’
‘Dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
She sighed again. ‘Best take a look. I trust you won’t go anywhere?’
‘You know I won’t, ma’am.’
‘Well done on today. You saved lives. Again.’
‘It wasn’t just me.’
‘Goddamn it, Michael! You are my best.’
‘Sorry, ma’am.’
