by Wes Markin
‘Don’t move, you don’t deserve to be hauled in.’
Madden waved a couple of officers over and they made their way to the brewery.
Parkinson remained with another couple of officers. He looked over and sneered. When Madden was out of ear shot, he shouted over. ‘Always knew you liked beer, sir, but this is ridiculous.’
The group sniggered. Yorke turned his back. They had him vulnerable. They’d better hope it lasted.
He stared at the red-brick brewery, thinking about Harry. His final words. His claim that he’d never actually betrayed their friendship. That he’d been protecting him.
Was this true?
And if it was true, it meant that he’d spent all these years rejecting one of his closest friends. Someone he’d admired and depended on. Someone he’d loved like a brother.
Both had implied corruption in the police force. Proud more explicitly: bent copper. Harry by saying that the police had wanted Proud protected. Why?
He thought of Proud’s dead eyes staring up at him. The death of the man who’d torn Yorke’s world apart. How did he feel about that?
The answer was that he didn’t really know. For so long, he’d craved justice, and now that he had it, although not in the way that he’d ever envisaged, it didn’t offer any peace.
Was that because it didn’t feel over?
Bent copper … they’d wanted Proud protected …
Or was it because of the old cliché that justice would not bring someone back. Danielle, his sister, his mother, the only person who’d really loved him before Patricia, was never coming back.
His phone rang. He looked at the screen, it was Patricia’s mother, Jeanette.
‘Do not answer the phone, sir,’ Parkinson said. He could not hide the glee in his voice at being able to order him around.
Yorke ignored him and answered the phone. ‘Hello.’
‘Michael?’
‘Yes, Jeannette, it’s me. Sorry, it’s not a good time.’
‘They’ve rushed Patricia to the hospital.’
‘Why?’
‘Blood, Michael. I’m sorry, she started—’
Yorke didn’t hear the next part because the phone was snatched from his hand.
Yorke turned, stabbing his hand out to snatch it back, but Parkinson had already taken several steps back, wearing his now trademark smug grin. ‘Sir, I asked you not to answer your phone.’
‘Give me my phone back now, Parkinson!’
The officers around Parkinson took steps back.
‘Looks a bit like my phone. The one you threw out the fucking window, sir. Might just hold on—’
Fists clenched, Yorke charged. Parkinson’s smile fell away, but he was happy to meet Yorke head-on. With arms looped around each other, they crashed to the muddy ground.
Jeanette’s words crashed through his head as he rolled with Parkinson.
Rushed ... hospital … blood …
He managed to work himself up Parkinson and straddled him.
What was happening to Patricia?
He slammed his fist into Parkinson’s face.
Was she having a miscarriage?
He managed to drive his other fist home, before his arms were seized, and he was hoisted away.
Was her life in danger?
‘LET ME GO!’
Two officers held him by the arms. He writhed, but they stood their ground.
‘I ORDER YOU TO GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!’
He watched Parkinson scurry backwards, clutching his nose. ‘You broke my fucking nose.’
Yorke was taken to the ground by the two officers.
‘CALL MY WIFE. PATRICIA. SHE’S IN TROUBLE.’
He was pinned to the floor. His arms were pulled behind his back. And he was cuffed.
Epilogue
YORKE RAN LIKE his life depended on it. He glanced at his sports watch and saw that he was clocking up six-minute miles. His lungs burned and his mouth was like sandpaper. He sucked on the tube running from his Camelbak, seeking out one friendly drop, having finished it off a mile back; and then cursed himself, again, for forgetting to refill it from yesterday’s run.
It was the hottest part of the afternoon, during one of the hottest summers on record, he should probably call it a day.
He didn’t.
As he ran, he thought of Danielle, Gardner, Patricia, Harry and Topham. He thought of them in no particular order, but cycled through them, again and again. For each person, he considered ways he could have avoided what came to pass.
If he had been less focused on himself, and his career, could he have been there for Danielle in those darkest months? The months when Tom Davies, and then, William Proud, became entangled in her life?
He pounded along Odstock Road. A driver honked. Seeing him sprint in record temperatures, spraying out a trail of sweat, either spoke to this driver of determination or - as was most likely the case - madness.
If he had been less distracted by Harry and his desperate need to atone, would he have been focused enough to spot the Robert Webster connection earlier? To get to the Conduit before he had Susie kill Topham’s partner, Neil?
When he felt like he had nothing left, and his body told him, adamantly, to stop, he speeded up. A couple stood and stared at a man who now gulped for air like a drowning man breaking the surface.
And Harry? His best friend for so long. His enemy for many years. Innocent? He treated Harry like shit, when really, he’d had his back. And what had happened there? Was his sister’s death really connected to the people he was working for?
He shot past another cluster of people, wondering if they would be able to see the tears in his eyes, or whether they would just assume he was sweating profusely.
If he had said ‘no’ to his job, if he had gone on his honeymoon with Patricia, would she be well now? Had the realisation of what she’d committed herself to finally struck home?
He stopped, placed his hands on a railing, and hunched over, gagging. Unbelievably, he held the vomit in, but it took him a while to catch his breath. Then, he looked up at the hospital.
Gardner.
If he’d stopped Chloe Ward in that school corridor, as he should have done, would Gardner be sitting at home right now?
Topham looked at the empty bottle of beer in his hand, put it on the coffee table, and went to the fridge to grab another. What he really wanted was Scotch, but he’d deliberately not bought any, opting for beer instead.
There was only one place a bottle of Scotch could take you.
After sitting down, he reached over and stroked the empty seat on the sofa. Then, he picked up the T-shirt that Neil always wore to bed. It read ‘Pink Freud’ and had a picture of the famous doctor himself, shaded pink.
A birthday present from Topham, and one he wore to bed most nights. He took the T-shirt to his mouth and breathed deeply, managing to catch his scent.
He picked up his phone and called Neil’s personal number again.
‘Hi this is Neil. I’m busy uncluttering either my mind or someone else’s, so if you please leave a message.’
Topham hung up, drank his beer and cried.
Dr Martin Adams knew he shouldn’t be here, not while him, and his entire project was under investigation, but he just needed to know that what they were saying was true.
Dr Paul Walsh and he went back a long way. He’d accommodate him for a few minutes. To observe of course. There could be no communication with his patient.
However, when Adams was led to the one-way window, to see her, he realised that communication would have been difficult, if not impossible anyway.
In light-blue scrubs, Susie Long sat by a window looking out over the hospital gardens. Her hair was tied back into a tight bun, and Adams observed, although he hoped that this was a trick of the light, that she was going grey. She simply sat there and stared, rocking back and forth so gently that it took a few seconds of scrutiny to pick up on it.
‘The drugs?’ Adams looked at Wal
sh.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I hate the drugs.’
‘I know you do, Martin, but without them she is prone to moments of extreme mania. It’s for everyone’s safety.’
‘And hers?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘The bastard,’ Adams said. ‘What has he done to her?’
‘He’s reprogrammed her somehow.’
‘Impossible in such a short space of time.’
‘Yes, but there it is.’
Adams pulled his glasses off to clean them with his sleeve. ‘And they are saying that he used HASD to do this?’
‘A version of.’
‘Bullshit!’
Walsh shrugged. ‘As I said, there it is.’
Adams looked back at Susie, who had turned her head from the window to stare at the glass which they stood behind.
Her eyes were glazed, and she drooled.
‘He used my research to do this,’ Adams said. ‘And now what? Where the fuck has he gone?’
Georgia Sharpe was under pressure.
She scoured the library shelves for a book that would bail her out. Preparing an essay on Margaret Floy Washburn, the first female psychologist to be granted a PhD in 1894, was no easy feat, especially with one day to go. Armed with books on animal behaviour, which covered Washburn’s theories in depth, she headed over to a table.
Trying to push aside the turbulent experiences of the last week, experiences which had made her very late in preparing her essay, she started to research.
But it didn’t take long before her mind returned to her boyfriend’s infidelity and the best friend who’d betrayed her. No doubt, the images that flooded her mind were far more graphic than the actual reality – she hoped – but it offered no comfort. She started to cry.
‘It was an era dominated by the study of rats,’ a man said, suddenly standing at the opposite side of the table. ‘So, she ripped up the rule book and observed over 100 species. Bees, elephants, snails, you name it. She even had an entire chapter on the amoeba.’
Georgia looked up at a burly, older man wearing a cap, shorts and a T-shirt.
‘May I?’ He said, pointing down at a chair.
She nodded and pointed at her tears. ‘Sorry, it’s been a tough week.’
‘I can see. And you have an essay due in?’
‘Yes, tomorrow.’
The man smiled. ‘I’m Dr Franks. I do some part-time lecturing at the University, and I’ve got some time to kill. Need some help?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. Pen, my dear?’
‘Here,’ she said.
‘Washburn was ground-breaking in that she suggested animal psyches contained mental structures similar to that of humans.’
Georgia made notes and then looked up. ‘Which led her to claim that animal consciousness is not so different from human mental life.’
‘Exactly,’ Franks said. He reached up to his top lip. He opened his thumb and forefinger there as if he was stroking a moustache.
‘Not so good for us vegetarians,’ she said, smiling.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Now, before I go on, young lady, why don’t you tell me what you already know? It is clearly more than I first anticipated!’
‘Are you sure you have time?’
‘Of course. This is what I love to do most. Help people. Think of me as a conduit young lady, use me to help guide forth that information…’
It had been one argument too many. And, two hours later, it had been one pint too many. So, on this Saturday afternoon, Jake staggered home through Salisbury.
Fortunately, his battery had packed in on his mobile thirty minutes before, ending the raging text war with Sheila while he’d guzzled Summer Lightning alone.
After the last pint, he’d come to his senses. Arguments with Sheila were common. Far too common, admittedly, but part of the norm now. Saturdays away from his beloved son, Frank, weren’t. He’d grin and bear it, accept he was wrong, even though he felt anything but wrong, and finish the day off with his son, pending a strong cup of coffee.
But before he knew it, he was taking a different route home.
He wanted to tell himself that he’d not consciously made this decision, but he clearly had. Only moments ago, he’d been thinking about the first futile raid on Mayer’s house, and how close it was to where he currently walked. Now, he was walking down the actual road, and it certainly wasn’t to visit Mayer’s empty house, which was currently sealed off with police tape.
When he found the house he was looking for, he considered turning back. He knew he didn’t want to turn back, but that wasn’t the point. He simply knew he should turn back.
After several minutes of fighting against the reckless nature of his drunken self, he decided to give it a miss, and started to turn, but then the front door opened. He turned back.
Caroline smiled. ‘Have you come for that glass of water then?’
Jake nodded and headed down the path.
Gardner woke to find Yorke holding her hand. He had his eyes closed.
She squeezed his hand. ‘Oi! Is this what being out of work does to you? Turns you into a layabout?’
Yorke opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Just catching a moment. Hit it quite hard out there today.’
‘I can tell!’
Yorke leaned back in the chair and looked down at himself, clearly noticing his running vest and shorts were soaked. ‘I must look some sight.’
Gardner laughed, coughed and then winced.
‘You need me to get someone?’ Yorke said.
‘No, leave it. It’s just the meds wearing off. They’ll be round with some more after visiting hours. If I start asking for it, they’ll think I’m not ready to leave.’
‘And are you?’
Gardner looked around the hospital room. ‘Not the Hilton, is it?’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I’m ready to leave.’
‘To leave, and then go on sick leave?’ Yorke raised an eyebrow.
‘I don’t think I’ll have a choice, do you? Can’t see me putting up with Jake’s bad jokes with a minced lung? And you, what about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘How are you holding up?’
Yorke shrugged. ‘Just thinking about all the fun, me and you are going to have while watching daytime television over the next couple of months.’
‘Bollocks to that,’ Gardner said. ‘I’m going to write a book or something.’
‘Steamy romance?’
‘You really have hit it hard today, haven’t you? Crime probably.’
‘Bloody hell, you don’t get enough of it day-to-day! Well, leave me out of this project, you don’t want this miserable old bastard irritating your fanbase.’
‘I don’t know, Mike.’ She grinned. ‘You have your qualities.’
Yorke smiled back and she squeezed his hand.
‘The Conduit?’ Gardner said.
‘Last time I spoke to Jake,’ Yorke said, ‘they were none the wiser. But we’ll find him … sorry … they’ll find him.’
‘Enough of that! You’ve got bigger things to think about right now? Like Beatrice? You got more of those photos you promised me?’
‘Well, I couldn’t bring them out with me now, so I’ll drive by and show you them tomorrow.’
‘Won’t be long now, will it?’
‘She’ll be out of the incubator in a couple of days.’
‘And then you’ll take her home to see that lovely new bedroom you’ve decorated for her?’
‘Well … first things first.’
Gardner flashed him a confused look.
‘First, I’ll be taking her on that that long walk from one side of the hospital to the other so she can meet her Auntie Emma.’
Yorke watched Gardner’s eyes fill with tears, and then failed to hold back his own.
Acknowledgments
As always, massive thanks must go to Jake Lynn. An unstoppab
le machine, who knows an unbelievable amount. Whenever I’m flagging, he keeps me going with words of motivation. Thanks again to Debbie at The Cover Collection, who really has found a unique style for the Yorke covers.
Thank you to all my Beta Readers who took the time to read early drafts and offer valuable feedback. Huge appreciation goes to Jenny Cook and Jo Fletcher for their savage – but necessary – final edits. Thank you to the magnificent Eileen and Ian for their endless support during these busy times. Also, thank you to my little people, Bea and Hugo, who keep me laughing throughout the whole process.
Lastly, thank you to every reader, and every wonderful blogger, who continue to read my fiction. I hope Severance entertained, and I hope you are all as excited about Rise of the Rays as I am…
RISE OF THE RAYS
AN EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT OF THE NEXT DCI YORKE THRILLER
1918
THE PIGS WERE quiet this evening.
Unusually so.
The circling raven welcomed it. Not because this farm was its destination. Pigs weren’t its thing. Instead, this breed of killer was targeting a neighbouring yard where it could feed on the eyes and tongues of new-born lambs. However, quiet pigs provided silence on its approach, and the raven enjoyed its advantage.
Below, on the pig farm, another breed of killer welcomed the silence.
This breed came in a pack. Six in total. Each of them driven by the same reason to kill. Not for food, like the bird above, but for vengeance.
It was past midnight and the pack weaved through the pig pens towards the rear of the farmhouse.
The pigs remained still.
These animals had been the most critical part of the plan. The noise these beasts made, especially when disturbed in this manner, could raise the dead and would almost certainly bring out the mad farmer. He was rumoured to possess a Pattern 1913 Enfield rifle. Although they could probably have taken him with their Webley Pistols, souvenirs from the Royal Navy; they did not want to risk any loss of life.
